Page 135 of Triple Pucked
“Do you remember that original research paper that I have been working on with colleagues for the last few years?”
Cody nods.
“It’s important in my field; a mix of aggregated patient data and clinical experience. I hope that it will help other doctors to improve patient’s chances of survival. It’s been going through peer review. It’s buttock clenching waiting to get though that stage. This afternoon I found out that it has successfully got through and will be published in the most influential medical journal in America.”
Cody twists, throwing himself into his husband’s arms. “That’s incredible, Mike. Is that why you’ve been working extra hard recently? You’re amazing.”
“I’m going to pretend that I understand even half of what you said and say congratulations.” I raise my beer in salute and take a drink.
“You’re the hero at this table.” D’Angelo raises his glass. “To Michael’s win.”
“To Michael,” the rest of us chorus, raising our glasses and drinking.
Michael appears unsure what to do with such praise and simply shrugs. “It’s my job, no matter how tough or exhausting. I love it. I live for medicine.”
“I live for hockey,” Shay admits, quietly like it’s a revelation.
“I won’t let anyone fuck with that,” I swear. “Either these Misfit stalkers or their newbie member, KillaStar aka Blythe.”
Now, D’Angelo’s phone rings. He pointedly ignores it.
I bet that it’s Dad again.
Dad must really want to contact us.
I unlock my phone and then type a quick text to both Eden and Dad to check that they’re all right.
Of course, Dad is listed as theTHE GRILL SERGEANT.
I decided to change his name fromDADin my contacts. It means that if someone finds or steals my phone, they won’t be able to pretend to him that I’ve been kidnapped.
They also won’t know who he is under my contacts.
THE GRILL SERGEANTsums up Dad’s BBQ and interrogation skills. He uses both as a coach, sometimes at the same time in his infamous team cookouts at his lake house.
I stare at my phone for a long moment.
One word response from Eden:
Okay
Then finally, one response…then two…then three from Dad.
I swallow.
D’Angelo pales. “Coach?”
I nod.
“That bad, huh?
I glance at the messages.
Where ARE u? Why isn’t J answering? Is he drunk?
I wince.
D’Angelo’s not drunk. Should I tell Dad that I, however, am happily on my way?
