Page 175 of On His Team

I get out of bed. Lucy’s door is shut when I walk past it, and the apartment is so quiet that every cabinet sounds louder than it should. I make coffee, toast half a bagel, manage three bites, and then stare at the rest while standing over the sink. I cannot tell whether I’m nauseous because I’m nervous or nervous because I’m nauseous.

My phone buzzes on the counter. My stomach drops so violently that I nearly spill my coffee, but it’s Rowan.

Rowan: Awake?

I stare at the message.

Me: Unfortunately.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Rowan: Eat.

I look at the half bagel.

Me: Wow, thank God you texted. I almost forgot how the human body works.

Rowan: You probably did.

Me: Rude.

Rowan: True.

I smile despite myself.

Rowan: You good?

I look around my kitchen as though the answer might be taped to one of the cabinets.

Me: No.

His reply takes a few seconds.

Rowan: You will be.

I hate how much better that makes me feel. Not completely better. He’s not magical. My clinic is still happening in approximately three hours, and somewhere in Camden there are forty-eight children preparing to become my responsibility. But my shoulders come down a little.

Me: You have a game tonight. Go back to sleep.

Rowan: Yes, ma’am.

Me: Don’t call me that.

Rowan: Okay, G.

I put the phone down before I can keep talking to him and make myself finish the bagel. I get dressed in black leggings, sneakers, and the Camden quarter-zip I set out last night. My hair goes into a ponytail because I know myself well enough not to pretend I’m going to maintain anything more complicated than that for seven hours.

I check the weather even though the entire event is inside. I check my email again. Then I wake Lucy by opening her bedroom door three inches and whispering, “If I die today, tell my mother it was the jerseys.”

Her face is mostly buried in a pillow. “Have fun.”

“Love you.”

“Good luck.”

I close the door. That counts as support.

The parking lot at the rink is still blue with early morning when I pull in a little after six. There are already three vehicles near the service entrance. One belongs to Cole. One belongs to facilities. The third is an old truck I don’t recognize, parked crooked near the curb with its headlights still on. A man in a Camden Youth Hockey jacket is standing beside it holding a small canvas bag.