I swipe across my cheek and realize I’m bleeding again. I’m sent to the penalty box where I reflexively look around the stadium. I don’t find what I’m looking for—which is my mother, wearing her disapproval in apathy. All I see are Philly fans cheering in the stands.

Both teams are down a player now, Philly having started the fight even though I was the one to throw the words. McHugh is pissed about it, and the chippy play keeps up. Fortunately we end up winning the game, despite the penalties, so I don’t get the same level of flak that I might’ve had we lost.

I get held up on the way out of the locker room because Smart wants the team doctor to check me out, so everyone’s settled in at the bar by the time I arrive. The bunnies are everywhere, trying to get in my lap, touching me, looking for a hook up I’m not interested in. My split eyebrow reopened during the fight, and my head is throbbing. I practically have to shove my way into a seat at the team table. I end up next to Waters.

“You all right, man? You took a solid hit.” He glances pointedly at my eyebrow.

“I’m good. Nothing I can’t handle. That guy wouldn’t let up,” I reply.

“I get that. But beyond this—” He taps his own eyebrow. “—are you good? Things settled down for you?”

Sometimes, after I see Tash or she calls or whatever, I talk to Violet, Waters’ wife. She’s good at listening, even if I only tell her the surface stuff. Last summer I went to Waters’ cottage after an altercation with Tash, and like usual, Violet was good about talking me down.

Later Randy asked about my relationship with her, and told me to watch myself.

I might look at Violet like family, but she’s not, and I don’t want to mess things up—for myself or anyone else—so I’ve given myself space from them. I never want to get between the people who are there for me. It’s kinda like how I’m leaving things alone with Miller right now. I get that sometimes the things I do rub him the wrong way, and now isn’t the time to hash it out.

“Yeah, man. Like I said, I got it handled. I’m gonna get a beer.”

“Okay. You did good out there, Romero. I know you’re keeping an eye out for Miller, and the team appreciates it.”

The compliment means a lot and makes me uncomfortable at the same time. I stand as Alex gets pulled into a conversation with Westinghouse, and I flag down a passing waitress to order a pint of Guinness.

Rookie’s got girls looking for action again, and he’s a lot more interested than I am, so when he asks, I tell him it’s fine to take them up to the room. A little while later I see Randy and Miller heading up, so I ask if I can come with them.

Miller gives Randy a look. “You’re not taking a bunny off Rookie’s hands?”

“I’m tired. I just wanna sleep.”

“That’s a first,” Miller scoffs.

“Look, man, I know you’re stressed about Sunny and the baby and shit, but you think you can cut me a little slack here?”

Miller blinks a few times, jaw working as the hardness in his expression eases a little. He nods. “Yeah, man. Sorry. There’s a lot going on.”

“You wanna crash in our room?” Randy asks, breaking the tension.

“You cool with that?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my messages. There aren’t any new ones since Tash messaged me earlier, and I haven’t read them. Yet.

“Yeah, man. Of course. You sure you’re all right?” Randy asks.

“Yeah. Just one of those days.”

The whole scene is losing its appeal. It brings me more trouble than it’s worth these days, especially since the guys I’m tight with on the team are all committed to someone. I don’t know if it’s that or the crap with Tash, but if I’m going to feel alone—which I know I will—I’d rather actually be alone as well.

CHAPTER 12

TOO MANY FAVORS

POPPY

Instead of going out for a bite to eat with April on Sunday evening, I tell her I need a night in with a book because I’m tired. Which is sort of true. I also promised Mr. Goldberg a game of cribbage on his front porch, which I’ve already taken care of and of course I let him beat me twice. Plus, I have early appointments tomorrow. I also want to watch the game. Because maybe I’m a little obsessed with Lance Romero. Still. Again. I don’t know.

I should definitely not want him to call me and beg for another home massage session. I should also not be fantasizing about him. Because he’s a client. Because he’s a dog. All the bunny sites tell me that.

But I am fantasizing. Because he’s gorgeous and because he’s been so sweet with me, and maybe a little awkward. Nothing like the guy I met last year at the bar who was drunk and cocky. Okay, so maybe he’s still a little cocky, but that’s not a bad thing.

My focus during the game is one hundred percent singular. I watch Lance, number twenty-one, every time he’s on the ice. When I’m not watching the game, I’m checking my social media feeds. Lance is following me on Instagram and has liked a bunch of my posts. I shouldn’t be all that excited, since everyone follows everyone else here, but I am.

Close to the end of the third period, a fight breaks out between Lance and number forty-four from the other team. If one could even call it a fight. It doesn’t look two-sided from my perspective. The guy from Philly lays right into him. Lance even takes off his helmet, but he never hits the guy. Not once. He does go down hard, though. Hard enough to make me cringe. He’ll be sore tomorrow. I wonder if that means he’ll try to get another appointment with me.