Page 23 of Lucky Puck

“Not so fast,” Doctor Patrick says. His face is serious as an undertaker when I look at him. “I have instructions. The first is no more hockey tonight.”

“That’s no problem since the game is about over by now,” Sabien says, but he’s not smiling.

Neither am I because I know there’s another proverbial shoe about to drop like an anvil.

Doc grunts and nods. “Rest and quiet. No hockey for a week. Not even practice. No excitement or vigorous activity.” He gives me a stern glance at that last part as if.

Heat floods to my face automatically, and I have to force myself not to look away or down at the floor, or to flee from the room if I’m honest. Chancing a glance at Lou, I see he’s not bothering to suppress a grin as he stares back at me, though there is a tinge of sympathy in his expression.

Doc hands Brody a package of bandages and a tube of cream.

“Change the bandage tonight.” Brody nods, and Doc turns to me. “You can help him—unless you’re too squeamish?”

I glare at the doctor and snatch the bag of medical goodies from Brody’s hand. “I’ll get over it. Don’t worry about me.”

“I was more worried about him.” Doc points a thumb over his shoulder at the kid. “He’s the hottest commodity on ice.”

I’m the last person who needs to be told that.

“Now both of you go home and rest,” Doc says with irrefutable finality.

Stubby waits for the doctor to take his black bag and leave before he speaks up. “First, Brody must attend the post-game press conference and then the fan extravaganza at the Venetian’s expo center.”

“No,” I say. “You heard the Doc. No excitement. The Venetian’s expo center is the worst possible place for⁠—”

“He’s obligated. We’ve sold tickets, and the fans are expecting him.”

My frown deepens, and I’m about to launch into a lawyerly tirade about my client’s health and well-being, but Stubby isn’t stupid, and he reads my expression.

Changing his tactic, he says in a reasonable voice, “He only needs to make a short appearance.”

“I’ll do it,” Brody says to me. His voice sounds like a solid steel skate blade if it could speak.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Sabien asks before I do.

“Of course,” Stubby says. He clearly only cares about his All-Star extravaganza. “Brody can sleep all day tomorrow.” He flashes his too-white teeth at us.

“I’ll be there with you,” I say. I don’t mention in front of Stubby that I plan to make sure Brody gets out of the fan event in fifteen minutes or less.

Sabien nods.

Leaning into me, Brody hitches a brow in a flirtatious gesture. “Are you coming back to the locker room with me?”

“Unfortunately for you,” Sabien says, “you’re coming with me.”

“Go through the back hall,” Lou points. “Then you can wait to confront the media when you come back this way and join your⁠—”

“That sounds like a great plan, Lou,” I say to stop him from saying what I think he’s going to say—to join your wife. The last thing we need is for Lou to spread the lie that I’m Brody’s wife. Sabien wastes no time, and I watch him disappear with my—I mean Brody. Then I’m left with Lou and Stubby, the man in a suit with an NHL label on his pocket and no heart underneath.

We wait in uncomfortable silence interrupted by a hard rap on the door, which Lou answers. There’s a short conversation that Stubby almost interrupts until Lou says with admirable force, “He’s dressing and he’ll be out shortly.” Then he shuts the door and locks it.

Turning, he says, “That was coach. He’s holding off the mob of media—his words, not mine.”

Stubby frowns and glances down at me as if it’s my fault someone knocked Brody into the boards and gave him a concussion. It occurs to me the opposite is true, and never being one to waste a good accusation in an adversarial position, I frown up at Stubby and throw my hands on my hips.

“If you’d run a cleaner game tonight, Brody wouldn’t have gotten injured. I hold you and the coaches responsible for this situation.”

Stubby steps back and looks at me like an animal about to growl. Apparently, I hit a sore spot, but before he can launch into whatever defensive tirade he has up his slick sleeve, Brody and Sabien return dressed in suits. I automatically gravitate to Brody’s side protectively, even though right now he looks more like a cover model for GQ than the vulnerable, injured boy-like man he was on the training table.