* * *
Just because a man was lucky to be alive, didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
“Last night, your hockey team won the Stanley Cup without you, how do you feel about that?”
Former NHL superstar and all-around badass Mark Bressler looked beyond the bank of microphones and wall of cameras to the dozen or so reporters filling the media room inside the Key Arena. He’d played for Seattle the past eight years, been the captain for the last six years. He’d worked for most of his life to hold the Stanley Cup over his head and feel the cold silver in his hands. He’d lived and breathed hockey since he’d laced up his first pair of skates. He’d left his blood on the ice and broken more bones than he could recall. Professional hockey was all he knew. All that he was, but last night his team won without him. He’d watched from his living room as thn t„e rotten bastards skated around with his cup. How in the hell did everyone think he felt? “Of course I wish I could have been there with the boys, but I’m thrilled for them. One-hundred-percent thrilled.”
“After your accident six months ago, the man sitting next to you was hired to fill your shoes,” a reporter said, referring to the veteran hockey player, Ty Savage, who’d replaced Mark as the Chinooks’ captain. “At the time, it was a controversial decision. What were your thoughts when you heard that Savage would take over?”
It was no secret that he and Savage didn’t like each other. The last time Mark remembered being this close to the man, he’d faced off with him during the regular season. He’d called Savage an overrated prima donna asshole. Savage had called him a second-rate wannabe pussy. Just another day at the office. “I was in a coma when Savage was signed. I don’t believe I had ‘thoughts’ about anything. At least none that I recall.”
“What are your thoughts now?”
That Savage is an overrated prima donna asshole. “That management put together a winning team. All the guys worked hard and did what they had to do to bring the cup to Seattle. Heading into the playoffs we were fifty- eight and twenty-four. I don’t have to tell you that those are impressive numbers.” He paused and carefully thought out his next sentence. “It goes without saying that the Chinooks were fortunate that Savage was available and open to the trade.” He wasn’t about to say he was grateful or the team was lucky.
The overrated prima donna asshole next to him laughed, and Mark almost liked the guy. Almost.
The reporters turned their attention to Ty. As they asked about Savage’s sudden announcement to retire the night before and his plans for the future, Mark looked down at his hand on the table before him. He’d removed the splint for the press conference, but his right middle finger was as stiff as the stainless-steel rods and pins fusing it into a permanent fuck-you.
Appropriate, that.
The reporters asked questions of the other Chinooks seated at the long press table before the questions turned back to Mark. “Bressler, are you planning a comeback?” a reporter asked.
Mark glanced up and smiled as if the question didn’t poke at his deepest wound. He looked into the man’s face and reminded himself that Jim was an okay guy—for a reporter—and he’d always been fair. For that reason, Mark didn’t hold up his right hand and show his contempt. “The docs tell me no.” Although he didn’t need doctors to confirm what he’d known the moment he’d opened his eyes in the ICU. The accident that had broken half the bones in his body had shattered his life. A comeback was out of the question. Even if he’d been twenty-eight instead of thirty-eight.
General manager Darby Hogue stepped forward. “There will always be a place in the Chinooks’ organization for Mark.”
As what? He couldn’t even drive the Zamboni. Not that it mattered. If Mark couldn’t play hockey, he didn’t want to be anywhere near the ice.
The questions turned to last night’s game, and he settled back in his chair. He wrapped his gostirapped od hand around the top of the cane resting against his thigh and brushed the smooth walnut handle with his thumb. On a good day, Mark hated press conferences. This wasn’t a good day but he was here, in the belly of the Key Arena, because he didn’t want to look like a poor sport. Like a jerk who couldn’t handle seeing his team win the most coveted prize in hockey without him. Too, the owner of the team, Faith Duffy, had called him that morning and asked him to come. It was hard to say no to the woman who still paid the bills.
For the next half hour, Mark answered questions and even managed to chuckle at a few lame jokes. He waited until the last reporter filed out of the room before he tightened his grasp around his cane and pushed himself to his feet. Savage moved a chair out of his way, and Mark muttered his thanks. He even managed to sound sincere as he put one foot in front of the other and headed across the room. He picked up his usual methodical pace and made it as far as the door before the first twinge settled in his right hip. He hadn’t taken any medication that morning. He hadn’t wanted anything to dull his senses; as a result there was nothing in his system to take the edge off the pain.
His teammates slapped him on the back and told him that it was great to see him. They might have meant it. He didn’t care. He had to get out of there before he stumbled. Or worse, fell on his ass.
“It’s good to see you.” Forward Daniel Holstrom caught up with him in the hall.
His thigh started to cramp and sweat broke out on his forehead. “You too.” He’d spent the past six years on the front line with Daniel. He’d initiated Daniel his rookie season. The last thing he wanted was to collapse in front of the Stromster or anyone else.
“Some of us are headed to Floyd’s. Join us.”
“Another time.”
“We’ll probably go out tonight. I’ll call you.”
Of course they were going out. They’d won the cup the night before. “I have plans,” he lied. “But I’ll meet up with you soon.”
Daniel stopped. “I’m going to hold you to that,” he called after Mark.
Mark nodded and took a deep breath. God, just let him get to the car before his body gave out.
He was beginning to think God was actually listening until a short woman with dark hair caught up with him at the exit.
“Mr. Bressler,” she began, keeping pace with him. “I’m Bo from the PR department.”
His senses might be dulled by the pain, but he knew who she was. The guys on the team called her the Mini Pit Bull, Mini Pit for short, and for good reason.
“I’d like to speak with you. Do you have a few moments?”
“No.” He kept walking. One foot in front of the other. With his bad hand, he reached out for the door. Bo pushed it open for him, and he could have kissed Mini Pit. Instead he mumbled a thanks.
“Human resources is sending a new home care worker to your house. She’s stopping by today.”
What did a home health care worker have to do with PR?
“I think you’ll like this one,” Bo continued as she followed him outside.
A June breeze cooled the sweat on Mark’s brow, but the fresh air did nothing to relieve the pounding in his head and the aches in his body. A black Lincoln waited for him at the curb, and his pace slowed.
“I personally recommended her.”
The driver got out and opened the back passenger door. Mark eased himself inside and clenched his jaw against the pain knotting his leg.
“If you could give her a chance, I’d appreciate it,” Bo called out as the driver shut the door and returned to the front of the car.
Mark reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bottle of painkillers. He popped the top, dumped six into his mouth, and chewed. Like a shot of Jose Cuervo, Vicodin straight up was an acquired taste.
Bo yelled something as the car pulled away from the curb and headed for the 520. He didn’t know why human resources kept sending home health care workers to his door. He knew it had something to do with the organization’s aftercare program, but Mark didn’t need anyone to take care of him. He hated being dependent on anyone. Hell, he hated being dependent on the car service that hauled him around.
He leaned his head back and took a steady breath. He’d fired the first three health care workers within moments of their arrival. He’d told them to get the hell out of his house and had slammed the door on their behinds. After that, the Chinooks’ organization had let him know that the nurses worked for them. They paid the nurses’ salaries as well as his medical expenses not covered by insurance. Which were enormous. In short, he couldn’t fire anyone. But of course that didn’t mean that he couldn’t help them to quit. The last two health care workers the organization had sent over had stayed less than an hour. He bet he could get this next one out of his house in half
