8. Brett

Brett

My mind is racing, turning one question over and over in my head: What do I do if I'm traded to the Minnesota Wild?

At the meeting with Coach and the GM, she made it seem like it's a real possibility. Nobody—with maybe the exception of Sammy, though most of our conversations have been drunken, so I'm not sure if I spilled to him—knows much about my connection to Minnesota. They know I'm from there, but none of my team members, or Coach, know the lengths I'll go to keep from going back.

A quick chat with my manager told me that if the Vipers decide to trade me to the Wild, pulling out of the deal could cause a lot of problems, and potentially cost quite a lot of money.

"Simply put," she'd said, sounding exasperated that I was asking the question at all, "I do not recommend it."

Athletes get traded all the time. Sure, they may not be happy about it, but it comes with the territory. You cross your fingers and hope you get picked up by a team that you like. Which I did—and I went to the Vipers.

And I want to stay.

Now, I sit in the waiting room, my leg bouncing, my eyes fixed on the carpet's ugly geometrical pattern. With how fast my mind is whirring, it takes me a moment to realize someone has said my name.

"Brett?"

I look up to see Fallon standing there, her eyebrows raised, a clipboard in her hand. She must have called my name a few times before finally getting my attention. I stand and smile at her, preparing to follow her back to the room. She glances back at me, grinning as she leads the way.

"You know," she goes on, "I can help with the leg thing—but I'm not a hearing specialist."

"Sorry," I sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of my head. "I just have a lot on my mind."

We walk into the office she always sees me in—a large room with a standard consultation area, a rolling computer for her to input information about me, a treadmill, and a variety of balls, pieces of foam, and resistance bands she uses during exercises.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks as she pulls her rolling computer over and starts typing her credentials in.

I give her a smirk. "I thought you could only help with the leg…don't tell me you're a regular therapist, too?"

"No," she laughs. When she looks at me, her eyes connecting with mine, it takes me a moment to recalibrate my brain. I've been seeing her for a few months now, and there are some days when it's harder to keep my eyes off her.

Today, she has her hair in two braids that rest on her chest. She's wearing mascara, which makes her eyes pop even more than normal.

When I was a teenager, and I watched Chris Pine as Captain Kirk in Star Trek , the thing that amazed me most was how vividly his eyes popped through the TV screen. I was convinced they were photoshopped, until I saw him doing interviews, and I realized there are just some people in the world who have unnaturally blue eyes.

Fallon has eyes like that. Coupled with her dark brows and how her lips quirk at the corner, it feels like she's looking right through me every time her eyes drift over in my direction.

Everything about her is captivating, from her small nose to the freckles sprayed across it. As always, she's wearing a pair of light green scrubs, which makes everything worse. I want her like she's a cologne sample in a magazine. I want to breathe her in, put her in my pocket, carry her around with me.

"Seriously, Brett," Fallon says, breaking me out of my reverie. She leans down, those blue eyes darting back and forth between mine. "Are you okay?"

Without meaning to, I let out a sigh, looking down at the tops of my thighs because I can't stand to be looking in her eyes for this long.

"Just some stuff with work," I say, and she lets out a little laugh, nodding her head.

"Isn't it always?" And then she's launching into the measurements and exercises. I go through the motions, accepting her feedback and stretching when she asks.

"So," I try, as she has her hand on my leg, moving it and bending it at the knee. It's still slightly stiff, but it feels good as she moves it. From our previous sessions, I know she's trying to increase my range of motion. "Do you want to share?"

"Me?" She glances up, her eyes meeting mine. "What do you mean?"

"About what was bothering you during our last session," I say, trying not to lead on that it's been popping into my mind. Throughout the week, my brain reminds me that something was wrong, and since the other physical therapist interrupted us, I didn't get to hear what it was.

"It's kind of…unbelievable, actually," she says, laughing and shaking her head.

"Lay it on me."

Fallon bites her lip, then motions for me to get on the treadmill. She starts it out slow, focusing on the movement of my leg.

Finally, still staring at my leg, she speaks. "You know, like, the stork?"

"Not personally," I say, glancing at her as she increases the speed.

She laughs a bit, then, after a little sigh, continues. "Well, I got a baby on my doorstep the other night. Like, from the stork."

I nearly trip. "What?"

She shoots me a look, and I realize I should pay attention. Breaking my leg again during a physical therapy appointment probably wouldn't look good on either of us.

"Someone just left a baby at your doorstep?" I try to imagine it—opening your door and finding a whole human being.

"Yeah," she says, hitting the button again to speed the treadmill up. "But not just someone. My mom."

"So…the baby is your sibling?"

"Sister, yeah." She sighs. "This sounds insane, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, I mean—your mom sounds insane."

When she looks at me with surprise, I roll my lips into my mouth, glancing toward the screen, which now displays a speed of 3.0. Fallon hits the button to increase it again.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"No," she chuckles, "it's a fair assessment. She is. But now, I have this baby, and I'm trying to figure out what I can do with her. Like—I mean, I think I have to raise her."

"You don't want her to go into the system," I conclude, more statement than question, because who would want that for another person?

"Right."

"No other family members?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"That's a pickle."

"Right—but the baby herself isn't even the worst part. The worst part is that I have no idea how to pay for a baby. I can barely even pay for myself."

"Well," I say, knowing it sounds outlandish, even as I say it, "I could give you some money."

She laughs, shaking her head. "What are you, some sort of secret millionaire?"

I glance at her. She really has no clue who I am—I signed the biggest rookie contract in NHL history last year. Not to mention the money in my trust fund, and my inheritance from my grandparents.

"Right," I chuckle, not sure how to skate away from it. "But—I mean, I could—"

"I can't accept your money," Fallon says, holding up a hand. "That's like, a HIPPA violation, or something."

I wrinkle my brow. "I don't think so. And besides, can't I just, consent, to a HIPPA violation?"

"No." She increases the speed. I'm just now starting to breathe a little hard, but my leg feels good, solid.

Fallon goes on, "Plus, it would just be really unprofessional of me to take money from a patient, you know?"

"I thought we were friends?"

"It would be really awkward to take money from a friend."

"So you're just going to…?"

She goes quiet, studying my movement for another long moment. The only sound in the room is the whirring of the treadmill and the thump, thump, thump, of my feet. I can't look at her now—I'm running too hard. I wish I could see her face.

"My roommates…" she says, clearing her throat and scribbling something down on her clipboard, "seem to think I should get married."

I trip so quick I don't even register that it's happening until my body takes over, arms finding the rails, hoisting me up and away from the belt. Fallon pulls the stop cord, her eyes wide when I turn to look at her.

"Jesus, Brett, you scared that shit out of me," she gasps, her hand to her chest. "This is why we can't talk while you're on this."

"Sorry," I pant, "you're getting married?"

"No!" She runs a hand over the braid on her head. "My roommates think I should get married."

"Like, find a sugar daddy?"

"No," she scoffs, the breath coming out sharp and fast. "No—I have a trust fund. And I meet every single requirement, except for marriage."

"Why would—?" I start, thinking of my own trust, which just stipulates that I can't be a convict. I guess even as much as I don't like my family, they're not stooping as low as some others.

"My grandpa was a real piece of work," she explains, gesturing for me to get off the treadmill and follow her into the main area. She plays with the end of her braid while I sit in a chair, grabbing a resistance band. We've been through this so many times, I know what's next."Apparently, he really thinks a girl needs to be married before she gets any money," Fallon says.

"Wow."

"Right, so—well, my roommates think I should marry someone to get access to the trust."

"Why not marry one of them?"

Even as I suggest it, something in my chest twists at the idea of it. Without meaning to, I picture Fallon in a wedding dress, and my mouth goes dry.

"Two of them are already practically married, one is going to be a lawyer and doesn't want to commit fraud, and another isn't allowed to get married in several countries . And one just said no."

"Harsh."

"I mean, fair," she laughs, "I probably wouldn't do it."

"You wouldn't?"

"I mean, I don't know," she says, and when she kneels in front of me to wrap the resistance band around my ankle, I see her cheeks are pink. She has me slide off the chair and start doing lunges with the resistance bands, and we talk as we move across the room together.

"You don't know?"

"I would like to get married someday." She puts a hand on my shoulder to gently correct my form. "For real. Not that I think being married the first time like, ruins that, or anything but—I don't know. It also seems rude to ask someone to do that. To tie themselves to me, like that. Besides, it's also technically fraud—"

I stop, mid-lunge, heart thundering in my chest.

"Brett?" She stoops a bit to look down at me. I catch her hand, looking up at her, feeling the goofy grin as it worms across my face. This is crazy, I know that, but I can't stop myself.

I can practically hear Devon and Coach and the new GM right there in my ear: Too impulsive.

"Fallon Stewart," I say, pushing the thoughts away, feeling the adrenaline pumping through my body as I look up at her. "Will you marry me?"