Penalty Kill

Harper

"Tu dois te calmer," I murmur under my breath as I shelve another true crime book from the heavy stack in my arms. "Asseyez-vous et détendez-vous," leaves my lips with a bit more authority and annoyance as I push the last novel about a notorious serial killer into its home on the top shelf.

"Tu n'as rien de mieux à faire?" The last French phrase I've had on a nonstop loop in my brain ever since my afternoon shift started comes out as I head back to my cart at the end of the aisle to see what section I'm off to next.

You see, I should be putting all my energy into learning common conversational French to impress Jake's family when we go to visit at the end of the week. I should be making sure I know how to say things like "Thank you so much for having me, your home is lovely, the food is delicious," and "yes, more wine please and thank you."

I should be learning to say all those things.

But Jake has forced my hand. While taking care of him over the past few weeks has been a fulfilling experience where I've been able to exercise a good deal of selflessness for the greater good of his mental and physical health, he is driving me absolutely fucking crazy. Straight up bananas. There's a reason why I claimed the true crime cart.

At first, everything was going swimmingly—Jake was glad, relieved even to have time to rest his body. He's been instructing me how to cook things from the kitchen island while I do my best to not to fuck anything up too badly, and he's been able to catch up on much needed sleep so he can fully recharge himself.

What I didn't expect is what would happen when he was well rested. When the symptoms of his concussion dwindled down into a few lingering headaches every now and then, his arm and knee getting better with physical therapy sessions throughout the week at the team's training facility. There's an occasional bout of exercise intolerance and exhaustion, but they've gotten mercifully fewer and farther between as he's progressed through his recovery.

As it turns out, Jake needs hockey. And if Jake doesn't have hockey, all the energy and time and thoughts that would be dedicated to the ol' sport of stick and puck need to be focused somewhere else.

And that somewhere else just so happens to be me—petit vieux moi.

Seeing as I'm the one he's been spending nearly all of his time with since he got hurt, I shouldn't be shocked. But am I annoyed, irritated, and ready to find him a part time job where he can sit down and just gab away with people all day instead of bothering me? Why yes, yes I am—a resounding yes to all of the above.

Over the past few weeks, I've had to swat him away from actually following me out the door on my way to work, very similarly to how one would shoo a dog away who's trying to sneak outside. He's even gone so far as to try and help me get dressed in the morning. Not to mention that he has, in fact, just showed up in the stacks at the library, quite literally doing my job by helping people with questions, shelving books and tidying up.

The man's brain, no matter how scrambled it might've gotten on the ice, took little to no time getting back to normal, and he has no idea what to do with himself without having hockey to plan his days around. I've even gone as far as to set up playdates for him. He's had teammates over and gone out with them when they're in town and have a night to spare.

But as I meander my way through the nonfiction section to shelve the last three books from the cart, there's no fighting the smile and soft blush that paint themselves across my face. With his time off and additional time to think about quite literally everything and anything, he had the idea to set up a tutoring program at the library for those learning English—specifically for some teammates and their families who are newer to the States and could use the additional help and practice.