Page 42 of Playoff

“Rowan is the head trainer for the Phantoms!” Phoebe says, jumping in before I do since she probably recognizes the murderous thunder on my face.

“That’s incredible,” my mother says, giving my father a warning look. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Anyway, I’ll leave you to your reunion.” She hurries in the other direction, and I turn to my dad.

“Dad—what the fuck? Could you have been any ruder?”

“How was I supposed to know she works here? I thought she jumped on your NHL bandwagon—just like when you were kids.”

I grit my teeth, trying not to yell. “Well, she’s obviously done a lot better than I have career-wise, so maybe knock it off?” I don’t usually feed into his negative opinion of me, but in this instance, I feel the need to defend Rowan. “Anyway, I’ll see you at the restaurant. I texted Phoebe the address. Do not embarrass me while we’re there. Please.” With that, I turn and stalk down the hallway toward the players’ parking lot.

I need a few minutes to calm down before I say or do something I might regret.

THIRTEEN

Rowan

SeeingBlake’s parents at the arena was jarring.

They never liked me, blaming my very existence any time Blake had a bad game or failed a test or anything else. It was mostly his dad, but his mom was more neutral than anything else. It really bothered me in high school; now I find it mildly amusing. I almost feel sorry for Blake because his father’s always been harder on him than warranted. It’s none of my business, not anymore, but I hate that he’s still as judgmental as ever.

The plan was to sit far away from the entire Rourke clan at dinner, but Phoebe plops down next to me like we’re long-lost besties, and her mother sits on her other side, with Blake and his dad across from us. I’m on an end, so there’s nowhere for me to go without getting up and being blatantly rude, so I do my best not to let my irritation show.

“Tell me everything about working for the team,” Phoebe says. “I work in marketing, and I’d love to move into sports.”

“I don’t know much about the marketing side,” I admit, “but I love what I do. I majored in kinesiology and am thinking aboutgetting my master’s degree in something like physical therapy, but I’m not sure yet. It’s expensive and I travel during hockey season, so I need to figure out a way to make it work.”

“How did you wind up working for the team?” Mrs. Rourke asks.

“I interned for a baseball team in college and then got a job working for a minor league hockey team after I graduated. When the last assistant trainer left the Phantoms, I heard about the job, applied, and got hired.”

“Good for you,” Mr. Rourke says, lifting his water glass in a mock toast. “Didn’t think you’d?—”

“Dad.” Blake gives him a look.

“What?” His father feigns innocence. “I was going to say I didn’t think she’d be interested in anything that would deal with blood and whatnot. I seem to remember her being a little squeamish back in the day.”

“I was fifteen, sixteen,” I say defensively. “It took a little while, but I realized I liked helping people, and once I did my internship, I saw how much I enjoyed working in sports.”

“And now that the head trainer is on medical leave, she’s really stepped up,” Blake adds.

“Ro is da bomb-diggety,” Connor adds, since he’s on Blake’s other side and hears our conversation. “She’s literally the only one who knows how to wrap my ankle when it bothers me. Even better than Gene. She has a magic touch—and I don’t mean anything rude by that. She’s the best.” He grins at me, and I can’t help but smile back.

He’s nineteen going on fourteen, except when he’s on the ice, where he looks like he’s been playing for decades.

“Well maybe she can rub some of that magic on Blake here,” Mr. Rourke says. “God knows, he couldusea little hockey magic.”

Could this guy be any worse of a father?

I guess he could be, but not from where I’m sitting, and I can’t just let the comment go.

“Blake has the most points of anyone on the team during the playoffs,” I say, referring to his scoring statistics. “And he hasn’t had any injuries, so I’m about as sure as I can be that it has nothing to do with me.”

I bite my lip to hide my grin as his father snaps his mouth shut. Thankfully, the waitress appears and starts asking for our drink orders, effectively shutting down the conversation.

Since I have an almost thirty-minute drive home, I order iced tea instead of anything alcoholic.

“So, do you have a husband?” Phoebe asks as the waitress makes her way around our side of the table. “Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

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