legs pounded down the ice, puck in the curve of his stick. He could feel the cold breeze brush his cheeks, steal down the neck of his jersey, and cool the sweat on his chest. Thousands of pairs of eyes, locked on him; he felt their anticipation, could see the excitement in the blur of their faces as he skated past.
In his dreams, he was back. He was whole again. He was a man. His movements were fluid and easy and without pain. Some nights he dreamed that he played golf or threw the Frisbee for his old dog, Babe. Babe had been dead for five years, but it didn’t matter. In the dream both of them were filled with life.
But in the harsh light of morning, he always woke to the crushing reality that the life he’d always known was over. Altered. Changed. And he always woke in pain, his muscles stiff and his bones aching.
Morning sun filtered through the crack in the drapery and stretched a pillar of light across the foot of Mark’s king-sized bed. He opened his eyes, and the first wave of pain rolled over him. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was eight-twenty-five A.M. He’d slept a good nine hours, but he didn’t feel rested. His hip throbbed and the muscles in his leg tightened. He slowly raised himself, refusing to moan or groan as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He had to move before his muscles spasmed, but he couldn’t move too fast or his muscles would knot. He reached for the bottle of Vicodin on the bedside table and downed a few. Carefully he rose and grabbed an aluminum quad cane by his bed. Most days he felt like a crippled old man, but never more so than in the mornings before he warmed up his muscles.
Steady and slow, he walked across the thick beige carpet and moved into the bathroom. The aluminum cane thumped across the smooth marble floors. For most of his adult life, he’d awakened in some degree of pain. Usually from hard hits he’d received in a game the night before or from related sports injuries. He was used to working through it. Pain had always been a part of his adult life, but nothing on the scale he suffered now. Now he needed more than Motrin to get him through the day.
The radiant heat beneath the stone warmed his bare feet as he stood in front of the toilet and took a leak. He had an appointment with his hand doctor this morning. Normally he hated all the endless doctor’s appointments. Most of his time at the clinic was spent sitting around waiting, and Mark had never been a patient man. But today he hoped to get the good news that he no longer needed to wear the splint on his hand. It might not be much, but it was progress.
He pushed hair from his eyes, then flushed the toilet. He needed to make an appointment to get his hair cut too. He’d had it cut once in the hospital, and it was bugging the hell out of him. The fact that he couldn’t just jump into his car and drive to the barber ticked him off and reminded him how dependent he was on other people.
He shoved his boxer briefs down his legs, past the dark pink scar marring his left thigh and knee. Of all the things that he missed about his old life, driving was near the top of the list. He hated not being able to jump into one of his cars and take off. He’d been in one hospital or another for five months. He’d been home now for a little more than one month, and he felt trapped.
Leaving the cane by the toilet, he placed his good hand on the wall and moved to the walk-in shower. He turned on the water and waited for it to get warm before he stepped inside. After months of hospital sponge baths, he loved standing in the shower on his own two feet.
Except for the injury to his right hand and a fracture to his right tibia, most of the crushing damage had been done to the left side of his body. His ability to drive was one thing the doctors assured him he would get back. He looked forward to the day when he didn’t have to rely on anyone for anything.
The hot water sprayed across his chest, and he stuck his head beneath the powerful stream. He was fairly sure he’d gotten rid of the health care worker with the two-toned hair and the Pucci.
Water slid into the crease of his smile as he remembered her scandalized gasp. The way she’d said “Pucci,” he’d figured it had to be some high-priced designer. She’d said it like his former wife had said, “It’s Chanel.” He didn’t care how much something cost. He knew ugly when he saw it.
He washed his hair and soaped up his body, then reached for the detachable showerhead and turned it to massage. He held it against his hip and left thigh and let the hot water beat the hell out of his muscles. It hurt like a son of a bitch but gave him relief from the sharpest pain. When he was finished, he dried himself and brushed his teeth. A day’s growth of beard darkened his cheeks and jaw. Instead of shaving, he moved into the huge walk-in closet and dressed in a pair of blue nylon jogging pants and a plain white T-shirt. He shoved his feet into black Nike flip-flops because tying shoes was a hassle. Yesterday morning before the news conference, it had taken him forever to button his shirt and tie his shoes. Well, maybe not forever, but things that he used to do by rote now took thought and effort.
He placed the splint on his right hand and tightened the Velcro before he grabbed his black titanium cane from the couch where he’d been sitting last night.
The original homeowners had a servants’ elevator built inside a large closet down the hall. With the aid of his cane, Mark walked out of the bedroom and past the spiral stairs he used to take two at a time. He glanced over the ornate wrought-iron and wood railing as he moved across the landing. Sunlight poured in through the heavily leaded glass in the entry, tossing murky patterns on the marble floor below. He opened the closet door and rode the small elevator down. It opened into the kitchen, and he stepped out. He poured himself a bowl of Wheaties and ate at the kitchen table because he needed something in his stomach or the medication he took would make him nauseous.
For as long as he could remember he’d eaten the Breakfast of Champions. Probably because it’s what his father could afford to feed him. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what he did last week, but he could recall sitting at his gran’s old kitchen table, a white sugar bowl in the center of the yellow tablecloth, eating Wheaties before school. He remembered perfectly the morning in 1980 when his grandmother had set the orange box on the table and he’d stared at the Olympic hockey team on the front. His heart had stopped. His throat closed as he’d looked at Dave Silk, Neil Broten, and the guys. He’d been eight and they’d been his heroes. His grandmother had told him he could grow up and be anything he wanted. He’d believed her. There hadn’t been a lot he’d believed in, but he believed het he be his grandmother Bressler. She never lied to him. Still didn’t. Not even when it would be easier. When he’d woken from his coma a month after the accident, hers was the first face he’d seen. She’d stood next to his father by the foot of his bed and she’d told him about the accident. She’d listed all his injuries for him, starting with his skull fracture and ending with the break in his big toe. What she hadn’t mentioned was that he’d never play hockey again, but she hadn’t had to. He’d known by the list of his injuries and the look in his father’s eyes.
Of the two adults in his life, his grandmother had always been the strong one. The one to make things better, but that day in the hospital, she’d looked exhausted and worn thin. After she’d listed all his injuries, she’d told him that he could still be anything he wanted. But unlike that morning thirty years ago, he no longer believed her. He’d never play hockey again, and they both knew that was the only thing he wanted.
He rinsed his bowl as the heavy chimes of the front doorbell sounded. He hadn’t called for a driver yet, and could think of only one other person who’d show up at such an early hour.
He reached for his cane and walked out of the kitchen and through the hall. Before he reached the front of the house, he could see a kaleidoscope of color through the muted glass. He balanced on his feet and pulled open the door with his good hand. The health care worker stood on his porch wearing her big sunglasses and yellow and red hair. Her piece-of-shit Honda was parked in the driveway behind her. “You’re back.”
She grinned. “Good morning, Mr. Bressler.”
She looked like she was covered in painted feathers. Like a peacock. A peacock with large breasts. How had he missed those? Maybe the pain he’d been in. Most likely the ugly orange jacket.
“You like the shirt?”
He raised his gaze to hers. “You wore it just to irritate me.”
Her grin widened. “Now why would I want to irritate you?”
* * *
Chelsea pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and looked way up at the man standing in the entryway’s natural light. His damp hair was brushed back. It curled around his ears and along the neckline of his bright white shirt. He scowled at her from beneath dark brows; the annoyance shining in his brown eyes made his feelings for her clear. He hadn’t shaved, and a dark shadow covered his cheeks and strong prominent jaw. He looked big and bad and dominant. All dark and foreboding, and she might have been a little intimidated if he hadn’t had the longest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. Those lashes were so out of place on his chiseled masculine face that she smiled.
