7. A Decision to Make

CHAPTER 7

A DECISION TO MAKE

FRANCINE

My first night with Stevie, she does exactly what Stefan said she would, abandoning her bed in favor of sleeping curled up against my side in my bed. First thing in the morning, I take her for a walk around the block, and send Stefan a video of her at the dog park near my apartment.

Stefan packed an abundance of toys for Stevie to choose from, but rather than play with any of them, she picks up her stuffed, squeaky hockey stick and snuggles with it on the corner of my couch, in a nest she made with the afghan there. My last dog was a labrador retriever who didn't care one way or another if people gave him any attention and definitely wasn't a snuggler. It's a bit of an adjustment to have a smaller dog around, but she sure is sweet and I'm already finding myself getting used to her company.

"I have hockey practice tonight before the game," I tell her as I pack my gear bag. "And then the girls are coming back to watch your dad with me. Just two. Don't look at me like that."

Stevie sniffs before returning to snuggling her hockey stick. Taking her out one last time, I head out to hockey practice, all the while thinking of the human she belongs to. After practice, my two dearest friends, Rachel Winters and Malina Zee come over to watch the Union take on the Florida Pelicans under the guise of a league committee meeting.

"Why have you called a league meeting at ten o'clock on a Friday night, Francine? And while the Union are playing, no less."

"Can't a girl catch up with her best friends?" I ask, dumping a fresh batch of popcorn into the bowl, and I'm met with twin cynical stares. "Okay, fine. Do you remember the guy I went to the diner with a while back?"

"You mean the one that you turned down?" Malina asks, pausing on her way to the popcorn bowl.

"This is his dog." Stevie looks up from where she's curled up on her nest in the corner of the couch, unbothered by being the topic of conversation.

"Wow. That's a big step," Malina says around a mouthful of popcorn. "You go from no second dates…"

"It wasn't a date. It couldn't have been a date. We…can't, shouldn't, date."

"Okay, so from no second whatever that was, to watching his dog?"

"There may have been a few other interactions between then and now."

"I'd like to go back to why you shouldn't date," Rachel says, leaning forward and watching as Detroit's first line takes to the ice and Erik Zimmerman gets ready for face-off. "The only possible reason I can think of is that it's…"

"Yeah. We've sort of been getting to know each other."

"In two minute increments," Malina interjects with a laugh. "Sometimes five."

"Okay…yes. He's a player. And he spends a lot of time in the box."

And since we've been talking, the first and second lines have ended their shifts and Stefan and the third line are on the ice. My attention is drawn to the screen as he accepts a pass from Alex and skates toward the goal before being checked into the boards by an opposing skater. Florida always plays a physical game, but it seems they're starting earlier than usual and I suck in a sharp breath as Stefan shoves his opponent and takes off to where his teammates are in a scrum of their own.

"I still can't believe Stefan Morrow asked you out and you said no." Malina pets Stevie who has moved from her corner of the couch and taken up residence on Malina's lap.

"I never said it was Morrow." Heat floods my cheeks and my veins as my friends give each other a knowing look.

"You didn't have to," Malina replies with a smug grin as she tucks her phone back into her pocket. "He leads the team in penalty minutes…and this dog's collar says ‘Stevie Morrow' so I figured it was a good guess."

"So what's the problem?" Rachel asks softly, eyes searching mine. "Because as far as I'm concerned, watching his dog is a pretty big step for someone you didn't want to go out with."

"I don't know," I shake my head, leaning back in my chair, "there's a part of me that wants to explore something with him if he gives me another chance to. And another part of me that's…"

"Scared." Malina knows me too well. "You're scared, and I understand that, but you'll never know if you don't take the chance."

"Well, I don't have to decide tonight, so let's just watch some hockey."

The game is tied at two when the third period starts, and I'm stressed, pacing behind the couch. Stefan's line is out, and Florida is starting to get physical. They always play a physical game, but tonight, on their home ice, it seems they've ramped it up.

Stefan receives the puck from Alex and skates toward the crease where he's intercepted by a Florida defenseman and his stick. It looks like he tries to trip Stefan, but Stefan is able to avoid falling, and passes off the puck in the process. I stop, eyes glued to the screen as Alex receives the puck from Stefan, who I no longer see on the ice. When the camera pans to the area behind the goal, I see Stefan face down on the ice, his stick lays a few feet away, and Erik Zimmerman – the Union's usually mild mannered captain – has a Florida skater by the neck of his jersey, pressed against the nearby glass.

"...a hard hit to the back of the head…" the familiar voice of Detroit's commentator says, and my heart drops to my toes. Malina reaches a hand over the back of the couch, and I take it, holding on tight. We watch in tense silence as the training staff takes to the ice and attends to Stefan. When someone comes out with a backboard I have to leave the room.

In the kitchen, I busy myself with washing the dishes we piled in the sink after dinner. Scrubbing the plates and silverware, barely feeling the hot water as I do so, a numbness settling into my bones. Every time we skate we know the risks we're assuming. We know what could happen. We know the risks and we go out there anyway.

"He skated off," Rachel's voice is gentle as she enters the kitchen, standing behind me. "Trainers helped him, but he skated off."

My body sags against the sink and Rachel grabs me, holding me up and wrapping me in a hug. "I've got you, Franny."

"When he went down…" my breath catches in my throat and my voice cracks on the words, "I was more scared than I've ever been."

"He's okay," Rachel says again, reassuring me. "He's going to be okay."

But I'm not.

I realized tonight that I could lose him in more ways than one, and I don't want even more time to pass between us without him knowing how I feel. Or how I'm starting to feel. Or maybe have felt all along.

The game ends and Rachel and Malina head out, leaving me in the silence of my apartment. Stevie is curled up in my lap, her head resting on my chest, those deep brown eyes of hers staring into mine. Burying my hand in her fur I kiss the top of her head. "He's going to be fine, girl. He's going to be just fine."

His post game comments play on a loop locally, and on national broadcasts, and I can't pull myself away.

"We've seen an uptick of hits like that across the league this season," he speaks slowly, his words measured. Cautious. "Being on the receiving end of it isn't a great experience. It's hard to feel safe on the ice, even with all the pads and protection, but the refs are doing their best, and I'd like to think the league is as well to make sure that we're safe. This was a reminder that there's always room for improvement when it comes to player safety."

"How are you feeling about being sent to the IR?" Another reporter asks.

"When you're knocked out the way I was, injured reserve is a smart move. Hits like that could have lasting effects that we don't see right away and I'd rather be safe than sorry. It means I miss the rest of the road games, but I'll be back in action when we get home."

"You should be proud of him, Stevie," I rub the dog's ears and she shifts, rolling onto her back so I can pet her belly, "it takes courage to speak out against the league like that."

He's not wrong. Player safety, at every level of this game, should always be top priority, and tonight it was clear that it's not.