10. Rhys

CHAPTER 10

RHYS

Our arena is electric. Fans are on their feet, the roar of their cheers so loud, I can't hear my teammates next to me. The final minute of play in the third period is counting down. Standing at the bench, I yell encouragement to the guys. Not that they can hear me.

We're riding high. Our afternoon game against Winnipeg has been a battle from the first face off. After a scoreless first period, Sage, Maxim, and Jonas all scored in the second. Quinn scored at the start of the third. And Pierre is closing in on a shutout, if he can stay strong.

Sage rockets down the ice, weaving around players, and fires a shot from the left circle. It pings off the crossbar, and a Winnipeg defenseman plays it away.

He comes off the ice, breathing hard from his extended shift. Maxim hops over the boards to replace him, skating into the fray. And falls. He gets his skates under him, stands, and goes down again.

"Damn, he's lost his skate blade." Beside me, Remy points to the silver blade lying on the ice.

Winnipeg takes advantage of Maxim's slow, one-skated attempt to return to the bench, and skates deep into our zone. Their center passes the puck to their winger, and Pierre drops into the butterfly. The winger skates closer, slams the puck to the center instead of taking the shot himself, and the center fires off a one-timer.

Pierre flails to the other side of the net, but I fear it's too late.

In a blur of purple, Jonas dives, throwing his body to the ice, sliding across the crease to cover the open spot.

The puck crashes into his skate. I wince, and then worry at the agony twisting his face.

Players rush in. The crowd grows louder. Winnipeg's center and winger battle Quinn and Morgan in the crease, and Pierre lands on top of Jonas, searching for the puck. He finally gets his glove on top of it, trapping the disc as the game clock reaches zero. The buzzer goes off.

Remy throws his arms around me. "Pierre got the shutout!"

Our bench erupts in a cheer and we hop over the boards, forming a line to congratulate Pierre. The roar of the crowd is a tidal wave of noise.

At the goal net, Morgan and Maxim yell for the trainer and doctor. The ref and linesmen are there too. Quinn bolts to the bench, calling something to Coach Grant.

"What's going on?" Dread coiling in my core, I skate past my teammates.

In the goal crease, Jonas and Pierre lay in a heap. Blood drips from Jonas's chin and he grasps his right skate, wincing. Pierre's face is cut too. He keeps patting Jonas on the shoulder.

I drop to Jonas's side. "What happened?"

"Maxim's stick got me." He grabs hold of my jersey sleeve, twisting the material, hissing in pain. "I think my ankle is bad."

In the almost four years I've known Jonas, he's never admitted to any injury being bad. I slip closer to him so he can lean his head on my shoulder then brush my glove over his forehead, wiping away the sweat beading on his face. "It'll be okay, bud. Help's coming."

The arena is slowly emptying out, but plenty of fans stick around, watching us. A lot of our teammates wait too. All of them with the same somber expression.

Quinn and the medical staff arrive. They assess Jonas, then ask Quinn and me to help him so he won't put any weight on that leg.

We get him between us, his arms around our shoulders, and skate him off the ice to the sound of stick taps from our teammates and applause from the remaining fans. With him hopping on the one skate and using us like crutches, we maneuver down the tunnel and deliver him to the medical staff's office for an examination and X-rays.

The pit in my stomach deepens as I go through my post-game routine. Showered and dressed, I wait for word on Jonas with Quinn and Maxim. The team is leaving for a five game, nine-day road trip from here. I doubt Jonas will be joining us.

The TV on the wall shows the post-game media conference. Sage sits at the table with Coach Grant and Pierre, fielding questions. He's done a few of these and looks more at ease with each one.

His on-ice performance is catching reporters' attention. He has goals in each of his last ten games, and at least one point in every game he's played with us. With him, we win games, and he's becoming an integral part of the team. He's a big reason we'll be returning to the playoffs. I said all of that in the interview I gave after the last game, and clips of it have been circulating online along with photos of the two of us, out having coffee and dinner, speculating whether we have a bromance or something more.

The tread of a footstep followed by a softer clack, comes from the hall. Jonas swings in, aided by crutches, his injured foot in a boot, and a line of stitches on his chin. Someone has helped him out of his uniform and gear, but he's still dressed in the thin long-sleeved tee and pants we all wear as a base layer. He sees us, and relief softens the pain etched into his features. "You waited."

Maxim strides toward him, arms open, and carefully hugs him. "Of course. Sorry about the stick blade to the chin."

"It's okay. I like that it's from you and not that asshole winger. I won't hate the scar it leaves."

"What's the word?" Quinn gestures at the crutches and boot.

Jonas sighs. "Broken foot, thanks to the puck. And a high ankle sprain, thanks to the rut in the ice my skate blade caught as I dove to block that shot."

I drop my chin to my chest, relieved it's not worse news, but still… it's not great. That's weeks of being laid up, followed by rehab. It could be two to three months before he's fully healed. "Damn, that sucks."

"I can't put weight on my foot, and I'm supposed to keep it elevated for the next three to five days." His shoulders droop as he glances at his boot. "At least Pierre got the shutout."

Only twelve days, and six games, remain in the regular season. With so many injuries already, I don't know how well we'll do, now and in the playoffs. All teams are dealing with injuries. But none of that matters right now, only caring for my friend.

One of the trainers offered to drive him home, so we walk with him to the parking lot. It takes two of us to help him into the SUV.

Images of Jonas trying and failing to manage on his own bombard me as we board the bus that will take the team to the airport. I sink into the seat Sage saved for me, lean my head against the headrest, and lace my fingers through his.

Sage squeezes my hand. "Are you okay?"

"Jonas took care of me for months, letting me live with him. If we didn't have this road trip, he could stay with me and I could help take care of him. Instead, he'll be on his own for days." Dull pain pounds in my temples. "He's not comfortable having people he doesn't know in his place, so I don't think he'll let me hire a nurse. I need to figure something out."

Maxim, seated behind us next to Quinn, touches my shoulder. "We will."

"My housemates have home games this week, so they'll be around. And Jonas knows them. I'm sure they would stop by and check on him. I'll ask." Sage opens the messaging app on his phone.

Seated in front of us, both Remy and Morgan turn around. Remy says, "They're great at caretaking. Very much a good cop, bad cop routine when needed. Soren's been experiencing that firsthand with his hamstring injury. His texts about them are hysterical."

Chat bubbles appear on the screen. Sage's thumbs fly over the keyboard. New messages appear. "Phil and Gio responded. They'll help however needed."

The weight eases off my chest and shoulders. "That's awesome. Tell them thank you."

Quinn taps the top of my head. "I'm glad that's worked out. Jonas isn't the best at asking for help."

More texts appear.

Sage's smile fades into a frown. "Phil just reminded me, they have a road trip next weekend, from the twelfth through the fifteenth."

The last game in our road trip is in LA on the fifteenth. We won't get home until around three AM on the sixteenth. I twist in my seat to look at Quinn and Maxim. "Maybe we?—"

"Hold that thought." Sage taps my arm. "Soren's commenting. He thinks Jonas should just stay at our house the entire time, so he has someone available twenty-four seven. He also said he's able to move around the house pretty well now, so he can look after Jonas while Phil and Gio are away. I'm adding Jonas and you three to the chat now."

Hoping Jonas will be on board, I alternate between looking at the messages popping up on Sage's phone and gazing out the window at the city rolling by to the soundtrack of notification buzzes and pings going off every few seconds.

Sage taps me again, then holds up his phone. "Jonas agreed. Phil and Gio will go and get him and his stuff now. He'll stay in their apartment so he doesn't have to deal with stairs, and they'll take mine."

"Or mine." Remy rips open a protein bar. "I told them to Goldilocks their way through the second and third floor."

Morgan's head pops up over the seats. "Jonas and Soren will be good company for each other. They can commiserate about injuries ending their seasons early."

"I asked the guys to bring Benny to visit him," Remy adds. "They can watch movies. Benny's a great mood lifter, and a good listener."

I smile at the thought of Jonas making friends with the reptile. The way everything came together, orchestrated by Sage, I'm blanketed with relief and gratitude. "Thank you. This means a lot to me."

"We've got your back." Sage rubs his palm up and down my thigh. "And his."

My phone vibrates with a text from Jonas to Maxim, Quinn, and me: Thanks for looking out for me.

I reply with a thumbs up emoji, then clapping hands. Emojis are easier than words sometimes.

So are actions. I cover Sage's hand with mine and lace our fingers together. He leans in and pops a discrete kiss to my shoulder. He's such a good guy. His support this afternoon is everything. Having him in my life, knowing I can count on him, there's an ease and relief, a comfort.

We get on the plane, and I have a message from Jonas that Phil and Gio have arrived and are helping him pack.

The flight to Chicago is only an hour and a half. Pierre tries teaching us a card game and I don't get the hang of it until we're about to land. Quinn and Morgan are really good though, and Pierre is happy he's found new card players to replace Evgeny.

Once we're on the bus to the team hotel, I check my phone and find another update from Jonas telling me he's settled in at the Slash house, and two from my parents asking about plans for dinner.

Crap. I rub my hand over my face. With everything going on with Jonas, I forgot to text them.

Beside me, Sage gathers his things. I wonder if he'd want to meet them. Is it too soon, as well as too short notice? We haven't had the conversation about what we are. But we have made plans for the summer, so maybe it isn't.

Fuck it. I lay my hand on his forearm. "I'm having dinner with my parents. Do you want to join us?"

Alarm fills his blue eyes. "Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Did they ask… I mean," he leans in, lowering his voice, "did you tell them about me?"

"Well, they know you're my teammate. And that we spend a lot of time together." Nerves hit me in the gut. Swallowing hard, I lean in too. "I'd like to tell them that you're more."

He glances around us, at our teammates filing into aisles, readying to exit the plane. "Tell them, or tell everyone?"

That wasn't a no . Some of my tension eases, but not enough for me to breathe unfettered. We need to have this conversation somewhere else. "Whatever you want. We can talk more at the hotel."

Biting his lip, eyes wide, he nods and then picks up his bag. The ear buds he just put away come back out. He slips them on and navigates to one of his many playlists. A comfort listen one, filled with calming tunes.

Knowing he's stressed makes me stressed. I rub the back of my neck. If only I could reverse time and take back the question, everything would be fine.

Quinn gives me a questioning look when we stand. "You okay?"

"Sure."

And I pretend that I am, all the way to my hotel room. I text my parents that I might be bringing a guest, then change into jeans and the fisherman's sweater Sage likes so much.

Sage arrives with a quick knock at my door. He's dressed in a black Henley and jeans, and twisting the hell out of his fidget toy.

Concern for him pushes my nerves to the side. Taking his hand in mine, I draw him deeper into the room, to the bed, and sit down beside him at the foot. "I didn't mean to stress you out."

"I know." He stares at the rug for a moment before lifting that worried gaze to mine. "What if your parents don't like me?"

That's his first question, his biggest worry? I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like a fool from the relief surging through me, and squeeze his hand. "They'll love you. My mom will want to feed you, and talk about the animals she rescues, and my dad will want to talk hockey. They already think you're great because of what you did for me for my birthday. They're really good people. I'd never put you in a bad situation."

He squeezes my hand. "I know you wouldn't. I just want to make a good impression." A look of horror overtakes his face. "What if I spill something at dinner, and it's the fisherman's sweater fiasco all over again?"

Chuckling, I bring his hand to my lips and press a kiss to his knuckles. "Fiasco? The last time you brought that up, it was a situation."

He smiles too. "I'm trying out fiasco. I like it."

"Well, I like you." I kiss his shy smile. "And so will my parents."

"I would like to meet them." His voice is soft. "What about everyone else?"

"Of the team, the people who matter, our friends, already know. I don't think other teammates will care, some of them probably suspect it already. We can tell Coach Grant first. I'm comfortable telling people. But if you want to wait, that's fine too."

"I don't want to take anyone's focus off the games, or be a distraction." His fingers manipulate the toy, twisting it then stretching it out. "There's only two weeks left, then the playoffs begin."

I thread my fingers into his hair, sliding through the strands, hoping to soothe him, then move down to massage his neck. "We can wait until after the season. I'm really okay with that."

"But I also worry I'm going to forget to be discrete and end up kissing you after a goal or a win when we're all congratulating each other."

"If that happens, then it breaks the news for us."

He blows out a sigh, heavy with the weight of all his worries. "I wish I knew the right thing to do."

"There is no one right way or time." I brush his hair off his face, and it falls right back, flopping over his forehead. "We don't have to make a decision tonight. Let's have dinner with my parents. Are you okay with us telling them?"

"Yeah, I am. You're close with them, and shouldn't have to hide. Do you really think they'll like me?"

"You are a massive upgrade over every boyfriend I've ever had." I stand, pulling him up with me. "Ready to go?"

Smiling, he raises onto his toes, cups my face in his hands, and seals his lips over mine. "I'm ready."