We get out of the car and he grabs a black nylon duffel bag from the trunk. With the bag in one hand and my fingers caught in his other, he takes me into the large square building. Inside the lobby are bulletin boards filled with schedule sheets and activity calendars, as well as brochures and flyers offering various services and counseling centers geared toward veterans.
We walk past, Gabe leading me down a wide corridor toward the open doors of the gymnasium. The rhythmic thud of basketballs bouncing on hardwood and the inviting sounds of men and women laughing and conversing echo out to the hallway.
As we near the entrance, a blond man in a wheelchairrolls out to the corridor. He’s thirty-something and good-looking, and although he’s got all of his limbs, his legs are thin and immobile beneath the knee-length hems of his red basketball shorts.
He stops when he sees Gabe, and his face breaks into a wide smile. “Hey, Noble. Good to see you, man.”
Gabe lets go of my hand to clasp his friend’s. “How’s it going, Webber?”
“Oh, you know. Same shit, different day.” He says it with an affable grin, his gaze cutting to me every few seconds. “Hello.”
I smile. “Hi.”
Gabe clears his throat. “Sorry. Webber, this is Evelyn. Evelyn, this is Chris Webber.”
“Nice to meet you.” He stares for a longer moment, his head tilted, eyes narrowing in contemplation. “Anyone ever tell you that you kind of look like that famous model from a few years ago?”
“I have heard that comment once or twice before, yes.” My smile broadens with my wry reply. “Probably because I am her. Or used to be, that is.”
His brows shoot up, and I swear I don’t know who looks more surprised by my casual admission—Gabe, or his friend. I have to admit, I’ve surprised myself too.
If I’d encountered this question even a few weeks ago, I would have been tempted to shut it down with a polite deflection—maybe even a sharp denial. But now, standing next to Gabe, I don’t feel trapped by who I used to be. I don’t feel exposed, or fearful.
Instead, with Gabe’s warm gaze on me, and his hand slipping easily around mine, I feel strangely liberated. I feel comfortable, free.
I feel safe in a way that I haven’t felt for a very longtime.
Gabe smiles at me, a private glance that is both a comfort and an enticing promise.
“Well, damn.” Webber chuckles, reaching up to punch Gabe in the arm. “No wonder we haven’t seen you around here lately. O’Connor’s been trying to cover for you, said you were putting in a lot of hours at that swank security job you’re working.”
Gabe grunts, seeming a bit uncomfortable with the subject of his job. “Is O’Connor here?”
“Yeah, she’s inside with everyone else. Now we’re only waiting on Nicholson and then we can start the game.” Webber gives me a nod. “Good to meet you. ‘Scuse me for a minute. I gotta go call Nicholson and light a fire under his ass to get down here.”
Webber rolls away and Gabe leads me into the gymnasium. Inside is a regulation-size basketball court where a group of seven men and women are gathered on the sidelines, some in wheelchairs like Webber, others standing on prosthetic limbs.
Near the group is a collection of ten specially designed chairs with low backs, tilted wheels, and a metal frame fitted around the bottom of the chair with a small caster at each corner.
“Gabe!” His friend O’Connor raises her left hand in greeting as soon as she spots us.
She breaks from the group to walk toward us and I realize that not only does she have a prosthetic right arm and hand, but she also wears a prosthesis on her right leg. The gleaming metal and plastic limb extends from her sneakered foot to above her knee in the cutoff sweats she’s wearing.
“I’m glad you made it tonight,” she says as she nearsus, smiling at him for a moment before turning her warm greeting on me. “Hi, Evelyn. We haven’t formally met yet. I’m Kelsey. Although most people I know call me O’Connor, so take your pick. Anyway, it’s really nice to meet you.”
I nod. “Thanks. I’m happy to meet you too.”
She swivels another look at Gabe, giving him an impatient up-and-down wave of her hand. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to suit up and strap into a chair so my team and I can kick your team’s butt all over this court?”
“You can try, anyway,” Gabe quips.
“Wait a second.” I can’t mask my surprise. “You play wheelchair basketball?”
“Most every Saturday night for the past year or so,” he says with a shrug. “O’Connor talked me into joining the group. Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
We walk over with Kelsey to where the other players are gathered and I meet the four men—Rob Sanchez, Denny Adams, John Tuttle, and Bruce Goldberg—and the two women—Tameka Jenkins and Lori Murphy. Everyone is friendly and inviting, so when Gabe excuses himself to the locker room to change out of his office clothes, I fall into the relaxed conversations as if I might actually belong here.
When he returns a few minutes later I have to add another version of Gabe’s hotness to my list, because he is rocking the hell out of a basic black basketball jersey and shorts. The jersey showcases his powerful arms and broad shoulders, and the waistband of the loose-fitting shorts cling to his trim hips below the muscled taper of his waist and abs.
