Page 38 of Chips & Checks
“Hey, Violet.” She struts over to the counter next to me, looking pleased with herself. Holy shit. Did she wrap up the internal investigation already? Part of me hopes so, since that would mean we can skip to the part where I don’t have to deal with Chad anymore, and Bowen and I won’t have to bother with our fake dating scheme.
But wait. If they closed it already, it would be because they’ve decided to let him off the hook, right?
I clutch my armload of supplies and try not to hyperventilate as my thoughts spiral out of control. “Hey,” I squeak.
“Since you’re up there, I’m guessing you didn’t notice this yet.” Renee pushes on a spacer between two of the lower cabinets. It pops free as if released by a magnet. When she pulls it out, it reveals a stepstool. It’s a nice one, too, with multiple steps and grippy feet. My jaw drops as Renee unfolds it and stands it in front of me.
“Has this been herethe whole time?I swear it wasn’t here before. Or was I an idiot?” I dump my supplies on the counter and immediately climb onto the top step. Oh,yeah. I’m going to reachsomany things.
Renee chuckles. “No, it’s new.”
“Oh, wow.” I climb back down to floor level. “Does this mean I’m going to have to thank Dante? Aw, man. Well, worse things have happened.” I wink at Renee. We both have… feelings about Dante, although since she has to work with him more closely than I do, she has more material.
“Actually—” Renee begins.
“Aw, Vi!” My dad leans through the door of the PT room. “Look, someone else got you a stool.”
Renee smiles to herself and retreats, giving Dad and me—and my new stool—some privacy.
“Someone else?” I lift the stool to see how much it weighs, marveling at how lightweight it is.
Dad comes over to lay one hand on the top step, almost reverently. “Don’t you remember? I bought a stool for you when you were three because you wanted to ring the doorbell like the big people. You used it every time you and your mom came over.”
“Did I? I must have been too small to remember.” I feel almost guilty for forgetting something like that. It’s proof that my dad, myrealdad in every way that matters, loved me enough to see that I needed something and to fill that need, for no other reason than because it made me happy. There are other things, however, that stand out clearly. “What I remember most about my childhood is Cash Money lying in my mermaid bed with me.”
“Aw, you and Cashie were so cute together.” Dad pulls out his phone. I don’t need to see the screen to know that his lockscreen is a picture of me and our rescue dog, Cash Money, curled up together in a giant dog bed.Mybed was shaped like a clamshell, since I was an absolute mermaid fiend when I was smaller. If I needed more proof of Briggs’s love, there it is. He built me that bed by hand.
“I miss Cashie. And my old bed. Whatever happened to that bed anyway?” I remember crying when I outgrew it, but I don’t remember what happened to it.
“We gave it to a little girl I met at one of the Venom charity events,” Dad says.
“Of course you did. I’m not surprised. I know you put a lot of work into it. I’m glad it found a new home.”
Dad looks at me for a long moment. He has a reputation as a loudmouth, but the truth is, he’s the best father I could possibly have asked for. There were times in high school when I would have done anything to avoid being seen in public with him, but he put up with me at my most hormonal and bitter, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find a way to properly thank him for being such a steady presence.
Unlike the dipshit sperm donor who knocked my mom up and left her to deal with the aftermath. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve lived my whole life in Jaime Mitchell’s shadow, somehow trying to escape his legacy and atone for it at the same time. He tried to be a father to me for a few years, but then he did the slow fade while Briggs just got stronger.
It’s Briggs who’ll be there when I walk down the aisle one day. It’s Briggs who’ll hold my babies, who’ll spoil them and sneak them candy, and teach them how to throw a perfect glove-side shot. He’s the one who’ll sit beside me and my future husband at graduations and holidays and those quiet, impossible moments when life feels too big to handle alone. He’s always been there—loud, annoying, ride-or-die Dad mode fully activated—and it hits me all at once that he always will be. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because I’m his. And he’s mine.
We chose each other.
Dad clears his throat. “I love you, Vi. Well, I’ll let you get ready. Glad you have a new stool, kiddo.” Am I imagining things, or is he misty-eyed?
After he leaves, I return to my work. Everything takes about half as long and issomuch easier with this stool. I’m glad I said something to Dante the other night. Look at what speaking up can do! I only hope that my reports about Chad’s behavior lead to similar positive results.
I’m about halfway through my checklist when the man himself comes in. I spot him through the window of the clinic as he approaches, walking just fine. A few seconds later, he opens the door and limps through. Why would he pretend to be injured when he can obviously walk just fine?
I get my answer a few seconds later when he leans on the edge of the balance bar and groans. “I pulled something in my groin during practice,” he whines. “I’m gonna need you to rub it.”
Over the years, I’ve had athletes pop accidental boners during treatment—usually out of nowhere, always followed by profuse apologies and scarlet cheeks. Embarrassment, not entitlement. It’s a human reflex, not a statement. But what Chad does? That’s not biology. That’s a fucking strategy.
I take a deep and theoretically calming breath, although the sudden increase in my heart rate is a dead giveaway that I am not, in fact, calm. “You can rub it just fine on your own, Chad. Better yet, find one of the massage therapists. Why don’t I get you an ice pack, though, to reduce the swelling before you do that?”
“I don’t want an ice pack.” Chad’s smile is starting to remind me of that old cartoon Grinch movie, when the Grinch gets his terrible, awful idea. “I want a rub down frommyPT. We’re traveling tomorrow, and I want to make sure I’m in good shape for our first away game.”
Another breath. “As you can see, I’m busy. It’ll have to wait.”
The other PT, Eric, should be around here somewhere. If I can stall long enough, he might turn up. Renee said they can’t transfer Chad to Eric’s care because I’m the one with the background in head injuries, but since I’m not a fuckinggroinspecialist, Eric should be able to handle this. A lot of NHL teams run with only a head PT and an assistant, but Dante goes with three because he specifically wanted someone trained to manage head injuries.
