There’s a faint rainbow caught in the mist over the street that catches my eye, and I look at the colors for half a second longer than necessary, then keep walking.
I’m still tired, but still upright.
And still choosing hope.
Chapter five
Shoving warmth into spaces I keep trying to leave cold
Reid
Gremlin’s already pissed off at the brunch spread on the counter.
She’s perched on the kitchen bench, glaring down at the paper bag of croissants I ordered in.
“Off,” I mutter, nudging her gently with one forearm. She lets out a low, throaty growl and slinks away, her tail flicking once.
“Don’t start,” I tell her, because talking to a cat is apparently my life now.
I move around the island with the careful irritation of someone who’s been told he’s “mobile.” Three weeks post op, and my knee is still stiff first thing in the morning. The kind ofstiffness that twinges when I shift my weight too fast, shooting up my leg quick enough to make me want to throw something.
Mostly at myself.
I rub my hand over my jaw and glance at the clock. They’ll be here soon.
Not that I need the noise. Or the mess. Or the goddamn endless parade of opinions about my recovery.
But I do needthem.
So I line mugs up on the counter, even though I don’t need to yet. Move the sugar bowl an inch to the left. Straighten a napkin that isn’t crooked. I’ve done this three times already—rearranged things that don’t need rearranging—because it’s either this or sit on my couch and listen to the house be quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes every sound feel louder than it should—the coffee machine clicking off, the hum of the fridge, the faint drag in my knee when I shift my weight wrong.
I tell myself it’s because I like things tidy, but it’s not.
I miss the rink.
I miss my routine. Tape and pads. Gouging out my crease, and the smell of cold air and stale popcorn. The way everything makes sense when I’m in the net, when my brain narrows to pucks and angles and instinct. And I miss the noise of the boys chirping, sticks clacking, the low thrum of music in the tunnel.
And I… No. Not that. I don’t miss her.
I don’t think her name, and I definitely don’t catch myself glancing around the Moreno Clinic, wondering if I’ll see her. I’m not her patient anymore, I’m Heidi’s. And that woman has been putting me through my paces as though she has a point to prove.
And honestly, she did. Between those damn bright colors she wears, her glittery drink bottle, and her swishy ponytail, I thought I’d blast through my physio appointments with her. But the first time she asked me to bend my knee entirely, I nearly cried like a little bitch, and she grinned like she knew it too.
Gremlin leaps back onto the counter and hooks a claw into the top of the croissant bag, dragging it closer like she’s about to perform a full burglary in broad daylight.
“Gremlin.” My voice is a warning.
She blinks at me with no remorse whatsoever, but is saved when the doorbell rings.
Once, then twice. Then repetitively.
A fist starts pounding on my front door
“JesusChrist,” I mutter, limping—but barely, because I refuse to call it that—to the front door and yanking it open.
The noise hits my house like a wave, with Meadow bursting through first. She’s yelling something about an injustice involving Theo eating the last banana, and she’s holding what appears to be a bedazzled walkie-talkie.
