Page 24 of Tough Score

"Are you sure you're okay with staying? I doubt you snore as loud as Slade."

"Hey! I heard that," Slade says in the living room.

"Is that the prerequisite? Whoever snores the quietest gets to stay?" I ask.

Though I wouldn't blame him. He probably didn't sleep well last night.

It's hard sleeping in a hospital with machines going off and nursing staff coming in frequently to check on vitals.

"And you'd better like the Discovery Channel."

"The Discovery Channel? Really? Why?"

"Shark week," Brent and Slade say in unison.

"Your teammates know you well."

Reeve just shrugs, opening up a cardboard pizza box that he just pulled from the fridge. I'm guessing leftovers from earlier this week. Or at least I hope so.

"Well then, if you don't need us, we'll get out of your hair and let you get settled," Brent tells me. "But if you need any help, let us know. Most of the players live in this building, except Kaenan Altman and me. But we're all available to babysit the cripple if you need to run an errand."

"Oh, speaking of," I say, reaching for my phone. "I need to call the hospital and tell them that they forgot to send your pain meds to the pharmacy."

The three of them share a look as I unlock my phone.

"You don't need to make that call, Keely," Reeve says.

I can't tell if it's my imagination or if Brent and Slade squirm at Reeve's response like they know something I don't.

"Why not? You're going to be in pain as soon as whatever they gave you in the hospital wears off," I protest.

This doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't he want the meds? He was hit by a car not even thirty-six hours ago.

"We're taking off. We'll see you guys later," Slade says, grabbing his pillow, sleeping bag, and backpack off the couch and heads for the front door.

"I'm serious about calling any of us. There's a Hawkeyes contact list magnetized on the side of the fridge. We all have one and everyone's name and number from the franchise are on there. Call day or night," Brent says.

I nod, and then Brent turns, taking one last look at Reeve.

"Looks like you're going to be in good hands tonight. Lucky bastard," Brent says with a grin and then leaves, following Slade out.

I wait until I hear the door shut on the apartment and then I ask the question.

"What's the deal with the pain meds?"

"I just don't need them. I don't like the way they make me feel different. I need to stay sharp out on the ice at all times. I don't drink during the season unless we win our game that night and I go out with the guys to celebrate. Then I stick to a two-beer minimum."

He finishes his fourth slice of pizza and then motions to the last slice as if to ask if I want it.

"No thanks, I ate before I got here."

He picks up the last slice to polish off the leftover box.

"Is there any other reason I should be aware of for why you don't want to use prescription narcotics to handle your pain? The more I know, the better I can help you."

He shakes his head, picking up the empty box and dumping it in the recycle bin. "Nope," he says simply.

"I'm going to be asking you to push through your limits in order for us to get you back out on the ice and ready to play. You're going to be in a lot of pain without some kind of pain management."

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