“Mr. Cheryl might have a problem with that.”

“Tell him it’s a business thing.”

“God, you’re a flirt,” she said. He had to laugh.

He was rolled onto the sidewalk in front of the hospital a few minutes later. A small knot of jersey-clad Sharks fans held up “Get Well Soon” signs for him, and they chanted “Go Sharks! Go Sharks!” There were a few members of the media filming his exit from the hospital. It must have been a slow news day.

He glanced up at Cheryl.

“Will you take me over there?”

“I suppose.” She grinned at him.

“Have they been out here all day?”

“They’ve been out here on and off since you were admitted.”

He didn’t have a pen, but he was willing to bet someone in the crowd might let him use one. The fans burst into applause when he was wheeled over to them. He tried to stand up, but he felt Cheryl’s hand on his good shoulder.

“You can’t be out of the wheelchair until you’re in a vehicle and off hospital property, Buster.”

“Crap,” he said good-naturedly. A little boy with no front teeth wearing a reproduction McCoy jersey bounced up to him.

“Will you sign my shirt?”

“Of course I will,” he said. “I think I need a pen, though.”

Someone from the crowd handed him a Sharpie.

“Thank you so much,” he said to the woman with the pen.

He saw color rising in her face, and she gave him a shy smile. In other words, she wanted to talk with him, but she was too shy. He’d make sure she got an autograph. He could sign a few more in the meantime. He’d have to use his non-dominant hand. Hopefully, nobody would mind.

He felt his dad’s hand on his good shoulder. “Son, I’m taking your mother back to your house. I think she needs to lie down for a little while.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. She’s a little overwrought. I think she’s tired.”

Drew’s stomach clenched in concern. He wondered if she was getting sick. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d freaked out like she had a few minutes ago. Maybe she was stressed out from taking care of him and the ongoing fights with his dad over her job. He was going to find out what was wrong as soon as he could get out of here.

“Do you need my keys?” Drew said.

“No. We’ve got the other key. We’ll see you at home.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Drew went on signing autographs until he’d signed for everyone. He gave the pen back to the woman who’d handed it to him in the first place right after he signed her McCoy jersey. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“I’m Abby,” she said. She gave him another shy smile. She’d waited until everyone else got their turn to talk with him, she didn’t complain, and she wasn’t wearing a ring. If Collins or Taylor were here right now, he’d be introducing her and letting them slug it out over who got to take her out for coffee.

“You saved my butt, Abby. Thanks.” He extended his hand to shake hers and said, “If you’ll call the Sharks headquarters on Monday and leave your contact information with the receptionist, I’ll make sure you get some Sharks gear on me.”

“I would love that!” Abby said. “Thank you so much.”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

Cheryl leaned forward and tapped his shoulder. “Listen, big guy, I need to get you in that car to go home. My boss is going to kill me.”

“Got it.”

He waved goodbye to the Sharks fans, who cheered as he was helped out of the wheelchair and into the black SUV the team’s security guys drove. Chuck threw himself into the driver’s seat, pulled on his seatbelt, and they were off.

DREW TALKED CHUCK into obtaining a to-go order from Burgermaster on the way to his house. This might have had something to do with the fact Drew offered to treat Chuck and his colleague.

“I need a Tom & Jerry shake,” Drew told Chuck. “The hospital food wasn’t terrible, but I could go for a cheeseburger too.”

“Gotcha,” Chuck said. “Is there any place else we need to stop before we take you to your house?”

“I think I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”

He reached into the pocket of his warm-ups and scrolled down his contacts list with one fingertip. Every Shark knew Amy Hamilton Stephens, the owner of Crazy Daisy in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood, specialized in smoothing the feathers of infuriated females among other flower-and-gift-sending emergencies. He hit the number and held the phone up to his ear.

“Crazy Daisy,” a cheerful female voice answered.

“Hi. Is this Amy?”

“It sure is. Who’s this?”

“It’s Drew McCoy, and I think I need your help.”

He heard Amy laugh, and she said, “Well, this is a first. I usually hear from your teammates. How are you feeling? Didn’t you have surgery the day before yesterday?”

“I did, and that’s why I need your help. My mom is a little irritated with me at the moment. I’m wondering what you might recommend. I’d also like to send something to the woman I’m seeing, but I’m not sure what she might like.”

“An irritated mom is a new one,” Amy said. “This might call for fine jewelry. I know you just got out of the hospital, though, so you might not be in the mood for shopping. My brother-in-law knows his way around a jewelry store. Let me call him and get an opinion or two, and I’ll call you back. Is the number on my caller ID your phone?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’ll think about what the woman in your life might like as well. Talk to you in a few minutes.” She hung up.

“Sorry to eavesdrop, but that little Tiffany’s box can get you out of a hell of a lot of trouble once in a while,” Chuck said. He pulled into Burgermaster’s parking lot and parked in one of the stalls. “Maybe you should call your parents and ask if they’d like you to pick them up some food.”

“Good idea,” Drew said.

Twenty minutes later, the SUV was on its way to Drew’s house again with multiple bags of food and drinks, and Drew’s phone rang.

“Hey, McCoy,” Brandon McKenna said. He hadn’t lived in New Orleans for almost fifteen years now, but he’d never lost the accent. “How are you doin’? My sister Amy called. She says you’re in a jam.”

“My mom is mad at me. I know it’s ridiculous.”

“Not at all,” Brandon said. “I just happen to be at Tiffany’s at Bellevue Square right now. If I remember correctly, you live in Clyde Hill, don’t you?” The last year Brandon had played for the Sharks, Drew hosted the pre-function for the defensive players’ holiday dinner at his house. He was fairly sure his neighbors still remembered it too.

“Yeah. Just off the main drag,” Drew said.

“Got it.” Brandon let out a breath. “The last time my mama was irritated with me, I bought her a charm bracelet with “Mom” engraved on it. She cried and everything, man. How about I pick up one of those for you?”

“I think I have some cash.” Drew was already grabbing for his wallet to see how much cash he had. “How much will I owe you?”

“A couple hundred dollars and I’ll drop it by your house on the way home.”

“Deal. I’ll buy you a beer for your trouble.”

He heard Brandon’s booming laugh. “I’ll take you up on that beer. How about an interview for Sunday’s show too?”

After Brandon McKenna retired from the league, he took over Matt Stephens’ (also retired from the Sharks) seat on the Sunday morning pre-game show. Brandon was well-liked by viewers and his colleagues. He had no problem getting interviews with players, either: After all, he remembered what it was like to answer the same questions over and over. He didn’t ask the obvious, and his efforts were rewarded by the stature of players that would sit down with him and nobody else.

“As long as I don’t have to fly anywhere, you’ve got yourself an interview,” Drew said.

“We can do this at your house or at a studio in Seattle, whichever you prefer. Let’s discuss it when I get there. I should see you in the next half an hour or so.”