Pucking Around: Chapter 102

Four days without my guys and I’m a mess. Not that I’ve gone cold turkey. That’s not possible when you’re unofficially married to Jake Compton. He texts me as much as ever. The time change makes it fun, since he’s typically up at 6:00am east coast time, and now I’m on the west coast.

I’ve been trying to just lie low, spending quality time with my mom, relaxing by her pool. She’s enforcing a strict media ban. Dad’s team is still dealing with the smattering of press requests, keeping me out of it, and the Price houses are a no TV, no news, no gossip safe haven. We listen to music, cook, and ignore the outside world. It’s perfect. An emotional battery recharge.

It turns out that my fear of coming out to my parents as polyamorous was wholly unnecessary…because Harrison came out for me. He did a great job of coaching them into acting natural, but I saw through their weird, forced smiles in a second. The little fink ratted me out.

“Don’t be mad at Harri, Lem,” Daddy said, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “He was just playing the overprotective twin card. If we didn’t swear on our lives that we’d be cool when you told us, he threatened to withhold grandchildren.”

So that was it. That was the big reveal. As far as daddy is concerned, if I’m happy, he’s happy for me. He wants them to come over for dinner after their game to officially meet them.

Mom has been the harder sell, but then she asks the harder questions. She wants details, backstories, dates. She wants to know things like ‘If you have children, who will be the father? Or do none of you care?’ You know, casual poolside chats.

Is it strange to say I’m not worried? I’m not worried about the big unanswered questions in our relationship. The essential things are there. I love them and they love me. We want a life together. We’re willing to fight for it. The rest is just details.

At this point, I’m more concerned about my suspension. My career aspirations have never been about needing money. I know that’s an incredibly privileged thing to say, but it’s true. I’ve never had to work. I choose to work. I wanted to go to med school and become a doctor. I wanted the long hours in the lab, thankless night shifts at the clinic. And I love the sweat and stress of game day. I love feeling like part of the team. I may not be a player, but I earn a little piece of every win too.

This suspension is my fault. I’ll accept it if they choose to terminate me. But damn will it hurt. It doesn’t matter if I think I did the right thing by Ilmari. I broke the rules. We’re not supposed to let emotion cloud our judgement.

I understand…but I also disagree. Humans are complicated. We’re emotional. Our stories are so rarely linear, our health journeys dynamic. If I didn’t have the emotion of Ilmari’s story fueling me, I might have made different choices regarding his care. Maybe I would have chosen the path of Avery and dismissed him out of hand.

I just wish I could do more to fight for my job. I want to stand before Doctor Tyler and the General Manager and state my case. But in four long days, the only thing Tyler has asked for are the scans from Cincinnati. Other than that, it’s been radio silence on all fronts.

It’s been almost eerily quiet. Nothing from Poppy. Nothing from dad’s PR team. Just peace…and quiet…and text updates from Jake regarding pelican watch.

The guys say they don’t have any updates, but I’ve been part of the team for months now. The Rays all gossip worse than a ladies’ knitting circle. They know something. They’re just keeping it from me. Which is stressing me the fuck out.

Their plane touched down super early this morning. Since I’m on suspension, I don’t have pass privileges to see them at the arena or the hotel. Not that I would try. I’m not doing anything to risk my suspension getting worse. I don’t even want to go to the game tonight. Though Jake has made it crystal clear they expect to see me there. Last night, he forwarded me four tickets. Rays family area, right on the ice.

I’m trying not to think about it. We’re all meeting for a quick lunch in an hour. Everything will look brighter once I’m back in their arms.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I say, peering through the dark glass of the SUV.

Daddy keeps a few drivers on staff, and he assigned Carl to me for the week. He’s a great guy. I’ve known him since I was fourteen. “That’s the name you gave me, honey,” he says from the front seat. “GPS says it’s right here.”

I peer out the window again. When Jake sent me the name of the café, I just forwarded it to Carl and finished getting ready. I was expecting it to be a little hole in the wall. Caleb likes finding quirky places with sandwiches named after celebrities. Otherwise, Jake drags us out for expensive sushi.

This is neither. It looks like the restaurant of a swanky hotel.

“You staying, or going, honey?” says Carl. “I gotta move this beast.”

“I’m…staying,” I say, my hand dropping to the door handle. This is unexpected, but who am I to judge? Maybe it has a $60 club sandwich with shaved turkey and applewood smoked bacon called ‘The Kevin Bacon.’

“Just call when you’re ready to go!” Carl says from the front seat.

“Thanks, Carl,” I say, slipping out the back, phone in hand. I dial Jake as I shut the door and cross the sidewalk into the hotel lobby.

“Hey, babe!” he says brightly.

“Hey, I’m at this weird hotel restaurant. Is this right?” I say, glancing around. “It’s a cloth napkin, fine china place and I’m in jeans. The waiters are wearing tails.”

“Yeah, we’re on the way. We’re running late. Blame Cay—”

“Do not blame Cay,” I hear Caleb say near the phone.

I smile, feeling better knowing they’re near. “How far out are you?”

“Maybe like ten minutes,” Jake replies. “We put in a rez. It’s under Compton. Just grab the table and we’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” I say, stepping through the double glass doors into the swanky restaurant.

The hostess smiles at me, her ebony skin dewy and perfect in the light streaming in through the windows. “Good afternoon,” she says in a sing-song voice. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Hey—babe,” Jake says in my ear, pulling my focus.

“Yeah?”

“We love you, Rachel.”

My heart flutters as I smile. “Yeah, I love you too, angel.”

“Great, be there in ten!” He hangs up.

I drop my phone down to my side.

“Miss, did you have a reservation?” the hostess says again.

“Yes,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. “Name is Compton.”

“Yes, of course. The other member of your party is already here. Right this way, Miss.”

I go still. “Other member?”

“Yes, he arrived just before you,” she replies. “I’ll show you to the table.”

“No—they’re not here yet.”

I just talked to Jake. We literally just hung up, and he’s not here. So…who is here? Who am I meeting? The poor hostess looks just as confused as me. My curiosity gets the better of me.

“Show me to the table.”

“Of course,” she sings with a twirl of her finger. “Right this way.”

We move around the fancy glass dividing wall and enter the main dining area. It’s packed with late afternoon lunch-goers. I see small portions of fancy food on large plates. Yeah, no hockey player in the universe would pick this place.

She shows me to a corner table by the window where a man in a suit sits on his phone, glass of iced tea sweating on the white tablecloth in front of him. He’s an older man, salt and pepper hair, serious eyes under thick dark brows. He oozes wealth and sophistication. He picked this restaurant; I’d bet any money.

My heart drops from my chest as I clutch to my bag like it’s a life saver ring. I know this man well, though I’ve only met him a few times. He’s Mark Talbot, General Manager of the Jacksonville Rays.

He glances up as the hostess approaches, his gaze shifting from her to me. His expression is impossible to read as he stands, setting his phone down on a stack of files perched on the edge of the table. “Doctor Price, glad you found the place.” He holds out his hand and I robotically step forward and shake it.

“I’ll send your waiter over to you now,” the hostess chimes as she waltzes away.

I stand there at the corner of the table, watching as Mr. Talbot reclaims his seat. He glances up at me, dropping his napkin back in his lap. “Won’t you sit?” He gestures to the open chair. “I hope you like tuna tartare.”