Troublemaker: A Playmaker Duet Prequel (Prescott Family Book 2)

by Mignon Mykel

  I started to nod but thought better of it. “Yeah.”

  “Alright. Can you slide over this way?”

  With a deep breath, I moved over, scooting over the middle and passenger seats, where the guy took hold of my elbow, helping me out of the truck.

  “I’m going to have you sit here for a moment, ok, Porter?” He guided me to a gurney and I frowned. “We’re just checking you out right now.”

  “Alright.” I let him help me onto the end and sat as he flashed a light in my eyes and pressed on my arm and leg, both of which were definitely going to bruise.

  “You live here, Porter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have parents home?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know their numbers? Can we give them a call?”

  “Yeah, sure. My dad’s out of town though.”

  He had another paramedic come over and dialed the number I gave them, telling Mom they were taking me to Beloit Memorial.

  I was laying back in the bed when I heard her racing through the Emergency Room. I fought a grin when I heard her asking for her baby boy.

  Her voice neared, as did another. I recognized it as the doctor who had been talking with me on and off since I arrived.

  “…a concussion. He’ll have some bruising but otherwise he’s fine, Mrs. Prescott.”

  The curtain swung open, first revealing the doc but next my mom, who shuddered when she saw me. “God, Porter.” Her hand went up to her mouth and she stood there for a moment before stepping into the curtained off room.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I tried reassuring her.

  “Oh thank God.” She moved to my side, dragging one of those hard and uncomfortable plastic chairs with her. She sat and took my hand in both of hers and I turned my head on the pillow to look at her.

  “I’m sorry. Dad’s going to be so pissed at me. I was supposed to take Mo out to dinner and I—”

  “Doesn’t matter, Porter. I’m just really glad you’re ok. God, when I got the phone call…”

  “It was a case of a little car versus big truck.”

  “If you were in your car, who knows—”

  “Mom.” I stopped her from her train of thought. I knew what she was thinking. I had thought it a time or two myself. “I’m fine.”

  “Oh, baby.” She lifted my hand to her lips and I felt terrible at seeing the tears in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered into the currently quiet room.

  “Good God, Porter, what for?”

  I looked away from her, studying the wrinkles in the curtain wall. Mom gave me the silence I sought, not pressing.

  “For being a disappointment,” I finally answered. I was now more than sure she wished she stopped having kids after Avery. There was no way she could be happy about the shit I kept putting the family through.

  Carefully, as this wasn’t the first concussion she dealt with, Mom took my chin and turned my head back toward her. “You, Porter Prescott, are not a disappointment.”

  She waited for me to challenge her but I stayed quiet. “Am I upset that you took Dad’s truck without asking? Yes. Is Dad mad? He is, yes. But we are not disappointed in you or who you are. We’ll be having discussions about some of the choices you’ve made this last year, but right now we’re just thankful you’re ok.”

  I stayed quiet, my eyes staying locked with Mom’s. I’m sure she felt that way right now, but after everything I put them through? Sure, yeah, most of it was my being dumb and not giving a shit, but then there were days like today.

  This had to be fucking karma.

  I did things without asking, tried to do things on the DL so my parents wouldn’t find out, and bam! An accident that thank goodness wasn’t going to take me out of the hockey season.

  Shit.

  “Did they say how long I’d be out?”

  Mom knew me well enough to not have to elaborate. “Concussion precautions for the week, Porter.”

  I pinched my lips together. Damn.

  I could live without television and for the most part, without my phone, but the not being active, not lifting, not skating? That was what was going to kill me.

  “Can you text Mo for me?”

  “Were you going to see her?” Mom asked, taking her phone out of her purse.

  “Yeah. I was taking her to dinner.”

  My mom was the type of mom who any of my friends could go to with questions or even to just talk to. It was no surprise to me that she had Mo’s number in her phone.

  I watched as she shot off a text to my girlfriend, curious what she told her.

  Before looking up from her phone, she told me, “I told her you were in an accident and that she could meet us at home in an hour.”

  “Thank you.”

  She put her phone back in her purse before standing, leaning over me to kiss my forehead in the way moms did. “I’m going to go talk to the doctor and see when we can get you. I’d hate to say I lied to Mo.”

  She said it in jest, but the ‘lie’ thing hit me in the gut. Still, I gave Mom a smile and closed my eyes as she left the curtained room.

  Dad may not be pissed at me, to the extent of hating my guts, per Mom, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that this was my second strike.

  This was going to be a long year.

  “No, Noah, I am not putting you on video. He’s not supposed to strain his eyes. You know better,” Mom said into the phone as she unlocked the front door. I followed her into the house, my body aching, and moved to collapse on the couch. I rested my head on the back cushions, hoping that Mo would get here sooner than later.

  God, I felt terrible.

  Physically, yeah, but also mentally.

  “…damn well that boy is going to be texting this week, Ryles.” I opened my eyes and turned my head toward Mom, who dropped her purse on the buffet table behind the love seat and sat. Mom must have switch the call to speaker.

  “I put you on speaker, Noah.”

  I closed my eyes again and breathed in deeply, letting it out slowly through my nose.

  “You ok, Porter?” Dad asked through the air waves.

  “I’m ok.” I kept my eyes closed. I could just picture Dad’s face, irate with me for ruining his truck.

  “You hurt anywhere more than you told the doctors?”

  My Dad knew me incredibly well. I had been known to fib about aches and pains in the past so I could play the rest of a game—or the rest of the season, for that matter.

  When I didn’t answer right away, Dad cut back in, “Porter.”

  “No.”

  “Porter, you can’t be stupid when it comes to your head.”

  “Noah…” Mom warned.

  “Ryleigh, it’s not his first concussion.”

  “But you can’t call him stupid.”

  I lifted a hand to squeeze the bridge of my nose, pinching my eyes tight. “I didn’t lie. To the doctors.”

  “We’re going to talk when I get home.”

  “I know.” I said it quietly, but I knew Dad heard it through the phone.

  There was a deep pause before his voice cut through again. “Ryleigh, take me off speaker phone.”

  I heard the tell-tale beep as she did just that and I started to move to get up, ready to head to my room.

  “Ok, one second.” I glanced at my mom, narrowing my eyes when she pointed at me. She stood and handed me the phone.

  Shit.

  It couldn’t be good that Dad wanted to talk to me in, essentially, private.

  I took the phone from her and she ran her hand through my hair, pressing a kiss to the top of my head before moving into the kitchen. “I’ll watch for Mo,” she said over her shoulder. “You take that upstairs.”

  I moved up to my room, closing my bedroom door behind me, before pressing the phone to my ear. “Yeah, Dad?” I sat at the edge of my bed, leaning forward.

  What the hell were you thinking?

  My fucking truck?

  God, you have been
nothing but a never ending fuck up.

  These were all things that rushed through my head as I waited for him to come through the line. I was surprised at the amount of anxiety I had, waiting for him to cut me down.

  My parents were good people, don’t get me wrong. But at some point, in the midst of all my mistakes, they had to snap.

  “Are you really ok?” The tone of his voice was one I wasn’t prepared for. It was more concerned than I ever heard before. “Your mom’s not around. If something is hurting or you’re hiding something from her, you can tell me.”

  “No, I honestly feel fine.” I shrugged, but knew Dad couldn’t see it. “Just like any other concussion.”

  “What did they grade you?”

  “Two. I blacked out in the truck.”

  “How fast was the other fucking car going?” Dad’s voice rose through the phone.

  There was Dad’s anger. It was surely going to change and be directed toward me. “I don’t know,” I answered quietly.

  I was sixteen fucking years old. I didn’t cry.

  But damn if I didn’t want to right now.

  I knew I needed to make changes in my life. Sure, this accident wasn’t my fault, but I made a stupid decision in taking Dad’s truck. Had I just listened and stayed home like I was supposed to…

  “Fuck, Porter.” His voice was muffled like he was talking behind his hand. “Do you know how long you were out for?”

  “I don’t know. When I came to, the cops and everyone were there.” Which meant I was out for at least ten minutes. “I’ll figure out how to pay for the truck.”

  “I’m not worried about the damn truck, Porter.” I didn’t say anything—I didn’t have anything to say to that—and, after a moment, Dad seemed to catch on. “We’ll figure out the truck, yeah. But a grade two concussion and they’re only taking you out of hockey for the week?” Dad’s voice was concerned again. “Don’t push yourself, Ports. I mean it. If you go back on the ice next week and you’re dizzy or you come home and feel nauseous, you’re taking a break.”

  “Alright, Dad.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.” And I did. Dad always followed through.

  This time, Dad fell silent. I had to check the phone to be sure the time was still ticking.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said.

  “I’m just glad you’re ok, Porter. I know somewhere in that head of yours, you don’t believe it, but I do. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  He was supposed to spend the weekend with Cael and Jonny. “You don’t have to come—”

  But Dad cut me off. “I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Porter?”

  I sighed, more to myself than anything. “Yeah, Dad?”

  “I love you.”

  I took a deep breath in through my nose before squeezing the bridge again. “Yeah. I know.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Ok.” I pulled the phone away from my ear to hang up, but thought better of it at the last moment. I couldn’t remember the last time I told Dad I loved him. And after an event like this afternoon’s…

  “I love you, Dad.”

  I heard his soft, yet strained, chuckle. “I know, kid. Keep the lights low, no TV, be good to your head.”

  “I will, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I ended the call and crashed back on my bed, moving so my head was on my pillow. I didn’t care that my shoes were on the comforter, but Mom probably would if she came up to retrieve her phone so, with an arm thrown over my eyes and as little movement as possible, I toed off the offenders and let them drop to the floor beside the bed.

  I lay there for who knows how long, my arm over my face, my body straight and still. My head still had a restless pounding and the slightest movements caused flashes of bright pain.

  The door clicked open quietly.

  “Porter? Mo’s here.” I could hear Mom step into the room.

  “She can come in.”

  I heard movement and then the sound of a second pair of feet. After the door clicked shut again, I felt the bed dip and Mo crawled up beside me, her hand resting on my abs. I lifted my arm enough to look over at her. She lay on her side with her other arm folded under her head, on the pillow next to me.

  She offered me a small smile.

  “At least you were in the truck.”

  I nodded lightly and moved my head back to its original position, arm back in place. “Yeah.”

  Mo lowered her voice more, taking on an almost whispered tone. Damn, I appreciated that. “I’m guessing you’re just going to chill at home for the weekend.”

  “Probably.” My voice was taking on a slurred quality. I was tired and in pain, but it wasn’t time for me to take another Tylenol. “My Dad’s going to come home tomorrow, so I’m sure I’ll be on some form of house arrest anyway.”

  Mo’s hand moved in soothing circles over my chest. “Hopefully you’re better by Monday for school.”

  I gave a noncommittal sound and Mo simply cuddled into my side more, staying quiet. I’m not sure how long she stayed though, because I fell asleep shortly after that. When I woke, it was morning and I was alone.

  Mom and I were sitting at the table eating breakfast when the door to the garage opened and Dad stepped into the kitchen, dropping his bags by the door. His hair was a mess and his face was shadowed. He was rocking some decent bags under his eyes too.

  I glanced at the clock to see it was only seven-thirty. Mom glanced at it too before standing and walking to him, giving him a hug. “Red-eye?”

  “Yeah. I needed to be home.” He hugged Mom tight then looked toward me. I could see him taking in everything in his calculated expression. Having played hockey, and then coaching it, he was pretty good at spotting symptoms as well as when his players were hurting and not saying anything.

  “Head still bothering you?” he asked after letting go of Mom.

  “Little bit.”

  “Bruises?” He moved to pull out the chair between Mom’s seat and my own, just as Mom returned to her breakfast.

  “Just my hip.” I woke up and accidentally hit it with my hand when I stood. The bruise there was near a foot long and spread from about my waist to just below the ball and socket joint in my hip. Surprisingly, my arm didn’t do any bruising, by my leg more than made up for it.

  It hurt like a bitch too.

  “Finish your breakfast and we’ll talk.” He reached out and was probably going to ruffle my hair like he sometimes did on occasion, but instead squeezed my shoulder as he stood back up. “I’m going to shower the plane off me.”

  I focused back on my plate of eggs and ate in silence as Mom sipped on coffee near me. When I was finished, I started to go to rinse my plate but Mom took it from me. “Just go sit in the living room while you wait. You need to be resting, Porter.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I may have grumbled it.

  I went into the living room and plopped down on the couch, thankful my head wasn’t aching much anymore. I wanted to turn on the TV. However, A, I knew that my parents would tell me to turn it off, but only because B, I knew the TV would kill my head.

  The lights. The needing to focus.

  So instead I sat back, slouched in the deep couch, with my hands linked on my stomach and my eyes closed, waiting for Dad to come back down.

  Dad began talking as he descending the stairs.

  “I spoke with your claims rep this morning.”

  I opened my eyes and looked over my shoulder, watching as Dad reached the bottom step and came over to sit on the coffee table in front of me.

  “Surprisingly, the police report was filed quickly. Even without it, the rep stated there wasn’t any way you’d have been at fault, with the amount of damage the car did to the truck.”

  I sat up from my slouch but continued to listen.

  “The car came around the corner at fifty-five.”

  My brows lifted on their own accord. “Shit.” That corner was t
wenty-five because not only did we have a blind drive, there was another across the street from us.

  Dad nodded. “Yeah. That said, that means insurance is covering the damage to the truck and your medical bills.”

  I shifted in my spot. So if there weren’t out of pocket expenses, what was going to be my punishment? Mom and Dad couldn’t take away my car, it was already gone.

  They could ground me, but without my car, I was essentially already grounded.

  Fuck.

  Hockey.

  Dad said he’d take away hockey.

  I stared at my dad, silently hoping and begging he wouldn’t take away the one thing I loved more than anything else, to give me that third chance, because that’s what he said. Three strikes. This was only two.

  Shit, don’t take hockey.

  Dad chuckled at me, shaking his head. He was laughing at me? He was taking it away. And he was freaking thrilled about it. Shit. What was I going to do with my life?

  “I’m not taking away hockey, Ports. God, you’re so predictable, kid.” He reached out and squeezed my knee. “But I am going to take away more of your free time.”

  OhthankGod, I mouthed on a sigh, which only served to have Dad laugh louder.

  “I want you to work off what we would have paid out of pocket. Just for the truck. Ambulance rides are fucking expensive.” Dad sat back again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nights that you’re not with the team, I want you helping coach youth hockey at the Ice Plex. Weekends you’re not playing or training, I want you at the Ice Plex. Twelve dollars an hour, until you accumulate a grand.”

  “I can do that,” I rushed out.

  “Ok.” Dad nodded. “Now seriously.” He looked over his shoulder, presumably looking for Mom, before taking my chin and moving my face so he could look at my eyes. “You’re ok?”

  I couldn’t stop the grin from filling my face as I tried, but I did attempt to pull back from his hand. “I’m good, Dad.”

  “The bruise?” He let go of my chin. I knew he was going to want to see it the moment I mentioned it.

  With a groan, I stood and turned, lifting my shirt so he could see the top of the blue and purple monstrosity.

  Parents and their nonexistent bubbles, Dad hooked his finger in the top of my sweats and pulled the hem down an inch.