Page 87 of One Night with Number Nineteen

Twenty-Five

Sawyer

“They lose their patients,” I say into the phone, watching as Ollie’s face screws up for several seconds. Then he looks over at Lainey. “I don’t get it.”

She bites back a smile but explains. “When you go to the doctor, you’re their patient. But that’s different from being patient, like waiting your turn. So, what happens when doctors get frustrated? They lose their patients.”

His frown doesn’t budge. “But I wait my turn at the doctor’s, Mom.”

Her smile flies free. “That you do, peanut brittle.”

“And I’m a patient.”

She ruffles his hair, giggles. “You sure are—patient and a patient.”

I chuckle. “So, today’s Dad Joke wasn’t a total bust.”

“Just requires a bit of explaining for four-year-olds,” she says as Ollie loses focus and runs off. She smiles at him and turns back to me. “Sorry to bug you this morning. He was asking about you, and I thought…” She trails off, her cheeks going a little pink.

“I’m glad you called,” I say, and it’s the truth.

Plus, it’s a fuck of a lot better than my mom’s call from yesterday.

“What do you have going today?” she asks.

“Hockey,” I joke.

She gives me what I’ve wanted from the moment I picked up her call.

Her gorgeous laughter.

It fills the air and my heart and I savor it as it quiets and still smiling, she says, “Yeah, handsome, I know that much. Ollie and I are going over to Luna’s tonight to watch you guys take down the Sierra.”

“You sound awfully sure we’re going to win,” I joke, leaning back against the pillows, and scrubbing a hand over my face.

I slept through the night without interruption, but I still feel like I’m playing catch-up.

Between the sponsorship contracts and the gym, my mom and coordinating those appointments, then the team dinner and hanging with the guys last night while we watched some tape our video coach pulled for us, there wasn’t a lot of time for rest.

Except for the eight hours of sleep I got last night, so buck up, Hill.

“How’s your neck?”

I reach over and snag the compress she bought me from the nightstand. “Better, thanks to this little gizmo.”

“Do the rooms have microwaves?”

“Most of them,” I say. “If not, the equipment guys could arrange for one—or for someone to heat it up for me.”

“Perks of being a hockey star.”

“Perks of my body being my job.”

Her eyes sharpen, but her question isn’t what I might have expected. “Do you mind it?”

“What?”

“Gray’s mentioned a few times that he’s played on teams where he feels like simply a commodity, like his body is just a resource to be used up. Have you dealt with that?”