Eli leans in. “So…whencan he skate again?”
I don’t answer, because the real answer could be months. Long enough that the Olympics are a fantasy. Long enough that it might change everything for their team.
But Reid just closes his eyes again, exhaling slowly as the guys keep up their banter around him and threaten to hand-feed him grapes while he’s forced to cuddle Franklin the turtle.
And for the first time all day, he looks at peace.
Chapter three
Insurance covers everything but a bruised ego
Reid
The ice pack slips for the third fucking time, and I hiss through my teeth as the cold shifts from numbing to stabbing. I adjust the angle, prop my leg higher on the pillow, and settle back against the couch with a sigh.
Across the room, gloomy daylight filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind that never quite warms anything. The house sits high, nestled in the trees along the foothills bordering Denver. My neighbors aren’t within hearing distance, and that’s exactly how I like it. Quiet, with nothing else for miles. That’s the point.
Except for the view.
At the very edge of my backyard, the lawn drops away into nothing, a sheer fall that opens the world wide and gives way to a spectacular, sprawling view of Denver city in the distance.
The tips of the city’s skyline glitter almost as though they’ve been dusted with frost, and maybe they have. It’s December, after all.
My cat, who is loyal only when it suits her, chooses that exact moment to launch herself onto my lap like it’s a fucking trampoline. Her paws land on my thigh, and her slightly extended claws graze the edge of my brace.
“Gremlin,” I warn, as she circles once, then curls up right against the wrap. “Get your furry ass off the bad leg.”
She ignores me and instead chooses to purr like a chainsaw. I consider moving her, but I don’t. Not until I have to, when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. It’s just out of reach, and I could stretch for it, but Gremlin lets out a threatening squeak when I shift.
One leg’s fucked. The other’s supporting all my weight. My core strength’s fine, but between the cat and the ice and the general simmer of rage beneath my skin, I let the phone buzz once more before giving in.
Gremlin bites my thumb as I stretch to grab it.
“Jesus, you’re lucky I like you,” I mutter, jostling her off. She launches herself toward the hallway, disappearing into one of the spare rooms she’s claimed as her own.
The missed call is from my Grandpa Harry. I tap at the voicemail notification and put him on speaker as I shift the ice again.
“Hi, son. Got your message… You sound like shit.” He laughs. “Which means you must be laid up and not doing much. Good. Call me back if you’re not dead.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. Classic Harry. Man’s got all the tenderness of a brick through a window, but it’s his signature way of checking in.
The condensation from the ice starts leaking down my thigh, and I swipe at it with a towel, resisting the urge to check the rehab app on my phone again. I’ve already reread the discharge summary, cross-checked Moreno’s protocols, and gone over the Olympic timeline twice.
Everything should be fine. Textbook, Moreno said.Clean tear, clean repair.
Dr. Park had agreed, her voice smooth and unshakable when she’d reviewed the post-op dressing. She hadn’t smiled, but she’d hovered just long enough to make me think about it after. Her hands had been steady again. Long fingers, gentle touch. Definitely not goalie hands, but for some reason, those hands keep calming me more than anything else has in the last week.
Maybe because she doesn’t flinch. Maybe because she doesn’t smile and sugarcoat shit she knows hurts.
Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that the Olympics are ten weeks away, and I won’t be on the ice for at least sixteen. That’s playoffs territory, if I’m lucky. Sometimes it takes the unluckiest bastards nine months for a full return, which is a season-ender injury. A career-ender, even.
But mine won’t be one of them.
The knock at the door cuts through the quiet, and I hear Gremlin hiss from down the hall.
I mutter a curse, push myself upright with a grimace, and grab my crutches. The knock comes again.
“Hold your fucking horses.”
