Natalie became dimly aware of other people in the room whena dark-haired woman in light scrubs turned to her.
“Can I help you?” the woman said in a hushed voice.
Natalie cleared her throat. “I’m here to see Kevin May … I’mhis girlfriend.” The last bit came out as a question, and she winced inside.She drew herself up, owning her cred to be there. “I spoke with his brother,Dr. Colin May, who said I should come.”
The woman frowned, then shot a look to a similarly attiredman whose head came up quickly. Maskless, he woreglasses that reflected an ethereal blue, and his eyes fixed on her.
“Natalie?” he said. The woman moved aside.
“Yes. Dr. May?”
He stepped to her and grasped her hand in both of his.“Please call me Colin.” His voice was soft, warm, and reassuring.
“It’s lovely to meet you. I only wish the circumstances weredifferent.”
“So do I.” Colin gestured toward Kevin. “He’s been askingfor you.”
Hehas? “Is he … is he awake?” Is he okay? She shuffled to Kevin’sbedside and feathered her fingertips over his hand, surprised by its warmth.What had she expected?
“He’s in and out, mostly sleeping, which is what he needsright now to heal. You’ll hear the word ‘contusion’ a lot, which is justanother way of saying his brain is bruised. They’veruled out skull fractures and internal bleeding, and he’s been downgraded to amoderate TBI by his physician, which is very encouraging.”
Her eyes flew to Colin’s. “You’re not his physician? Andwhat’s TBI?”
“Sorry. TBI stands for traumatic brain injury. And no, I’mnot Kevin’s physician. My area of practice is spinal cord injury. I’m just hereas the brother of the injured party.” He gave her a half-smile. “I caninterpret the doctor-speak for the rest of the family and keep them informed.”
She hinged forward and whispered, “Kevin?” No response.
“When he’s conscious,” Colin offered, “he’s fuzzy, but heknows where he is, and he recognizes us. He’s mentioned you repeatedly.”
Really?A touch of self-satisfaction oozed inside. She fixed her gaze onKevin’s face. Faded, faint bruising and cuts in various stages of healing werescattered over his cheeks, nose, and chin. Her heart melted a bit, releasing aninner Florence Nightingale she didn’t know she had.
“I’ve been reading what I can on the Internet. Maybe you canfill in the blanks?”
Colin clasped his hands at his back. “He suffers fromdizziness, fatigue, blurred vision, tinnitus, and nausea—all normal,considering his injury. He also has numbness in his left arm.”
She bit back her alarm and hovered fingertips over Kevin’sbearded cheek, unsure what to do with them. “What’s his prognosis?”
“You can touch him. It’s probably good for him.” Colin gaveher a chin lift, and she let her fingers stroke Kevin’s soft beard. “Thedoctors are pleased with his progress so far. He’s young and in top physicalshape, which helps. But head injuries are unpredictable and vary from patientto patient. Time will tell how soon he recovers—and how fully.”
Wide-eyed, Natalie looked into Colin’s blue eyes blinkingbehind his glasses. “He might not make a full recovery?”
He nodded. “But hopefully that—”
The door opened wide, and a blond woman stood in its frame,her small figure silhouetted. Colin’s assistant charged toward her, but theintruder’s high-heeled boots ate up the distance between bed and door beforeshe could be intercepted.
Colin raised a hand at the attendant. “It’s okay, Clara.”
Meanwhile, the blond woman eyed Natalie from foot toforehead, a powerful, floral fragrance drifting off her in a rolling, invisiblecloud. Natalie’s nose twitched.
“Who the hell are you?” the woman hissed, her eyes narrowingas they fastened on Natalie’s fingers caressing Kevin’s face.
Colin cleared his throat. “Kristin, this is Natalie, a goodfriend of Kevin’s. Natalie, this is—”
“I’m Kristin May. Kevin’s wife.”
.~* * * ~.
Bag slung over one shoulder, T.J. sauntered through the players’ parking lottoward the arena. Another gauntlet of reporters,photographers, and pissed-off people to make it past. Another practice where his teammates would either aim to crush himor outright ignore him.
Yet Kevin May was out of ICU, out of his coma, and back inDenver. Obviously, he was going to be just fine, which made these peopleharassing T.J. all kinds of fucked up.
At least the crowd waiting for him had been shrinkingsteadily; maybe they were getting tired of chasing him. Or maybe they weregetting their jollies by taking to blatant speculation on the air, or in blogsand other questionable writing. Publicly, they questioned everything fromT.J.’s character to his eating habits and how they affected his motives. He wasevil incarnate. Next they’d accuse him of terrorizing small children andtorturing animals. Which would only mean they’d confused him with his dad.
“Hey, T.J.,” one of the gauntleteerscalled, “stolen any walkers from helpless old ladies today?”
Another guffawed. “What was for breakfast? Victims’fingernails chased with a few pints of their blood?”
He gritted his teeth, Pederson’s words ricocheting in hishead. Don’ttalk. Don’t engage. Don’t defend no matter how much it eats you up inside. Thecontempt wasn’t just eating him up. It was devouring him.
“Shanstrom! Let me ask you aquestion,” one guy called.
“No, let me ask youa question,” a deep voice boomed from behind him. He whirled in timeto see his linemate, Gage Nelson, address the crowd.“What is it you people do that allows you to hang around parking lots all day,and where do I get one of those jobs? If I had your kind of freedom, I’d havemy butt parked in a movie theater or at a food kitchen. Those folks couldreally use some volunteers. You should check ‘emout.”
In the time it had taken Gage to lob his friendly volley,T.J. had escaped into the arena.
He turned and took in Nelson striding behind him, a grinplastered on his face. “Hey, thanks, man.”
Nelson shrugged. “Yeah, no problem. Just having some fun.”
“And doing
