The Secret Hook-Up

When the head of PR for the Thrusters said community outreach, I thought they meant we’d be out in the community.

Talking to people.

Delivering swag bags to intramural teams.

Running sign-ups for new Thrusters- or Fireballs-sponsored adult sports leagues across a variety of sports.

Instead, I canceled my tee time for today, and now I’m standing at Duggan Field’s home plate, fully suited up in all of my hockey gear, right down to my helmet and gloves and freaking skates—blades covered, of course—surrounded by a full camera crew.

Plus a handful of my teammates and former teammates who still live in Copper Valley who were happy to come heckle me today. Couple of my friends on the Fireballs too.

A few rugby guys from the Pounders and some of the women’s soccer players from the Scorned.

And sweat.

I’m drowning in sweat.

It’s July. Of fucking course I’m drowning in sweat.

“Duncan, let’s start from the top. Go ahead and step up to the plate, and then Addie, you come in with your line,” the director yells.

“Is this the last take?” I’m so fucking hot that I’m almost cold. We’ve been out here for what feels like hours and I’ve said my lines probably three dozen times.

“If you do it right.”

Motherfucking fucker head.

He said that three takes ago.

“He won’t be doing it at all if he passes out from heat exhaustion,” Addie says.

She’s showing no signs of the hangover that had her a complete disaster yesterday morning. Her sling today matches her Fireballs uniform—black and orange with their mascot, Ash, a baby dragon who’s aged some over the past few years—waving at her elbow.

She’s in her Fireballs uniform and she gets to wear sunglasses to hide her eyes.

She’s also completely no-nonsense.

It’s a mask.

I know it’s a mask.

Just like I know she’s still off-kilter from having me thrust back into her life.

Wait until she realizes I’ll do whatever it takes to stay in her life.

If you hadn’t gotten attached, we could’ve been forever.

She cares. She likes me. She just doesn’t know how to admit it.

So I’ll be here until she realizes it.

“Then he better get it right this time,” the director yells. “Places, everyone.”

“Hey.” Addie holds up a hand to me. “You okay?”

“I’m good.”

She studies me too long. Not I want to jump your bones studying either. She’s staring at me the same way I’ve watched her stare at any number of her players. All business, that wrinkle forming on the bridge of her nose while her brows bunch.

“You’re sure?”

No, I’m not fucking sure. I’m hot and tired and I want to get out of my pads and uniform.

But I don’t mind the part at all where I’m with her.

I wink. “Have we met? I’m a fucking god.”

After one more long glance, she rolls her eyes and heads to her place for the shoot, and I blow out a slow breath.

Played through worse than being a little hot before.

Probably.

My teammates and I all work up a sweat under our gear every practice and game, but we’re on ice when we do it.

Not standing under the blazing July sun that’s so hot, it’s evaporating all of the sweat off my face.

The director calls, “Action!” and I take one more big breath before lumbering my way to home plate and lifting my hockey stick like a baseball bat, my pulse ticking higher. This is the last take whether the director likes it or not.

“All right, big guy, let’s see what you’ve got,” I call to Silas Collins, a young player from the Pounders who’s prepared to pitch me a rugby ball.

Backward, since that’s how they do it in rugby.

Addie steps up to the plate too. “You’re holding the wrong bat, Captain.”

Whoever wrote the script for this knows her well.

I give her a cocky grin. “You mean I’m holding the bat wrong.”

Someone off-camera tosses her a baseball bat. She catches it one-handed almost without looking, then flips it to offer the handle to me while she holds it by the barrel.

“The wrong bat. You can’t hit a baseball with a hockey stick.”

“The word you’re looking for is shouldn’t. I can hit a baseball with a hockey stick. But I shouldn’t.” Okay, yeah, despite the heat, this is a fun script. Whoever wrote it knew me well too.

But it’s still hotter than balls and I’m about done with this shit for today.

“Actually, with your stance like that, you won’t hit anything at all,” she says.

“Bet,” I reply.

I readjust my stick the way she showed me before we started shooting, digging my skates into the dirt.

Ground crew’s gonna hate us.

Not my problem though.

My problem is having enough patience to wait Addie out while she realizes I’m what’s missing in her life.

“Pitch it, Collins,” I call while Addie shakes her head and backs away with an audible, “Your reputation, Captain.”

“Get ready to strike out,” the rugby player retorts. He turns his back to me on the mound, then arcs the rugby ball backward toward me.

Fucking weird sport. They never toss the ball forward, only sideways and backward. Unless they kick it, then it can go forward. Dudes don’t wear padding. They’re hardcore.

I swing for the fucking fences as the ball soars my way, pulling my stick around to connect with that bloated football at the exact right moment.

But the rugby ball doesn’t go sailing.

Instead, there’s a crack that reverberates in my wrists as my hockey stick splinters and goes flying.

Straight at Addie.

I lunge for her, but my skate catches on the edge of home plate, and I, too, go flying.

The good news is that when I land, I land flat on the dirt.

No Addie beneath me.

No rugby ball beneath me.

No crooked stick beneath me.

The bad news is that dots start dancing in my vision.

Fuck.

I know this feeling.

It’s not the impact.

It’s dehydration and overheating.

I need water.

Stat.

“I stand corrected,” she says over me. “You can, in fact, hit a rugby ball with a hockey stick while in that stance. Nicely done, Captain.”

I breathe in dirt and sweat. I should push myself up, but I don’t want to.

Not while my head’s swimming.

“Cut!” the director yells. “Beautiful. That was absolutely beautiful. Nice improv, Coach.”

“Electrolytes,” she says to someone. “Now. Collins. Get over here. I need muscle. Yours better not be all for show.”

Shit.

I’m still on the ground.

And I don’t want to move.

Fuuuuck. I know what this means.

“Still with us, Duncan?” she says quieter, closer.

“Yep.” I try to move my arms, but she puts a hand to one, making me go still.

“Don’t move just yet. Did you land on anything wrong?”

“My pride.”

“Anything hurt? Ribs? Ankles? Wrists?”

“I didn’t fall that hard.”

“Hot?”

“Fucking sun. Fucking eighty million takes.”

“You still sweating?”

I don’t answer because she won’t like the answer.

I should roll over. I think I can roll over.

But then the sun would be in my eyes.

My lids drift shut.

Fuck.

“Can we get that umbrella over here?” she calls to someone. “We need shade. Collins. Let’s get him out of his uniform. You. Is that a pocket knife? Hand it over. Duncan, sip slowly. Who has a fan? Anyone have a fan?”

Something touches my lips from the side and I angle my head toward it.

My helmet disappears.Content © NôvelDrama.Org 2024.

“C’mon, Duncan. Take a little sip,” Addie says.

My mouth obeys, and sweet liquid flows over my tongue.

Oh, yes.

That’s better.

“Good job,” she says quietly. “Don’t sit up. We’ve got you.”

“You want me to cut him out of his jersey?” a guy says.

“I think the Thrusters can afford to get him a new one,” she deadpans.

I smile and suck in more liquid.

“Good, Duncan. But not too fast.” Soft fingers touch my hair.

Is it Addie?

Is she touching my hair?

Something tugs on my sweater, and then cooler air trickles over my back.

I know better than this.

I do.

Rule number one—don’t overheat and pass out.

“Uncle Duncan? Uncle Duncan, are you okay?”

Shiiiiiit.

Paisley’s here.

I forgot I invited Paisley to watch.

I grunt and try to lift my head, but it swims in the summer afternoon, and I have to set it back down on the ground.

“I’m okay,” I mumble.

“Thanks, Coach,” a familiar voice says. I know that guy. He’s some front office dude for the Thrusters. “We’ve got him.”

“Why isn’t he taking his own pads off?” Paisley says.

Oh.

Huh.

Someone’s unhooking my pads.

More fresh air.

Fuck yeah.

“He’ll be okay,” Addie says. “We’ll take good care of him.”

“Why isn’t he moving? Oh my god, he’s so pale.”

“He overheated, but he’s in good hands. The best hands. Look. Doc’s on the way.”

“I’m okay,” I say to Paisley.

Someone shoves the straw back in my mouth.

I lift my head again and push up onto my elbows.

Still swimmy, but fuck, it feels better without my pads on. With a breeze blowing on me. Under an umbrella.

Shade.

She got me shade.

“I’m okay,” I repeat to Paisley.

There are three of her.

Four of Addie.

Bad sign.

“Hey, Superman, how about you relax right now and let the trainers and doc do what they need to?” Addie says to me.

Not badass Addie.

Patient Addie.

The same Addie who sat on my couch with me a few years ago and helped me talk through a massive crisis in confidence when I thought the team was going in a direction I wasn’t fit to lead them in.

I miss that Addie.

I want that Addie.

I’ll get her back.

I will.

No matter what it takes.

Right now, pretty sure it’ll take cooling off.

“Eighty degrees might be too warm for full pads, huh, sport?” someone new says. “I’m Doc Engleberg. Work with the Fireballs. We’re gonna get you inside and get you all patched up. Anything you’re allergic to?”

“No allergies,” I report.

“He’ll be okay,” I hear Addie say again. “Right, Duncan?”

I give her a thumbs-up.

“Yeah, that last shot was good. You can take him,” the director says.

I switch which digit on my hand is sticking up.

And I debate giving myself that finger too.

This wouldn’t have happened ten years ago.

And it’s not the first sign I’ve had about my future.

But as I realize the sniffling I’m hearing is my niece, utter clarity smacks me in the balls.

It’s time.

And for once, it’s not a terrifying thought.

Maybe, just maybe, because it’s finally right.

And this time, I’m not thinking about Addie.

Not directly anyway.