hurt-so-good

by Scott, Myra

  Shuddering, Jake quickly shot a glance behind him, but the entire road was still and silent and dark aside from a lamppost ahead that had only just flickered to life. The windows of the small homes glowed a faint yellow behind closed drapes, and Jake could see why Crash liked living here. It was peaceful and serene, though that didn’t stop the goosebumps that crawled along Jake’s arms at the thought of Timmy lurking somewhere nearby.

  His last appointment of a very busy day; Jake was tired.

  There’d been a rainstorm the night before, keeping Monsoon awake and shivering and howling all night. Jake couldn’t decide if he was looking forward to seeing Crash or dreading it, as he knew how much resistance the stubborn hockey player would give him. He’d heard the call this morning when he first walked into the office with a cup of coffee so big he’d practically needed both hands to carry it. Crash was trying to convince the secretary, unsuccessfully, to reschedule his appointment. And by reschedule, of course, that meant for a date sometime near never.

  Jake wasn’t having it, though.

  He’d fought his way through every patient before Crash, and he wasn’t going to be bested. Jake’s reluctance would be a match for Crash’s, so help him.

  As Jake paced quickly up the front porch stairs, he heard a faint rustling from within the white-painted walls of the home. When he pressed a single finger against the doorbell, the soft noise from inside went abruptly silent, the only sound now echoing was the cheery chime of the bell.

  Jake almost laughed, rolling his eyes.

  Like hell that was going to work on him.

  “Open up, Crash,” Jake insisted through the heavy wooden door, rapping his knuckles against it in a perky rhythm from some obnoxious song he’d heard on the bus radio. “I already heard you moving around in there so don’t even try to pretend that you’re not home.”

  Even still, silence was the only thing that greeted him in the closed doorway. He jimmied the knob, finding it locked this time. Crash was learning.

  Jake could feel the massive athlete lingering by the doorway, the faintest hint of a shadow passing the little peephole cut into the front of the door.

  “It’s not like you have anywhere else to go,” Jake offered artlessly. “You’re not allowed at the rink, are you?”

  The lock of the door abruptly clicked as it cracked open, an angry scowl gleaming in the fading evening. He leaned heavily on a pair of crutches,;one tucked slightly under his arm while he gripped the other tight with his fingers.

  “That’s rude!”

  “Let me in,” Jake grinned back. “And don’t lock me out if you don’t want me to swing the low punches.”

  Crash’s large hand twitched on the door like he was very seriously considering slamming it shut in the physical therapist’s face. But then he considered the two thousand dollars he would waste and what a great hockey stick he could’ve bought with that cash. He stepped solemnly to the side to allow Jake inside.

  Jake surveyed the place curiously. It was the same as before though a bit messier. It was hard for Crash to clean up after himself when he was confined to crutches, after all, and a cleaning service was not exactly something that Crash would ever spend money on. He was a saver, almost obsessively so. He didn’t like to pay for things he could take care of himself. He’d learned car maintenance as a preteen and did his own oil changes and tire rotations, even doing the odd handyman job for his elderly neighbor next door whose husband had passed last winter. She’d been bringing him cookies lately in what Crash supposed was a deliberate attempt to fatten him up. But damn, were those homemade snickerdoodles delicious.

  “How are you doing, Crash?” Jake asked, setting down his bag before turning back to the burly man. “How’s that knee?”

  “It’s great. Amazing even. Perfect. I’m on the upswing,” Crash muttered.

  Jake arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”

  Eagerly, Crash nodded. “I think I’m doing a lot better. Almost normal.”

  “You don’t say?” Jake responded with a faint grin. “What a miracle that would be.”

  “My hockey nickname is Miracle.” Crash lied with an easy shrug. “Happens.”

  “Ready to start your stretches?” Jake continued, changing the subject and rummaging for the mat. “We’ve got some different ones this time.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking. Thinking a lot.” Crash bobbed his head, leaning again on his crutch. “I don’t think these sessions will help me anymore, what with how much my knee has improved on its own. I think it’s a waste of our time and my money.”

  Jake exhaled deeply, hands resting on his hips as he gazed at Crash full in the face; he’d heard this before and he was prepared.

  “Alright.” He shrugged. “If you can take four steps across your living room, I’ll leave here and never look back.”

  Crash blinked once, then twice, dark eyebrows lifting with interest.

  “Only four?”

  “Only four.”

  Crash planted his feet on the ground, curling his fingers around the wood of his crutches. Piece of cake. He’d been hobbling back and forth in his living room all day.

  “Oh no, Crash. No crutches. All you, my man,” Jake interrupted levelly.

  Though his mouth pursed abruptly shut, pinching his whole handsome face together, Crash gave a reluctant nod. He could do that. Right? It was only four.

  “Sure,” he finally concluded. “Easy enough.”

  Jake just smiled. “I hope so.”

  Gingerly, Crash tugged his crutches out from under his arms, biting his lip as he leaned them against the wall. He looked at Jake tentatively, half expecting the therapist to take back his offer, but Jake just gazed back at him, that smile still in place. Though there was a hint of grimness in Jake’s eyes, there was pure stubbornness in Crash’s grey ones.

  Crash frowned intently, inching his recently repaired leg in front of him and pressing it into the carpet.

  “One,” Jake counted aloud, watching as Crash sucked in a sharp breath and lurched his other foot forward, putting all of his weight on his bad knee.

  Stumbling slightly, Crash remained on his feet while Jake gave a slight clap.

  “Two more,” he said lightly, as Crash again placed his bad leg forward.

  Crash hated that there was sweat beading on his brow just from this small movement, that his whole leg felt like it was on fire. It was only a few months ago that he was running sprints on the local track to keep his stamina up.

  With one mighty push, Crash began to move his body forward just as his injured knee gave a loud, painful pop that sent lightning bolts of pure heat searing up Crash’s entire body. He collapsed instantly on the ground, holding his knee and groaning like an arrowed bear.

  “Okay,” Jake said gently, bending down at his side. “Take a deep breath and let’s get you on the yoga mat for some stretches.”

  “Asshole!” Crash grunted, seeing red through the agony. “I was only one step away!”

  “You’ll get there,” Jake promised, patting his arm. “Like I said—”

  “Asshole!” Crash repeated, jerking away from Jake’s touch. “Get out of here! I don’t want to do this anymore! I don’t need rehab!”

  “You couldn’t take four steps, Crash. What is it you think you need?”

  “For you to leave!” Crash roared bitterly.

  Jake’s hands left Crash, and he straightened up to his feet with an ease that made Crash increasingly jealous. For a second, the Montana Miners goalie actually thought Jake was going to obey his demand and walk out the door. Instead, however, Jake gave a simple shrug and headed into the kitchen where the rustle of a pot clanged about.

  “What the… what the hell are you doing in there?” Crash asked as the pain began to slowly fizzle down to a lingering throb.

  He tried to climb to his feet but found h
imself completely unable to move aside from scratching his nails across the carpet. His crutches, only a foot or two away, were just out of his reach. There was nothing he could use to push himself upwards. He felt like a turtle trapped on his back, wagging his limbs in the air.

  “I’m making some tea,” Jake called back from the kitchen. “You clearly needed a minute to relax.”

  “Tea?” Crash echoed resentfully. “You’re making tea? I don’t even have tea here. Do you carry it around in that big bag of torture you’ve got?”

  “No tea?” Jake shot back, sounding as offended as Crash. “You don’t even have some mint teabags sitting around here somewhere? Everyone has mint…”

  “No!” Crash grunted irritably. “Who the hell drinks tea? Or likes mint?”

  “It’s the most popular drink in the world, you know,” Jake retorted sagely. “You should try it.”

  Crash stopped answering at that point, rolling his eyes and staring resignedly up at the ceiling. The last thing he was going to do was argue over the consumption of tea or the purpose of mint.

  Jake returned from the kitchen and extended a hand, head cocking slightly.

  “You ready to get up now?” he asked, subduing a grin that he knew would not help the situation any.

  Crash’s eyes darted around once more, taking in his distinct lack of options.

  Heaving a sigh, he stuck out a hand, allowing Jake to pull him carefully up to his feet. Crash was startled that Jake was strong enough to support his bulky weight. He’d expected both of them to topple right back over again.

  Jake reached out, dragging the crutches over to them and getting Crash back on his feet. His palms were warm on Crash, his fingers gentle, and the hockey player fought a frown when Jake’s arms fell back to his side and left Crash’s skin tingling in their wake. Jake’s eyes quietly met Crash’s, ocean depths churning just slightly enough to make Crash’s throat go tight.

  Abruptly, Jake cleared his throat, looking away again. “Okay. So, we’re going to have some tea and then we’ll get to work.”

  “I don’t have tea,” Crash repeated quietly, his voice croaking faintly.

  “Honey and lemon then.”

  “Is that something you’re supposed to have in your house?”

  Jake sighed and shook his head. He’d noticed the bright sheen on Crash’s dishes and the spotless counters that looked brand new, but he’d just assumed that Crash was a meticulous cleaner.

  “You’ve never used that kitchen, have you?” he asked slowly, as Crash blinked and shook his head.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Five years.” Crash continued blankly, completely oblivious to why Jake looked so startled.

  “How do you eat?” Jake questioned, running a hand through his hair.

  “Order in. Go out,” Crash shrugged. “It’s not like I’m going to hire a personal cook or something.”

  “You don’t…you don’t have to hire a cook,” Jake responded incredulously. “You can just, like, cook yourself. In the kitchen that you own. With those pots and pans that you have.”

  When Crash just continued to stare vacantly at Jake, the therapist heaved a sigh and dropped the subject.

  “Come on then.” Jake sighed, pointing into the living room. “Let’s stretch you out.”

  Chapter Five

  “Crash, we’ve missed you!” Peter beamed at the goalie from over the rim of his beer mug as he lifted it slightly towards Crash. “Without you around, they’ve made me your sub.”

  “Don’t be so mushy, Peter,” Steven, another defenseman on the team, offered with a roll of his eyes before looking back at Crash. “But I’m sure you can imagine how well Peter as goalie goes. It’s like shooting at a cat. He runs away every time.”

  “I don’t run.” Peter pouted. “I just don’t like the way the puck flies at me.”

  Steven pursed his lips at Crash, who tried to chuckle. Even just hearing about the practices was painful.

  “On second thought, Peter is right. We’ve missed you.” Steven sighed.

  Crash glanced around at the other dozen or so men crowded around the small table of the local steakhouse, the scent of grilling meat and charring vegetables wafting through the place like a beautiful symphony of Crash’s favorite things. Though not their full team had come tonight, and neither had their coach who’d been called home to his pregnant wife, seeing even some of his teammates made Crash feel happier than he’d felt since his surgery. It was like he’d finally managed to grab a piece of his life back.

  The only thing that would’ve been better was if Timmy hadn’t shown up.

  The young teammate sat solemnly at the other end of the table beside Peter, downing his beer. He hadn’t spoken a word, which was unusual for him. Crash wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or pleased with the silence. With every sip that Timmy took, his glare at Crash became more intense. For the most part, Crash ignored him, chewing hardy bites of bread the waitress had placed around the table. She’d been wise to lay down at least five baskets for the group of large, muscly men. Their appetites tended to be as big as their shoulders.

  She returned now, a perky young twenty-something with a little notepad in her hand and a bright smile on her cheery face. “Hey, y’all. Can I get you anything? Our special today is the porterhouse, and it is seriously perfect. Like melt in your mouth amazing.”

  “I think you sold us!” Peter interrupted with a huge grin, his wolfish gaze lingering on her like he was hungry for a bit more than steak, though she ignored his look completely.

  Crash rolled his own eyes but nodded. “That’s what I’ll have.”

  “Me too!” Steven piped up, amongst the echoing chorus of agreements until the waitress turned curiously to Timmy, the only one not to have responded, waiting for him to give his order.

  “Same,” he finally muttered, shoving his menu up further onto the table where the waitress had to lean far over to grab hold of it.

  “And what’ll you have to drink, sweetie?” the woman asked, laying a hand on Crash’s shoulder as she gazed down at him. “Can I get you a beer? You look like you need it.” She added, pointing at his bandaged leg with the pen in her other hand.

  Crash frowned, skimming the menu in front of him for the small drink section.

  “There’s no use hitting on him, honey,” Timmy grumbled from the end of the table, his words slurring just slightly together.

  The rest of the team turned their faces towards him almost in unison, confusion written on some of the men’s faces.

  Just how much had Timmy had to drink already?

  “He’s more into the cock than bull, if you know what I mean,” he continued crudely with a drunken giggle that made Peter shake his head and take another swig of his beer.

  The waitress’s face hardened just a bit, though her eyes were soft as she turned back to Crash and gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “You want that beer now? On the house.” She offered softly, gesturing at the bartender behind her to cut off Timmy.

  Crash shook his head begrudgingly. “I wish.” He shrugged. “I can’t. The meds.” He gestured at his knee and sighed, shooting a glance around the table to see who was paying attention before clearing his throat and looking back towards the menu and the one thing that had continued to draw his eye.

  “This uh, this hot raspberry tea here. Is that good?” he whispered as the waitress beamed and nodded.

  “Sure is! Our tea is the best thing on the menu. Besides the porterhouse, anyway.”

  “Tea?” Steven scoffed playfully, chuckling loudly. “You’re drinking tea now? Are you going to stick out your pinky while you sip it?”

  Straightening up and puffing his chest a bit, Crash crossed his arms over his burly chest. “So, what if I am?” He shot back.

  The difference in Steven’s teasing and Timmy’s snark was
almost tangible. Crash knew when someone was acting all in good fun and when someone was trying to get a rise out of him. Steven was one of those people who couldn’t help himself but to joke. He even made fun of himself.

  Steven continued to chuckle lightly, ordering another round of beer for the table, save the already intoxicated defenseman.

  Chewing a hunk of buttery white bread, Crash leaned his elbows on the polished wooden surface and glanced around at his teammates again.

  “How’s practice going?” he asked, hoping that his voice didn’t drip with too much yearning to join them.

  Judging by the sympathy that flickered over Peter’s face, it was not convincing.

  No one spoke for a long moment until Steven cleared his throat.

  “It’s… ah, you know. It’s going,” he offered unhelpfully, averting his eyes.

  Crash ground his teeth hard on the bread, fingers tapping the table. That wasn’t good. Before when the guys would go out for drinks after practice or a game, hockey was all anyone could talk about. Now, everyone stared down at their empty hands and twiddled their thumbs like they were students in a class trying not to get called on.

  While Crash knew that their recent losses had been difficult on them, he somehow hadn’t managed to realize just how bad their morale had become. If only he could come to the practices and liven them up a bit… but Coach was firm on his rules, and Crash didn’t want to risk his position, not that he had much to worry about with Peter as his replacement.

  “How’s that knee?” Steven asked softly, eyes gleaming with the faintest hint of hope that twisted Crash’s heart all up in his chest. “Any better?”

  “Yeah,” Crash offered quietly. “Yep. Loads better. Progress is happening so quick I can’t believe it.”

  Steven’s dimples popped in his cheeks as he grinned with relief. “Thank god. We need you back, Crash. We need you bad.”

  Peter shot a wounded look at Steven but nodded in agreement.

  It tore Crash to pieces to see his team in such a desolate mood. There was no way they’d have any sort of comeback in the next season if they were this depressed during their off time. They were supposed to be getting pumped up and excited for next April, not beaten down and fatigued by stress and disappointment. Crash knew his absence was not helping things. But what choices did he have right now?