Maybe This Christmas

by Jennifer Snow

  Sleep the night before was impossible. Getting comfortable with the thick bandages around his knee and brace on his leg was something he’d given up on around midnight, and the image of his brother charging at him with four minutes and thirty seconds left in the second period was on repeat in his mind.

  Unlike the night before the surgery, his emotions were a whirlwind now, competing for top spot. Anger, disappointment, despair all circled around him into the early hours of morning, and he longed for the numbness he hadn’t fully appreciated.

  It was hockey. Shit happened. But the fact that it was Ben…His jaw clenched. Out of everyone, his brother knew how important that milestone meant to him. He also knew that he wasn’t at full capacity, so why choose that game, that moment to deliver the hardest hit of his career?

  The sound of Christmas music drifting up the stairs to his room took his mood for an even deeper plunge.

  It was November 19.

  Being home for the holidays was going to drive him insane.

  Glenwood Falls did Christmas in a big way, and he used to love the festivities when he was a kid. But since moving away to live with another hockey family at sixteen, he’d learned to treat holidays and special occasions as just another day. It helped keep any loneliness or longing at bay. His career had come first since the day he’d been drafted, and things like sleigh rides and ice-carving contests had become distant memories. And now he’d be here, surrounded by the festivities, still unable to enjoy them all with his mood like a BB gun taking out each and every last joyous twinkling light.

  Hammering outside his bedroom window made him jump.

  “Shit!” His teeth clenched as pain shot through his leg from his ankle to his thigh. Sudden movements felt like bones snapping at the knee joint, resulting in radiating pain in the connective muscles and ligaments.

  He shut his eyes tight, but it didn’t block the noise or the pain. Rolling carefully, slowly to his side a second later, he saw Jackson’s blue ski jacket pressed against a ladder outside the frosted window. A string of multicolored Christmas lights dangled past him.

  Bang, bang, bang went the nail gun. Bang, bang, bang echoed in his throbbing brain. He needed painkillers, but his mother had them on lockdown. Under strict orders from the doctor, she was releasing them every four hours as directed on the bottle, and not a minute earlier.

  May as well flush them down the toilet for all the good they were doing anyway.

  Jackson’s face appeared in the window, and he waved when he saw Asher staring at him. “Hey, you’re awake,” he yelled through the glass. His breath melted the thin ice on the outside pane. “Come hold the ladder!”

  Gesturing with his middle finger, Asher rolled over, intending to show his family he could block out everything they wanted to throw at him. They could fa-la-la their hearts out, but he wouldn’t be swayed into embracing the season and this new shitty situation. He’d stay in his room for the next few days if he had to, and as soon as his leg didn’t feel like hell, he was on the next plane back to New Jersey. Back to his own apartment, where he could wallow in self-pity in peace. Fuck the doctor’s orders—he didn’t need a babysitter or pain meds. He’d man up and deal with this shit on his own, his way, without anyone telling him what to do or expecting him to act or feel a certain way.

  Though he wondered if Emma might come along to play nurse. It was the first positive thought he’d had in two days. She was the only one who wouldn’t make him crazy. She was the only one who would truly get what he was feeling.

  Funny how now he finally understood how she’d been feeling four years ago when her own life had changed. Of course, his setback wasn’t nearly as crippling as her accident on the ski slope.

  Watching her fall, going at breakneck speed, had caused the blood to leave his body. He’d been frozen in fear and helplessness as the ski resort’s medic crew had rushed to her side, where she’d lay motionless near the stunt pipe, and carried her away on a stretcher. Every second until he’d seen her had been torturously slow, and seeing her defeated, terrified tears in the hospital room as the doctor told her the news—broken bones, torn ligaments, and no Olympics—had shattered him as well.

  It was the first time in his career that he’d taken time off, to be with her while she recovered. He hadn’t even thought twice about it, and that had terrified him as well. She was the only person who could potentially make him lose focus or change his priorities, and he wasn’t ready to do that yet.

  It had been years, and still she was determined not to return to snowboarding. As much as he wanted to believe it was her injuries and fear keeping her off the slopes, he was starting to think she’d really moved on.

  And now his recovery was forcing an unwanted extended holiday of his own.

  Bang, bang, bang went the god damn hammer…

  We wish you a merry freaking Christmas came from the blaring CD player…

  Then…raised voices? Arguing downstairs.

  Fuck my life!

  Tossing the sheets back, he pushed himself up and onto his feet, taking a second to steady himself. Then, grabbing one of the crutches they’d given him in the hospital, he headed downstairs, careful not to fall and break his neck. He hadn’t needed crutches since he was twelve and had broken his ankle in a skateboarding accident. Of course, he’d had them every summer before that, so he was pretty good at using them.

  The front door was open and his mother stood on the front step, motioning wildly. “The maple tree is the cut-off line,” she was saying. “We’ve had the same discussion every winter for three years.”

  “Right. After the maple tree, not before,” another voice said.

  Asher groaned. Mr. Callaway. Emma’s father had moved in next door to the family home after his wife died, and the man and his mother only spoke when there was something to argue about. Three years of constant bickering. Thank God he lived in New Jersey, though he often heard about the arguments from his mother…then got the actual story from Emma.

  “What’s going on?” he grumbled as he poked his head outside, leaning his weight on the crutch and shivering as a snowy blast of wind drifted inside. His bare chest and stomach were immediately covered in goose bumps.

  “He shoveled too much,” his mother said, pointing to the very straight line where the snow started on their property just a little ways past the maple tree on the lawn.

  “Too much?”

  “Yes. It’s my responsibility to do that section in front of the tree,” his mother said, pointing to it. “Right to the fire hydrant on the…”

  Asher turned and went back inside, closing the door to their argument. They were both ridiculous. He wished Emma could see that, instead of getting so worked up over their silly disagreements. Since her mother’s death and her father moving in next door to Beverly, Emma had taken on the role of referee for all of their senseless bickering. He wondered when she’d realize this small-town life with the normal job, normal lifestyle wasn’t for her and get her ass back to the slopes where she belonged. He knew she still wanted that. Even if she pretended she didn’t.

  Turning the music down, but not off completely, because he didn’t want to be next on his mother’s shit list, he went into the kitchen. A plate of food sat covered on the table. Bacon, eggs over easy, four slices of buttered homemade toast, and three sausage links had his mouth watering on sight. One perk of being home was his mother’s cooking. He may be ready to die by the end of his six- to ten-week recovery in his hometown, but it wouldn’t be from starving to death.

  He set the crutch against the wall and sat awkwardly, pushing out the chair next to him to prop the leg up. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a leg in a brace, but it was by far the worst. At thirty, his body seemed to be attempting to resist time and failing miserably. Even without the injury, in recent years he’d noticed his muscles seizing more following game nights, and it took more training and working out to maintain his endurance on the ice. He saw the newer, younger players move faster, sl
eeker, taking hits far better, and it only fueled him to try harder. But at some point, his body would win the battle of wills with his mind…Just not anytime soon.

  Folding a piece of bacon in half he shoved it into his mouth as Abby entered the kitchen. “Hey, you’re out of bed,” she said, pleasantly.

  He glanced at the clock. It wasn’t even eight o’clock. Why were they all out of bed? “Morning,” he grumbled, stabbing a piece of egg.

  “How’s the leg feeling?” she asked, pouring coffee into Jackson’s travel mug. The Colorado Eagles logo was still visible but fading into the past, like Jackson’s own hockey career.

  “Peachy.” Another piece of bacon followed the sour reply.

  She sat on the edge of the chair that held his leg and touched the brace.

  He shot her a look, but she didn’t appear fazed. “Look, I know this setback must be tough, but you’re with family, it’s the holidays. We’ll all help you get through this, and in a few months, you’ll be back on the ice.”

  “Weeks. Not months. And I’m not staying for the holidays,” he said, pushing the plate away. Could he eat in peace? Alone?

  His brother’s fiancée’s eyes widened, then she frowned. “Why not?”

  “Not feeling festive, I guess.”

  “Since when does that matter?” She looked ready to deliver an earful about how he needed family right now and how they all had one another’s back.

  He could do without the afternoon special. He didn’t expect anyone to understand what he was going through, but if they could all just leave him alone, that would be fantastic. “Abby, look…”

  “No, you look. What happened the other night was crap. Bad timing, probably even bad decision making on Ben’s part…”

  His jaw clenched at Ben’s name.

  And her perceptive eyes must have caught it. “Ah, so you’re blaming Ben.”

  “Can we not talk?” He liked his brother’s fiancée well enough, but she was too meddling and too glass-half-full, too much like his mother. And one of those right now was more than enough.

  Abby stood, picking up Jackson’s coffee. “Fine. Just don’t read the paper,” she said, sliding it away as she left the kitchen.

  As soon as she was gone, he struggled to reach for it and swore under his breath once he’d flipped to the sports section. The headlining news of the day was all about him.

  WESTMORE OUT ONE GAME SHY OF MILESTONE.

  One game shy of milestone.

  * * *

  “You got him a puppy?”

  Was her sister losing her mind? Their father was sixty-five years old and having a hard enough time taking care of himself. Their mother had done everything for him over the years. Emma couldn’t remember ever seeing her dad cook a meal or do a load of laundry. In the four years since her death, he’d quickly learned just how much her mother used to do, but he hadn’t picked up the new domestic skills all that fast—in part due to the fact that Jess insisted they pick up right where their mother had left off.

  But there was more to it. In recent years her father’s mind didn’t seem as sharp as it once was. Little things, like confusing them with their mother or forgetting where he lived the week before when he’d gone out for a walk, were becoming common. Emma had found him a block away, sitting on a bus shelter bench. She was worried about her father, and she didn’t think more responsibility was the answer.

  “He’s all alone here, and I thought it would be nice for him,” Jessica said, carrying the brown cardboard box from the Glenwood Falls Animal Rescue Center up the cleared path toward the house.

  “A puppy is a lot of work. Couldn’t you have gotten him a stray adult dog from the pound?” An animal that was big enough to fend for itself.

  “This is better. Trust me,” she said in her best younger-but-wiser-sister voice.

  “Fine,” Emma mumbled, knowing she’d be the one picking up dog poop from the snow with one of those mechanical grasping things next week. Her sister continued to baby their father, insisting they take turns checking in on him every few days, dropping off premade meals and throwing in a load of laundry, but lately it was Emma running double duty as Jess claimed to be extra busy with work.

  Which reminded her…She glanced next door toward the Westmore home as she followed her sister up the steps. She hadn’t seen Asher since she’d watched him crumple on the ice. Jackson and his mother had insisted on picking him up from the hospital in Denver the day before, and she hadn’t felt it her place to step in. After all, she was just a friend. She sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” her sister asked, laying the box on the step to unlock the door.

  “Nothing.”

  Dark, perceptive eyes stared at her beneath a pale pink knitted hat and blond fringed bangs. “That’s right, Asher’s in town.”

  Emma nodded, her expression hardening a little. “Which you know full well. Seriously, Jess—did you have to pounce while he was down?” She’d seen her sister’s article in the Glenwood Times about Asher’s untimely injury. She just hoped Asher hadn’t seen it yet.

  “It’s my job to report news, Emma. As much as I think it’s insane just how much people around here idolize those guys…” She rolled her eyes. “It was newsworthy.”

  “But did you have to make the comment that his career may be over? We both know that’s not true.” She wondered how much of her sister’s article had come from her journalist side and not her anti-Asher personal side.

  Jess shrugged. “Could be true. Yours ended after your injury.”

  Kick delivered to the gut. “It’s different for Asher. It’s just a torn ACL—he’s only out for six weeks,” she said, knowing she couldn’t be completely honest and tell her sister that it could be longer or about the doctor’s fear that he could be addicted to pain meds. She never knew when things with Jess were off the record. Probably never. She almost felt bad for her sister’s husband. She wondered if he always felt like he had to be on. Jess definitely put people on edge.

  The puppy yipped from inside the box. A tiny brown and white paw appeared in one of the side holes.

  “Let’s get him inside, so he can begin trashing the place.” Which she’d have to clean up.

  But Jess blocked the door when she tried to sidestep her.

  “What?”

  “Asher’s not staying here for six weeks, right? I mean, he’s going back to New Jersey…to his own home to recover, right?”

  Emma shrugged. “I’m not sure how long he plans to stay here, but with the holidays coming, I would think he would be staying for a few weeks at least.” Trying to keep the excitement from her voice about that prospect was nearly impossible. She was devastated for him over the thousandth-game milestone being delayed, but it was just a delay. And while the injury sucked, it was probably the only way Ash would slow down a little, take the needed time off to heal properly. She hadn’t talked to him about it yet, but she hoped he’d let her be his therapist for his recovery. She knew him better than anyone else and would know when to push him and when not to. When to kiss him, when to not to…

  “Oh God—you’re hoping to help him recover,” Jess said.

  The puppy yipped again. Louder this time.

  “I am a therapist, Jess. One of the few in Glenwood Falls. Can we go in now?” She shivered as a gust of blowing snow crossed her boots.

  “But you’re leaving.”

  She had been, but now she didn’t know if accepting the offer for January enrollment was the right thing. Ash needed her, whether he knew it or not. And her disappointment in having to put her graduate school plans on hold for a while was overshadowed by the opportunity to use this unfortunate turn of events to connect with him. For the first time, he was here for longer than a few fleeting hours. He was laid up, without hockey to distract him, and well, it was getting close to Christmas—a magical time of year. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Of course, she wouldn’t spring her feelings on him just yet, but as he started feeling better…

>   “You are leaving, right?” Jess asked when she was silent.

  “The puppy is probably freezing.” Emma danced from one foot to the other, casting another glance toward Asher’s old bedroom window. Was he awake yet? Was he naked? Her cheeks flushed from more than the cold. She couldn’t wait to check in on her father and then get over there to see him.

  Unfortunately, her sister was relentless. “I thought we talked about this.”

  Oh, here we go. “No. You talked. I listened.” Then chose to disregard everything her sister had to say on the subject. Just because Jess was married to Mr. Perfection and had three beautiful kids and a great job at the local newspaper didn’t mean she had everything figured out.

  Okay, maybe it did, but what Emma wanted out of life was different from what her sister thought was ideal.

  That was okay.

  “Well, listen harder,” Jess said, turning to face her, still blocking the front door. “You can’t make decisions based on Asher. In fact, you have to stop wasting time with him. Hooking up when you were both professional athletes only focused on having fun was fine.”

  “That’s how you saw my career?” Had her sister forgotten how much time and dedication went into making the Olympic team? Fun had often been pushed aside for months at a time while she trained, focused on becoming the best. It still annoyed her that her father and sister had obviously never been able to see that.

  “Don’t get defensive. That part of your life is over now, so let’s not argue about something irrelevant.” Jess wrapped her pale pink cashmere scarf closer around her neck as she continued, “All I’m saying is your life is different now. Don’t you want something real?”