Married To The Hockey Devil

Chapter 1 The Hockey Devil Emma's POV "Emma! Table seven has been waiting for ten minutes! If you lose another customer tonight, don't bother coming back tomorrow!" I didn't even turn around i grabbed the coffee pot, forced a smile that didn't come close to reaching my eyes, and pushed through the crowded diner like my feet weren't screaming at me with every step. Sixteen hours that is how long I had been on them today, between the morning shift at the bakery and this one. My lower back had stopped complaining a while ago. Now it just ached quietly, the way I had trained it to. "Sorry for the wait," I said to table seven, an older man who didn't even look up from his phone before rattling off his order like I was a machine and not a person standing right in front of him. I wrote it down anyway I always did, even when I didn't need to. It gave my hands something to do besides shake. On my ten-minute break, I slipped into the back hallway by the storage room and finally checked my phone. Noah three missed calls my stomach twisted as I dialed him back. "Hey, Em." His voice came through light it was too light. "Hey yourself how was the appointment?" "Good I mean, fine you know how it is." "Noah." "I'm okay, I promisebstop worrying so much, you are gonna get wrinkles before thirty." I almost smiled almost then a new voice came on the line, calm and careful in that way doctors get right before they say something you don't want to hear. "Ms. Collins? This is Dr. Patel Do you have a moment?" My stomach dropped straight to the floor. "Noah is condition has progressed faster than we hoped.” “The surgery isn't something we can keep pushing back. If we wait much longer, the risks increase significantly." "How long do we have?" "Weeks, not months." My fingers went numb around the phone. "And the cost?" The number he gave me wasn't just out of reach. It felt like it belonged to another universe entirely, one I had never be allowed into. "I understand this is difficult," he said gently. "Thank you for telling me," I managed, and hung up before my voice could c***k in front of him. I stepped into the storage room, shut the door, and let myself cry for exactly ninety seconds. I counted them ninety seconds was all I could afford. Then I wiped my face with a paper towel, checked my eyes in the little mirror taped above the sink, and walked back out like nothing had happened, because missing a shift meant missing rent, and missing rent meant missing everything after that too. Around ten, the televisions above the bar all switched to the same breaking story at once. I glanced up along with half the diner. "Seattle Wolves captain Mason Brooks caught on camera in a violent altercation outside a downtown nightclub-" The footage showed a tall man in a dark jacket driving his fist into another man's jaw hard enough to drop him. "Typical," muttered a woman at the counter. "These athletes think they can do whatever they want." I didn't linger on it rich men getting into fights outside clubs weren't my problem. My problem was a sixteen-year-old brother with a failing heart and a bank account that couldn't buy him time. Near closing, the windows lit up with flashing camera bulbs. I looked up just as the door swung open and a man ducked inside, hood up, cap pulled low, moving fast like he was trying to disappear into the walls. He slid into the darkest booth in the back. I sighed, grabbed a menu, and walked over. Just another customer. I didn't have the energy left to care who he was. "What can I get you?" "Coffee. Black." "Sorry, could you say that again? It is loud in here tonight." He looked up at that, and even in the dim light I caught the irritation flash across his face. "Do I need to say everything twice?" Something in me snapped maybe it was the sixteen hours. Maybe it was Dr. Patel's voice still echoing in my head. Maybe it was just that I was done being spoken to like I didn't matter. "Being rude isn't going to make your coffee appear any faster," I said flatly. "I asked you to repeat yourself because I couldn't hear you, not because I enjoy the sound of your voice." The diner went quiet a fork clattered somewhere behind the counter. He slowly lifted his eyes to mine, and for a second the whole room seemed to hold its breath around him. I didn't flinch I just stood there, arms crossed, waiting. He didn't say another word he reached into his jacket, dropped a few bills on the table, more than enough to cover a coffee he never even got, and walked out without looking back. Seconds later, the flashing bulbs outside surged toward him as he pushed through the door, reporters shouting questions, a swarm of noise swallowing him down the street. I stared after him, and it was only then, watching him disappear into the chaos of cameras, that it clicked. That was Mason Brooks. I had just argued with the Hockey Devil over a cup of coffee. I picked his money up off the table, shrugged, and went back to work. "Hockey Devil or not," I muttered to myself, "he is still a jerk." I didn't think about him again for the rest of my shift. I had bigger things to worry about than some rude stranger in a hoodie a brother running out of time, and a number in my head I still didn't know how I was going to reach.