Page 31 of Cherry Picking
Hawks looks over at me, and whether it’s one worried teammate checking in on another or if he’s got some sixth captain sense, the reasoning fades to nothing, because that grave look?
I’m throwing my gloves down, tossing my helmet off, and am skating off the ice faster than a puck can sail. Hawks tries to grab my arm, shouts something, but my ears are ringing and I shrug him off.
Coach catches me at the benches, and Riley is already gone but I know where they’re taking him.
“Foster.” His tone is stern, and I square my shoulders. “If you walk out those doors, we forfeit this game.”
I really should care a lot more about being the sole reason we’re taking a loss, but my heart is thundering like a stampeding bull into my ribcage, and all I can think about is Riley.
“All due respect, sir, but I’m going with him.”
Something in my tone must clue him in that this isn’t up for debate, because he sighs heavily and aims his gaze at the sky.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he barks, stern before focusing his attention back on the team.
I only half ass myself out of my gear, getting a side eye from our equipment manager and throwing him an apology as I race down the shoot to meet Riley just outside where they’re loading him into an ambulance.
Fuck.
I’ve got Riley’s keys stuffed in my pocket to follow the ambulance with his car, and a barrage of official-looking men shouting at me to give them space. I strong-arm my way to Riley’s side for just a moment before they can rip him away.
I grab his hand in mine and squeeze it with all the fear in my body.
He tries to laugh, but it turns to a grimace. “I’m not dying, Griff.”
No, but it damn near looks like he shattered his kneecap. For the second time in his career, at his age, this could be the nail in his coffin.
The way he squeezes my fingers in a death grip tells me he’s all too aware.
CHAPTER 8
RILEY
“For the millionth time:I’m fine.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I say it, Griff still paces the length of the hospital room in front of my bed like he’s running drills.
He got a call from Coach maybe an hour ago where he swore into the phone and nearly chucked it at the wall, but he refuses to tell me what it was about.
I can guess, though.
We lost. Without two suited goalies in the building, we’d be in a rules violation.
Now we’re waiting on the doctor to come back with news from my scans.
Scans that could very well spell out the end of my career, which isn’t as frightening as it should be. I’m thirty-two years old; I’ve had a good run, but I was banking on one last season with my team.
I never told Griff, but I’d been in talks about my contract running out and how I wanted to quit while things were still going strong.
It appears ‘things’ decided they weren’t so good after all because the pain when I woke up this morning was nearly unbearable.
That happens sometimes when you’ve had half the bones in your leg reconstructed. I figured it would pass, so I spent the day in the weight room taking it easy.
Game time rolled around, and I had to push through it. Took one too many falls, and then the agony lit me up like a forest fire.
“‘Fine’ is what you say after a concussion. Or some bruised ribs. Your leg is fucking purple, Easton.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice, and I hold out a hand that he latches onto like a lifeline.
You’d think he’s the one lying in the hospital bed right now.
