Page 9 of Rule 5: Never Crush on the Captain
I don’t get knocked down by anyone, much less rookies.
But I’d been off all night, stressing whether I should speak to Vinnie. That had been an obvious fail. He’d seemed shocked when I’d invited him for pizza.
And now he’s next to me, driving Stella and me home.
The car is silent, which is probably fine. Stella is fast asleep in the back. But I hate the tension that reverberates between us, that seems thicker than the grinding of the tires over the fallen leaves, and the squelch as it moves over the occasional puddle.
“Rest,” Vinnie says, his tone an unwelcome mixture of soothing and authoritative.
I glare at him.
Okay, maybe confronting him now isn’t a good time. I don’t want to wake Stella.
I fold my arms around myself, then wince. He jerks his head to me at once. I hate it.
Vinnie has always been aware of my every move. It’s helpful in hockey. Confusing everywhere else.
We cross the Charles, the large trees gloomy and melancholic in the night, then he ascends onto Beacon Hill. Lampposts splatter golden light onto the brick walls, and the SUV bumps as it bounces over centuries-old cobblestones.
Finally, Vinnie pulls into my driveway in Louisburg Square. A former presidential candidate lives in the next house, and when he’s in Boston, and not at one of his other mansions, it’s to dispense wisdom to Harvard graduate students. We don’t have much in common.
I scramble for the garage opener, moving some Barbies from the console.
The garage door zings open, and Vinnie slides the car inside. With another press of the button, the door closes behind us.
We are alone.
In my townhouse.
“How do you feel?” Vinnie murmurs.
“Okay.”
He nods, then exits. Stella is still asleep in her booster seat, and he unbuckles her gently. She blinks up at him.
“Shhh... We’re home now.”
Stella stretches out her arms, and he lifts her into his sturdy grasp. He carries her up the steps of my townhouse. I blink, then open the door.
I turn on the lights, then direct Vinnie to Stella’s bedroom.
“I’ll take it from here,” I say.
He nods solemnly. “Let me know if you need anything. I can make food?”
“I’m so not hungry.”
Vinnie looks at the paper Dr. Novak gave him on my aftercare. “Apple sauce?”
“God, no.” Bile hits the back of my throat. “Maybe some water.”
His eyes soften. “You’ve got it.”
“I feel geriatric.”
“You’re not. You played like a warrior.”
I blink, and I think his cheeks are a darker color than before.
