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“Who pissed in your cornflakes?”Rux asks, hiking up his breezers.
He’s evened out since this morning when we found out Greg couldn’t play tonight—pretty sure we have Cammy Wesley to thank for that since she took his call while out on a lunch date. But the fact that he isn’t twerking or some such shit says the guy’s worried about his center. Vassar, Rux and I gel pretty good on the ice and we’ve played like this before, but fucking up two solid lines is never ideal.
That said, it’s not the lines on my mind.
“Didn’t get a chance to talk to George is all. She cancelled on the girls too.”
“She sick? Shit, I want to spray you down with Lysol just for mentioning her name.” At this, he does shake up the imaginary bottle and wave it all around me before turning it on himself. “None of us can afford to be off our game tonight.”
“She’s not sick.” I don’t think. “It’s just weird not to talk to her before warmup. You get used to that stuff pretty quick.”
He rakes a hand back through his overlong hair and squints down at me. “Shit. This like a lucky jock situation?” Then he’s throwing his head back and yelling to the ceiling. “Vaaaughn!”
“Christ, Rux, I’m right here,” Vassar growls from my other side where he’s lacing up his skates. “What?”
“Dude, activate the phone tree. Nat needs to clue George in on the concept of taking one for the team. Quinn, needs a—” His eyes cut to mine, so damn intense I’m like 90% sure he’s just messing around. “What? A ‘Good luck, hot stuff’ text or some dirty talk over the phone?”
“Fuck off, man.” I laugh.
He nods, holds his hand out for a side five, followed by a fist bump. “Gimme ’til after the game. Then, done.” Fluttering his fingers at me, he flashes a maniacal wink and leaves me with the disconcerting image of where that hand is headed.
Jesus.
George would get a kick out of this. But as I look down at my phone, with no response to my text from four hours ago. I can’t shake the feeling something is wrong.
Chapter 24
George
Quinn called before the game like I knew he would. It’s become part of our routine and it nearly killed me letting him ring through to voicemail. But there was no way I could talk to him without letting on that something was wrong.
So I waited until the game started and texted when I knew he wouldn’t be able to call back. I wished him luck and apologized for missing him, hiding behind the excuse of a rough day, which at least wasn’t a lie. And I asked him to text me when he landed.
I don’t care how late it is. Quinn needs to know the truth.
For now I’m curled up on the living room couch watching the Slayers fight it out against the Penguins. Quinn, Rux and Vaughn are playing with the kind of finesse you’d expect from players who’ve been paired up for years, while Popov, Vsev and Hudson look to be barely holding on. It’s the kind of game that ought to have my undivided attention, but all I can think about is how I should have told him the truth from the start. How terrified I’ve been of letting go of this secret and exposing this last vulnerability. And how protecting myself could never be worth the hurt my lies are going to cause Quinn.
What if he can’t forgive me?
My stomach lurches at the thought of losing him.
My phone is blowing up with messages from Nat. Margo. Cammy, Julia, and Laurel. They’re over at Nat’s tonight, watching the game I’ve got on my laptop, and apparently there’s something going on with Cammy’s ex. I’ll have to wait to get filled in another time, because I’m no good to anyone like this. I can’t stop thinking about Quinn. And as desperately as I need a shoulder to cry on… Quinn deserves to know the truth before I share it with them.
A knock sounds at the front door, and for an irrational second I think it might be him. But considering he just scored an assist from several states away, pretty safe bet it’s not.
My legs feel as heavy as my heart as I walk to the front and check the peephole.
“Pop, what are you doing here?” I ask, swinging the door wide to let him in and then brushing the accumulation of snow from his shoulders and hair. “And what’s with the knocking first?”
Shrugging out of his coat, he hands me a nondescript takeout bag that, based on the heady aroma of Greek spices and roasted meat, has to be from the gyro place down the street. He glances at the kitchen table and shakes his head before continuing on to where I’m set up on the couch. “Ehh, it’s time I start remembering this is your place and not mine.”
“You feeling okay?” I ask, because, where’s this coming from?
He rolls his eyes at me, bushy brows pushing into the creases of his forehead. “Yes, George,” he says patiently, setting the bag on the floor and pulling out a foil-wrapped bundle for me. “Can’t a man bring his favorite daughter dinner?”
My mouth is immediately watering, and I realize I haven’t had anything but a cup of coffee since I woke up this morning.
He looks at the open laptop where Quinn’s stats are flashing across the screen and shakes his head in disgust. I wait for him to ask me to change it and find aBig Bang Theoryor one of the other sitcoms that always has him laughing himself into some red-faced coughing fit. But he just tucks into his gyro and quietly watches the Slayers take control of the game.
