Page 50 of Someone to Have
“Anderson!” Toby calls as I start to walk away.
I turn back only to realize he's looking at Rhett.
“You're going in. I want to see what you can do under pressure.”
“Yes, Coach,” my nephew says, as the guys on either side of him slap his back.
I can't believe Rhett's going in for his first varsity game and I'm not going to be here to see it. But I need to take care of Hudson. Right now, I’m more coach than uncle.
“You’ve got this, Rhett.” I give him two thumps on his helmet.
He looks up at me for a second, and I see something in his gaze I haven’t since all of this started–trust. Then he moves toward the ice. “Yes, Coach,” he repeats and I head for the locker room.
Hudson is waiting in the hallway with his hockey bag on the ground next to him. He's put on a beanie to cover his helmet hair, and he's wearing loose-fitting sweats and a Skylark High hoodie. His face is still etched in pain, and his eyes are red, like maybe he couldn't hold back the tears once he was by himself.
“It's just a bump in the road,” I tell him as I lean down and grab his duffel bag.
“I can get that, Coach,” he says.
“I've got it, and I want to know you hear me. This isnotthe end for you.”
He nods but mutters, “I'm going to miss the whole season.”
“You'll have other seasons, better seasons. College and Juniors aren't going anywhere. You need to take care of yourself and give your body time to heal. Do you want me to talk to your folks?”
His gaze sharpens. “No. They'll be fine.”
I don't believe that, but it's not my place to argue. “I’ll give your keys to Coach Toby, and a couple of the guys can drive your car home after the game.”
“I can help,” a soft voice offers.
“Ms. Maxwell,” Hudson says, mustering a ghost of a smile as Taylor approaches from the end of the hall.
“Hey, Hudson.” She returns his smile, and my stomach does a weird loop-di-loop thing. “That was a dirty shot. You're going to come back better than ever.”
He nods. “Yes, ma'am.”
“I can follow you guys back to the house in your car.”
The kid doesn't question her, just nods again. I'm not sure if it's the pain or the shock of the injury, but his usual optimism and mile-a-minute commentary are shuttered for now.
On the way to the parking lot, I walk alongside Taylor, Hudson hobbling next to her, his jaw clenched. The ache in his eyes is raw—the kind that comes when you know something’s been taken from you, but you haven’t fully processed it.
Taylor glances over at him, her eyes soft with concern. “You did great out there,” she says gently. “Your goal was beautiful.”
Hudson just nods, gaze fixed on the ground, but I catch the way his shoulders straighten a bit. We reach my truck, and I help him into the passenger seat. He winces but doesn’t complain. I shut the door softly, my eyes catching Taylor’s.
“You’ll follow us?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” she promises. There’s something about knowing she’s back there that settles me, though I can’t explain why. I guess it’s nice to have someone to trust in a moment like this, and how much I like it being Tink scares the hell out of me.
14
ERIC
Hudson lives aboutfifteen minutes from the arena in a rural area outside town. The house has faded aluminum siding and a few cars in various states of disrepair are parked in the driveway, but the yard is neat, and there’s a Valentine’s Day flag whipping in the breeze on a post out front. The Kirchers clearly aren’t wealthy, but they’re taking care of the property.
“My mom goes stupid crazy for holidays,” he mumbles as I pull into the driveway.
