Backhand (Gold Hockey)

by Elise Faber

  “I don’t want anything from you,” the woman snapped. “Freeze,” she ordered when Sara headed for the front door. “Not there. Do I look stupid? Go out the back, away from the cameras.”

  “Where is Pascal?” she asked, stepping onto the back deck.

  “You mean the Rico Suave wannabe? He served his purpose.” The gun poked into Sara’s spine, nudging her toward the stairs leading down to the yard.

  Oh shit. Her throat went tight. If Pascal been hurt because of her…

  Eyes burning, she turned to face the woman. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Boo-hoo-hoo,” the woman sneered. “Move it. This isn’t about you or your tears. I got what I needed from you years ago. Now I need the same from Mike.”

  Sara hesitated at the top of the stairs then screamed when the gun went off.

  Glass exploded around her as the window near her head shattered. “I said move!”

  “O-okay.” She hurried down the wooden stairs, stumbling when the woman shoved the barrel of the gun into her back again. The metal was hot, burning her skin through the thin cotton of her tank top.

  “You always were a stupid bitch. Too dumb to see the connection back then, too dumb to understand it now.” Another shove, another moment of just catching her balance.

  “To the back,” the woman ordered when she hesitated at the bottom of the deck.

  Sara turned for the garden gate. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere to get Mike’s attention.”

  “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

  The sun was still tucked behind the horizon, orange and red streaks just starting to lighten up the sky.

  But she would recognize that voice even in the pitch black.

  Pascal.

  He stepped toward them, a gun in his hand. Sara had never thought the weapon a big deal. But having one prodding into her back, being sandwiched between two, either of which could easily end her life… and her cavalier attitude disappeared.

  “Didn’t I already rough you up enough? Or maybe I need to hurt little Sara girl.” With her free hand, the woman yanked Sara’s hair hard, wrenching her neck and back and making her cry out. “Step the fuck away and let us by.”

  “Okay. Don’t hurt her.” Pascal put some distance between them.

  “Move.”

  Sara walked forward, spine on fire, hip and scalp burning.

  Pascal allowed Sara to move past him. He had a huge dripping gash above one eye and was favoring one leg.

  He needed to know about the gun, needed to be careful. “She’s got a gu—”

  As the woman began to slip by, Pascal lunged.

  Sara would have been clear if the woman hadn’t held tight to her ponytail. His leap knocked all three of them to the ground.

  Pain lit up through her body; every inch was on fire. The muscles in her back spasmed; lights flashed behind her eyes when her skull cracked against the ground. But Pascal was hurt, and they were scuffling and—

  The gun went off again.

  She almost didn’t feel it. Then a burn bloomed up from the left side of her body.

  “Sara?” Pascal’s voice was near. And frantic.

  “Here,” she said inanely. “You good?”

  “Hold on.” Rustling was accompanied by pressure on her side. It was agony.

  She screamed, apologized for the commotion, knew distantly that she shouldn’t create a scene.

  Pascal’s voice rattled around the air, multiplying, overwhelming her senses. Ten Pascals were talking. Maybe more.

  Lights. Noise. Pain.

  Then black.

  The black was welcome.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “…BREAKING NEWS. FORMER skating champion, Sara Jetty, has been rushed to the hospital with a possible gunshot wound. The incident occurred on the property belonging to Mike Stewart, her boyfriend and current Gold player, in full view of several camera crews,” the anchor said. “We’ve edited some of the footage about to play, but be warned this may be disturbing to some.”

  The television cut away from the newscaster in a prim suit jacket to the footage.

  Mike wanted to look away from the iPad Devon held in front of them, but he couldn’t, not when it was about Sara.

  He watched a light turn on in the house then two figures come out onto his back deck — the crew must have positioned themselves near the garden gate. The video was slightly grainy then the film went into full focus.

  “Fuck.”

  Sara was being prodded in the back with a gun… held by his mother.

  Devon clicked up the volume. The words the women exchanged were faint but audible.

  “…too dumb to see the connection back then…”

  His gaze collided with Devon’s, who said, “I’ll find out.”

  A gunshot rang out, then a scream and shattering glass. Sara was shuffled forward, his fucking mother the assailant.

  And the world got another layer of how-in-the-ever-loving-fuck.

  Pascal appeared in the frame, and there was a scuffle, another shot, and then the camera was bobbing, its shot frenzied as it ran toward the trio. Someone off camera was calling 9-1-1, another helped Pascal restrain his mother so he could move to Sara and begin working on her.

  “We’ll stop the footage there,” the anchorwoman said. “Ms. Jetty is currently in critical condition at UCSF Medical Center.”

  Mike’s phone buzzed. None of the flight attendants on the private jet had bothered to tell him or Devon to turn them off. Not with everything that was happening.

  Several channels broadcasted the morning news, each breaking down what had happened to Sara overnight.

  “Fuck,” he said again, standing and shoving his hands into his hair. He gripped the back of his neck and paced the aisle, panic in every single cell.

  A plane ride was the fastest way home; he got that. He just needed to be there already.

  “She’s alive, man,” Devon said. “And Monique is by her side. Rebecca too.”

  “I shouldn’t have left her.”

  “You couldn’t—”

  “Did you not see that the woman who shot her was my mother? Fuck, I can’t even begin to describe the levels of complete and utter-fuck-up-dom that is. The person who delivered me into this world tried to kill the person I love the most.”

  “It’s not your mother. It’s the drugs.”

  Devon knew all about a parent battling addiction. His father had been hooked on OxyContin, but his father also hadn’t tried to kill anyone.

  “That’s not a fucking excuse!” he yelled. “My mother did it. She released the pictures, hurt Sara, and—”

  Fuck. His voice broke. His knees gave out.

  He buried his face in his hands, totally not giving a shit that tears were leaking between his fingers.

  Devon placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezed hard. “You’re right. The only person my dad hurt was himself, physically anyway. I’m sorry.” A pause. “I thought Pascal would be— Well, I don’t know how your mother got the jump on him.”

  Mike blew out a shuddering breath, lifted his head. “He was bleeding.”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “Not Pascal’s fault.” He stood with shaking legs, walked to the couch, and sank down.

  Devon didn’t respond. Rather, he was looking at his phone. “Update from Rebecca. They’re taking Sara into surgery.”

  The flight attendant who had been standing — hiding — in the galley came out. “If you could buckle in, the captain has just informed me that we’ll be landing soon.”

  He nodded and clicked his seatbelt, but his mind was on Devon’s words.

  Surgery.

  What if he didn’t get the chance to say good-bye?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  SARA’S EYES WERE glued shut. That was the only explanation. She couldn’t lift her lids a millimeter, let alone open them completely.

  Her side burned with a throbbing pain. Her nose was crusted. Her throat dry as a d
esert.

  And there was a warm hand in hers.

  The faintest hint of aftershave.

  It permeated through the air, filled her nostrils, steadied her heart, and the pain dimmed.

  Mike was there.

  Drawing on the reserve of her strength, she wrenched back her eyelids.

  He was crammed into a wooden chair, half curled in on himself as he leaned over the bed, head resting near her uninjured side, hand gripping hers.

  The door squeaked, and a woman in maroon scrubs poked her head in. When she saw Sara awake, she smiled and mouthed that she would get the doctor.

  Bits and pieces of what had happened began lining up in Sara’s mind.

  The woman, sort of familiar. The gun. Pascal.

  Was Pascal okay?

  She looked around as though the hospital room would somehow give her a clue to his well-being. There was nothing except a few food containers and paper coffee cups.

  The TV was on, and the Gold were playing.

  Why was Mike here when his team was on the ice?

  Though — she squinted to read the score in the upper left corner of the screen — they were destroying the Ducks, six to nothing. She watched the game wind down, the guys kicking butt and Brit making a number of good saves to lock in that shut-out.

  When the buzzer rang, the team skated off the ice. Brit was given a pair of headphones, and the announcers began congratulating her on the win. Then they asked a question that wiped the smile off her face.

  “How difficult was it to focus with what happened to Sara Jetty today?”

  Brit shoved a piece of hair out of her face. “I’ll be frank, Jim. It was difficult. The team loves Sara. She’s part of our family, and it was hard to focus on playing, knowing my friend was in surgery.”

  Sara’s eyes clouded with tears.

  “We got an update that she was out of the operating room and in recovery just before puck drop.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all year.” Brit looked into the camera and said, “Sara, if you’re watching, know we’re thinking about you. Love you, girl.”

  They asked a few more questions about the game, but Sara barely heard them.

  The difference between her previous injury and this one, between her former and current lives, was almost laughable.

  “I am so lucky,” she murmured.

  Mike started, blinking as he lifted his head. But before he could say anything, another voice chimed in. “Yes, you are.”

  She glanced at the door, where the doctor had apparently slipped into her room. He wore blue scrubs and still had booties over his shoes. “I’m Dr. Clark. I did your surgery. Sorry for the delay. I was assisting with a colleague’s procedure. But I wanted to see you right away.” He crossed over to her and slid the blankets down then lifted her gown enough to see her side. She was bandaged so the incision wasn’t visible — a fact Sara was grateful for — but he gently palpated her abdomen. “Good,” he eventually said, fixing her gown and the blankets.

  “What happened?”

  “You were shot.”

  Her snort hurt. “That much I surmised. I had surgery?”

  Dr. Clarks’ lips twitched. “They don’t call me a surgeon for nothing. But in all seriousness, the bullet was nearly a through and through. The ER thought you were in the clear. Then they realized your spleen had been nicked.”

  Her spleen? That sounded serious. She didn’t even know what it did, but it sounded serious.

  “I was able to repair the nick, but we’ll need to watch it. Make sure it takes.”

  “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”

  He laughed. “Because it’s a serious injury. You also had a blood transfusion and will be on IV antibiotics for a few days.” Dr. Clark squeezed her hand before picking up an iPad and updating something on it. “The nurse will check in soon. But if the pain gets to be too much, you’re attached to a morphine pump. Just push that red button.”

  A minute later, he was gone, and she and Mike — who hadn’t said a word — were alone.

  She turned to him, opened her mouth—

  “I need to go,” he said, pushing to his feet and striding out the door.

  “Mi—”

  He left, and she couldn’t chase after him.

  MIKE WAS A ghost over the next few days, disappearing when she showed any sign of being awake.

  Sara knew because she’d tested her theory.

  She’d watched him through slit lids sit next to her on the bed, but the moment she moved or opened her eyes, he was up and out of the room. Ostensibly, he was off to get her a glass of ice or another blanket, but she was onto him.

  He didn’t want to be with her.

  If she was another woman, she might have thought he wanted to dump her. But she was Sara, and he was Mike, and they were like peanut butter and jelly, or bananas and chocolate, French fries and ketchup.

  They were meant to be together, and she wasn’t going to let them fall apart.

  Mike came back into the room, blanket in hand, and glanced around like he’d expected to have been gone long enough that she’d fallen back asleep.

  That tactic might have worked the previous few days, but she was recovering nicely. Dr. Clark said he would discharge her the following afternoon if everything continued to look good.

  So today she was awake more than asleep. And Mike wasn’t going to avoid her.

  Fate, apparently, had other plans.

  The moment he’d sat down in the chair, Rebecca knocked on the door.

  “Hey, Sara. You feel up to chatting?”

  “I—”

  Mike whack-a-moled out of his seat. “I’ll leave you two alone to talk.”

  Slippery little sucker.

  Rebecca frowned. “He okay?”

  Sara shook her head. “No. I think he feels guilty. Not that he’ll talk to me about it.”

  “Men.” Rebecca sighed.

  She agreed with every undertone in that puff of air.

  “I’ll have Pascal bring him back in a few minutes. There’s something we need to discuss with both of you.” And that little statement screamed of reporting to the principal’s office or a duh-duh-duh from a movie.

  Red nails tapped on Rebecca’s phone. “There. He’ll bring him up in ten minutes. Okay, so we never really got to have our social-media talk.” She sank into the chair and pulled up something on her phone.

  When she turned it in Sara’s direction, she saw that it was a Twitter page. “I have a million followers on Twitter?”

  She’d never made a post.

  “Well, you had fifty thousand when we were supposed to meet, then the—” she coughed “—gunshot incident happened, and things sort of grew from there. I’ve only posted pictures of your artwork here and on Instagram and status updates of your recovery. Nothing specific,” she added when Sara started to speak. “Just general ‘she is okay and healing.’”

  Rebecca stopped as Sara scrolled down the feed, half-expecting it to look like her accounts had been after the Olympics.

  Oh, the troll comments were there. It was the Internet, after all. But, surprisingly, the nastiness was few and far between.

  Though one particular trend caught her attention.

  “Why do they keep mentioning Mike’s mother?”

  Rebecca took the phone back and opened Instagram, showing her a profile filled with super cool shots of her artwork interspersed with photos of the city and the team.

  “I took a little creative license with this one, reposting some of the official Gold photos — with credit, of course. You’ve got nearly a million on here too.” Rebecca licked her lips. “Now as for Mike’s mother—”

  The door pushed open, Mike and Pascal stepping through.

  “Ah. Perfect timing,” Rebecca said. “I was just filling Sara in.”

  Her gaze flew to Mike’s. She could feel the frown pulling her brows together. Mike was paler than she’d ever seen him.

  Pascal nudged Mike tow
ard a chair. “Sit. You’ve had a shock.”

  “Shock?” Sara asked. Her heart twisted. “What’s going on? Why—”

  “My mother did it all, Jumping Bean,” Mike said. “Every last bit of it.”

  He sounded broken, literally shredded inside.

  “I — uh.” She shook her head. “We already knew she released the pictures.”

  “She did a little more than that,” Rebecca said, gently now.

  Sara tried to understand. “Well, of course she shot me, but—”

  “My mother was responsible for the cheating allegations.”

  “But—” Her breath left her body as the pieces in her mind began shifting into place. What had the woman said? That Sara had never realized the connection. Not then. Not now.

  “This is a copy of the report from Monique’s private investigator. She wanted to apologize for going over your head and hiring him, but I think you’ll be glad she did.” Rebecca pulled out a file, set it gently in her lap. “This—” she held up another “—is from Devon’s company.”

  They were each easily a hundred pages long.

  “The gist of this is that Mike’s mother, Patricia Stewart, met a reporter after you’d left town for the Olympics. He wanted the scoop on you, and she was fresh out of rehab, desperate for money and Hydrocodone. They made a deal and fabricated the evidence for the story.”

  Sara rubbed her head. Fake. She’d known that, but the proof back then — bank statements, the video of her meeting with the judges, her scores—

  “My coach said—”

  “Unfortunately, your coach had something to hide,” Rebecca said. “A criminal record stemming from a rape charge. He technically wasn’t allowed to be coaching at all and the reporter took advantage of that.”

  Turned out the truth was even more twisted than she’d thought.

  “So when those first stories broke while I was on tour — the accusations of me paying off the judges—”

  “The reporter and his so-called sources.”

  “And the video?”

  “Not you, but you already knew that.”

  “No. I didn’t.” Which had been part of the problem. She’d met with so many people during the lead-up and following the competition that Sara hadn’t been sure if she’d met with the judges or not.