.~* * * ~.
T.J.’s “assignment” had been fourindividuals, but he ended up spending time with nine. It hadn’t been as bad ashe’d imagined, and in some ways it was far better than seeing the kids. In some ways. The patients spanned from nineteen to seventy-four,and their injuries were just as varied as their ages, ranging from caraccidents to plain old bad luck. Some were working on their motor skills whileothers were trying to remaster short-term memory.Simple things, like how to remember they’d just lit a stove so they didn’t walkaway and start a fire. Basic stuff T.J. never thought about—stuff these peoplehad never thought about either until they’d been injured.
On his way back to the reception area, he took a wrong turnand passed an auditorium. A blond guy in a wheelchair was talking to a clusterof men also in wheelchairs. A few rolled their chairs back and forth as theylistened, like a hockey player might shuffle his skates on the ice during thesinging of the national anthem. One guy popped a wheelie.
The blond man’s eyes found T.J.’s, and he smiled. The guywas young—T.J. pegged him for his mid-twenties—but the smile made him lookdownright boyish. Before T.J. could duck away, the guy called to him, “Come in.Join us. I’m just going over the rules before I turn the team loose.”
Twelve or more pairs of eyes stared at T.J. He felt asthough a bright spotlight had just been illuminated, pinning him in front of ablack curtain.
“He can’t play,” one guy yelled good-naturedly.
Another piped up. “Yeah, he’s got legs that work. He’ll justslow us down.” A low rumble of chuckles passed through the group. That’s whenT.J. noticed they all wore black T-shirts stamped with the words “No Excuses!”in neon yellow.
The blond man said, “It’s okay. Maybe he’s just here to pickup a few pointers, or he’s my line judge. With the way you guys cheat, Ineed all the help I can get.” He jerked his head at T.J. “Come in. Don’t beshy. We don’t bite.”
“Unless you’ve got the ball,” another called out. Another group chuckle.
It was then that T.J. realized the only thing moving on theblond guy was his head, which rested against a brace behind him. A wide webbedstrap looked to be holding him up. The wheelchair itself was equipped with allkinds of unidentifiable gear, including an arm that held something by the guy’smouth.
With a faltering gait, T.J. walked inside the room and stoodoff to one side. “Hey, how’s it going?” he said with a small wave. His handdove into his hair, and he shifted his weight, unsure what to do next.
His discomfort must have been obvious because one guychuckled. “Relax, dude. You’re not playing, so you won’t get the hellembarrassed out of you by us schooling you with our sick moves.”
T.J. let out a laugh, which released some of the tension inhis shoulders.
“Hey, you’re T.J. Shanstrom,aren’t you?” someone from the back said. All eyes fastened on him again.
Ah, shit. He raised his hand and pointed toward thedoor. “Guilty. I’ll just leave now.”
Blond guy looked him over. “You don’t have to leave on ouraccount. Some of these guys used to play hockey.”
A ginger lifted his chin at Blond Guy. “Yeah, like Troybefore he crashed headfirst into the boards.” T.J. looked at Troy.
“True story. Got tangled up and went into the boards.Unfortunately, they won that battle.”
“How old were you when it happened?”
“I’d just turned seventeen. That was six years ago.”
Jesus. T.J. schooled his features to squelch hishorror—and pity. The guy had likely seen plenty of both and didn’t need hisadded to it.
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” the guy who’d popped the wheeliesaid. “He did it on purpose. Ladies dig guys in wheelchairs, and he couldn’tget one any other way.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Troy joked.
“And, man, were you desperate,” Wheelie Man retorted. Thismade all of them crack up. “Hey, I’m Mark, by the way.” Wheelie Mark stuck outhis hand, which T.J. shook, then called out each man’s name in turn.
“T.J.?” a feminine voice said. All eyes, including his,turned toward the sound of his name. The hospital spokeswoman stood in thedoorway. “There you are! I thought we’d lost you. I see you’ve met thebasketball team.”
“We were just getting acquainted,” he replied.
“Well, I think your ride’s leaving soon, so I’ll escort youback.”
T.J. scanned the guys’ grinning faces before turning back toTroy. “Hey, pleasure meeting you.” He stuck his hand out, realizing too latewhat an idiot move it was, and snatched it back again. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”Flustered, he stood there like he was stuck to the floor.
Troy seemed to sense it. “No worries, man. It’s nice to knowyou wanted to shake my hand.” He gave T.J. a knowing, genuine smile. “Iactually do secret handshakes. They’re so secret you can’t seem ’em.”
T.J. laughed. “Hey, it’s been a real pleasure. Thanks forletting me crash your party.”
“Anytime. Come back and watch us play.”
“I’d like that.” T.J. nodded at the group and followed thespokeswoman into the hallway.
“How often do they play ball?” he asked her.
“Once or twice a week. Troy’s a great coach.”
“Wait. He coaches them? Even though he’s …” His voice echoedalong the hallway.
“A quadriplegic? Oh yes. He runs the whole thing. Heorganizes the teams, coordinates practices, and schedules games. They even holdan annual tournament.”
“No way.”
She laughed. “Troy and those men you just met acknowledgethey’re disabled, but they don’t let it keep them from living. They’readventuresome, willing to believe in the impossible. Most of them liveindependently, are in long-term relationships, and contribute to the community.In many ways, they’re more alive than many whole people I meet. Theypossess the same kind of strength and determination you have.” She stopped at apair of closed doors.
“Uh, that I have?”
“Of course. How else would you have made it into the NHL?”She smiled up at him, a
