I pull my ball cap down on my head and sink farther into my seat. It’s a half hour past when this show was supposed to start, and after sitting through the torture that was Thomas Bentley wailing away in pants so tight I could see his nut sack, Emmett and I are still staring at the fifty-foot woman on the screen. She’s blonde, cute as a button, and fucking hot—in a virginal, squeaky-clean rep kind of way. I’d so tap that. I would ravage her tight body, and dirty up her sweet little mind so fast she’d be taking her clothes off at the very mention of my name.
Emmett lets out an impatient sigh as he drums his fingers on the armrest. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Jesus. Staring at the fifty-foot image of a country music star and attempting to cover my boner while my baby brother gets angstier every second she’s not gracing the stage is not how I wanted to spend my one night off.
I shift my shoulder, pain shooting through me. I thought I had a handle on my injury from Wednesday’s game against Washington, but this shit could see me recovering for weeks. I badly want more meds, but I should slow my roll. I can’t be getting high on Oxycodone. I need to look after Emmett, and when your little bro has Down syndrome, it’s important to keep in touch with reality. Besides, overdosing on prescription meds is kind of a dick thing to do.
“Come on, come on,” Emmett says with an edge to his usual impediment. “What’s taking so long?”
He rocks back and forth in his seat, a good sign he’s agitated. He likes things to be punctual. I do, too. We both like routine—that’s why we work so well living together. Of course, he goes back to our mom’s house when I play away games. He hates it. She adores him, but it’s hard for her not to baby him. She’s always on him about his Flamin’ Hot Cheetos obsession, and won’t let him drink. A grown man should be able to have a beer whenever the hell he wants to. Emmett’s pretty good about handling his limit, and when we do have a drink on the deck at the end of a long week, it’s rarely more than two. Besides, coach would bust my ass if I showed up hungover and didn’t bring my A game, and I have no desire to get drafted to another team.
The MC’s disembodied voice comes through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re very sorry to tell you that Stella Hart is too sick to perform. Tonight's show has been canceled. Please see your ticket provider for details on how to obtain a refund. Stella and her team wish to extend their sincerest apologies.”
The crowd boo and hiss. They stand up and cram towards the exits in an attempt to vacate the venue, and a man nearby throws an empty water bottle that bounces off the stage and lands a few feet from us. I turn my focus to my bro beside me. He ducks his head, covers his ears and rocks back and forth, being jostled by the angry mob. I grab his hand, but he shrugs me off. The little bastard is strong. “Come on, Emmett. Let’s get outta here.”
“No,” he shouts to be heard above the noise. “She’s supposed to be here. She’ll be here.”
“I know, buddy. But she’s not coming.”
“She is. These are the only tickets we could get. She’s in Vancouver next week.”
“I’ll get you tickets to that show. I promise.”
“No. I wanna see her now.” His voice reaches fever pitch, and several people around us stare as they line up, likely waiting for us to exit the row so they can too. I ignore them, and eventually they turn in the other direction and shuffle through the empty row behind us.
“We can’t. If she’s too sick to perform it means she’s probably at the hospital or something. She’s not coming out tonight.”
More eyes turn in our direction, but I ignore them. My little brother means more to me than hockey, which is saying an awful lot. These people can stare all they want, it doesn’t mean shit. I’m not ashamed of him. Emmett’s whole world just got turned upside down. To anyone else, it’s just a concert, but to Em Stella Hart is god. Her voice is the first thing he hears in the morning, and the last thing at night. Posters of her are slapped across every surface of his room, and he’s been waiting for this moment for the last two years.
I glance at the thinning crowd, and those that are watching us too closely shoot me apologetic looks, as if they feel sorry for me. That just pisses me off. I don’t want their pity. Emmett doesn’t need their pity. We just need them to leave. Me and my brother are going to be here for a while yet, at the very least until the staff threaten to call security because Emmett doesn’t handle disappointment well.
I’ve always hated country music, but the truth is, I don’t mind Stella Hart. Her songs make Em happy, but right now, I really hate Stella for breaking my brother’s heart.