Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  "I did break one," he admitted. "But it made me feel worse so I left the rest alone."

  And cleaned it up before continuing the rampage, I realized. Interesting.

  I pulled the blanket back and began massaging his leg in long smooth strokes, aiming to calm and soothe more than work his muscles. A commotion rose in the hall, clearly the players heading back onto the ice, and Magnus called, "Take care, Forrest."

  When quiet again reigned, I said, "Magnus seems nice."

  "He is." He sounded drowsy. He'd fallen asleep during one massage and had been close several other times. I took it as a compliment, but he'd been embarrassed and told me he wasn't sleeping well.

  "Listen," I began, not wanting to upset him but sure we needed to talk. "What happened tonight? You didn't seem right from the start."

  His leg tensed beneath my hands, then he sighed and relaxed it. "I couldn't find my MP3 player and it messed me up. I always listen to it before games and I hate not following the routine. And the stupid fight at the beginning distracted me."

  "Any idea why they fought?"

  "Nope. The other guys don't tell me much."

  I wished I hadn't asked. He wasn't a real team member and he so wanted to be. "Well, it doesn't matter. So you took the puck and headed to the goal. Then what?"

  "I passed their defense and my leg buckled."

  "Any pain?"

  He shook his head without lifting it from the table. "No, it just collapsed. Once I hit the ice it started to hurt, but I don't think it did before."

  "Probably the shock of it giving out," I said. Working cautiously deeper, I found tightness but no new damage. He hadn't made it worse after all.

  But then why had it failed him?

  "I think I need to get my conditioning back."

  "If you're going to suggest more skating, you're crazy."

  "I wasn't, although I think I could use it. Jogging, maybe?"

  I frowned. "You need rest more than anything."

  "Maybe, but I'm going nuts not working out." He paused. "I thought maybe you could come with me."

  Leaving one hand resting on his leg, I turned to face him. "Me? Why?"

  He propped himself up on his elbows. "You could make sure I don't overdo it, although I did try it yesterday and it felt fine."

  "Why not Mike?"

  He shrugged. "Mike's busy with the other guys. He says it's okay, though."

  I pulled my mouth to one side and studied him. Running might be better for his leg than skating and its pushing motions. It wasn't my favorite sport, but I did do it once or twice a month when I didn't feel like swimming. And if Mike approved... "On one condition."

  "Which is?"

  "Don't tell me you're ready to play when we both know you're not."

  "I didn't."

  I raised my eyebrows. "You believed you were ready. No doubts in your mind. Positive the leg had healed."

  He dropped his head back to the table.

  "That's what I thought. Look, if you want to play, I'll help you, but I need to know what's happening so I know how to help."

  He sat up. "You'll help me even if I'm not ready?"

  "I don't want you to play hurt, since it'll slow your recovery. I understand the need to compete, though, trust me. When I was twelve, I swam four races with what we later found out was a sprained wrist because I was determined to swim and insisted I was fine. I'll help you as much as I can, but you have to tell me the truth."

  "I'll try." He lay down. "I don't like admitting weaknesses but I'll try."

  "You're injured, not weak. Totally different." I had a thought. "Swimming would be great. No weight on the leg but still good exercise."

  "I hate swimming."

  "Not even to help your leg?"

  He lay quiet for several seconds then said, "I can't."

  Surprised he wouldn't put aside his dislike of swimming, I said, "Well, then we'll run. But I'm in charge. You do what I say."

  "Got it. You're the boss."

  *****

  I sat at my art table that night studying my miniature and contemplating Forrest. He had such drive to succeed, and it was driving him insane. Should I have refused to run with him? Mike thought it would help, though, and I could keep Forrest from destroying himself. Maybe.

  He'd looked destroyed after the massage when he'd reached into his bag for a water bottle and found his MP3 player in its usual place. With a weak smile, he'd said his mother always claimed a monster had borrowed anything that went missing. I'd agreed a monster was surely to blame, and had been rewarded with a stronger smile, but he'd obviously been too stressed pre-game to see straight.

  I couldn't believe he hadn't made the leg worse. Despite the increased tension, the muscles themselves were stable. When he'd taken the puck from the other team's bad passer he'd looked strong and smooth and powerful.

  And then, with a clear shot at the goal, he'd collapsed.

  He wanted the team to respect him. Had his leg buckled under the weight of that need? Or was it his fiancée? She'd never seen him play with the Hogs; had she somehow dragged him down?

  I didn't know. And I wanted to.

  I set the miniature aside and picked up my sketchbook. There was so much going on in him, and the only way I knew to get inside his head was art. My piece was fine so far, but I needed more.

  I sat staring at the blank page, letting my mind play with ideas, flip them and twist them and combine them. When the creative energy buzzing through me grew too much to resist, I began to sketch. I drew a hockey stick first, then replaced it with an ice rink. Yes, the ice rink I'd started with, and all the fans would have Forrest's face. Why? I didn't know, but it felt right. Still, making twenty thousand fans to fill an arena was a bigger project than I wanted to take on, even for Forrest, so I decided to make and fill only the first row of seats.

  It would be a hockey game, but I wanted more depth so I kept playing with designs and possibilities until I was too tired to continue, my brain stunned silent. Despite my fatigue, delight filled me at the wanton creativity of it, the way ideas built on each other and created other ideas. I loved that feeling, like they were creating themselves through me and I just had to get out of their way and let them come.

  I put away my materials, and checked my email. Still nothing from the art gallery. Relieved and disappointed at once, I closed the email program, but I realized what I hadn't checked as it shut down. I restarted it and opened the junk mail folder, and sure enough the response lurked there.

  Dear artist,

  Your work does not meet our needs at this time. Another gallery might feel differently, so keep trying.

  Sincerely,

  Fielding Gallery

  The email had arrived fifteen minutes after I'd sent it. Fifteen whole minutes to analyze the six pictures I'd sent and reject me. I forwarded the message to Jen, with no comment since I didn't have one, then turned off the computer and sat staring at its blank screen.

  Now what? I couldn't get a gallery without contacts and I couldn't get contacts without a gallery. Maybe through an art school? But they probably wouldn't help because I wasn't a student.

  I would try, though. I was meant to be an artist, I knew it. I had to persevere.

  The rejection tainted the joy I'd felt while sketching, so I forced it from my mind and headed to bed, considering instead the next phases of Forrest's piece, the building and revising and tinkering. I loved them all.

  When art became my career I might lose some freedom and flexibility. I didn't want to, but I might have to.

  No. I wouldn't. I'd do it my way. Why would it have to change?

  Chapter Six

  "I damn near drove off the road when I saw you two." Mike glared at Forrest. "How could you? You're threatening the whole team's season."

  "Never mind how much you could have hurt yourself," I put in, nearly as angry as Mike. "What were you thinking?"

  Forrest's eyes flicked toward the door, but Mike and I blocked his escape. "I to
ld you both I needed to keep my conditioning."

  Even though I longed to pound him into pulp then reassemble him so I could beat him up again, I couldn't help admiring his strength and determination. "But you knew you shouldn't."

  "I felt fine," he began, his eye twitching again, but Mike shut him down.

  "I told you not to run, didn't I? Told you weeks ago." He slammed the heel of his hand against the massage room's abused wall, sending a few shards of plaster drifting toward the floor. "Damn it, Forrest, if you don't care about yourself, think about the team. You wouldn't drop the morning skate like I suggested, and I didn't fight you, but running was just stupid. And selfish."

  Forrest's hands closed into fists and he took a step closer to Mike, who moved forward too, apparently not intimidated by the good five inches Forrest had on him.

  I figured I'd better step in. "Okay, look. Yes, he's been out for three runs with me. He shouldn't have, but he did, so now what?"

  "First off, no more running. And a few days off, no skating at all. Lots of stretching and massage, though."

  "No way," Forrest said before I could agree. "I won't take time off."

  "Then I give up." Mike hit the wall again. "I can't work with you if you won't do as you're told."

  Forrest took a breath, and I spoke quickly, afraid he'd say something he'd never be able to take back. "Star players don't do that, do they? Blindly follow orders?"

  Mike's expression showed me the thought, "He's not a star at the moment," cruising around in his head, and I begged him mentally to keep it to himself.

  My plea must have made it through, because he said, reluctance in his tone, "No, they don't." Regrouping, he went on. "But he can't just do the opposite either. And lying's no good."

  "That's for sure." I turned to Forrest, now sitting on the massage table with his arms folded. "We need to listen to you, but you need to listen to us. Well, to Mike, anyhow."

  "No, to you too," Mike said.

  I looked at him, surprised.

  "Hey, I'm not stupid. You've got way more time since Forrest's the only one you work with, and what you're doing is helping."

  I smiled, and he added, his eyes fixed past my left shoulder, "I'm sorry about earlier. I should have known you wouldn't go against me like that. I was a bit harsh."

  He'd met me at the arena door and yelled at me for a solid minute, calling me irresponsible and divisive and stupid, before leaving enough of a gap for me to ask what on earth he meant. 'A bit harsh' was an understatement, but once I'd realized what Forrest had done I hadn't blamed him. Much.

  Mike stepped closer to Forrest. "I won't apologize to you, though. The team needs you, and you're acting like a child."

  Ignoring Forrest's protest, Mike went on. "So I'll treat you like one. You need to tell me everything you do, everything you eat and drink, every last second you exercise. I don't have to know every time you breathe, but pretty much. Got it?"

  Forrest considered. "Can I report to Tess instead?"

  My mouth fell open.

  Mike's "Why?" sounded mostly surprised but also hurt.

  "It's like you said, she's got more time." Forrest shot me a look I couldn't interpret, vaguely conspiratorial. "Plus, she wants to help me more than just with massage, so why not let her?"

  Had I said that?

  No, I'd said I'd help him play, even if he wasn't ready. He assumed I'd let him do more than he should and help him hide it from Mike.

  Well, I'd help him all right, but he wouldn't like it.

  "It's all right with me, Mike," I said, keeping my voice neutral, "if you don't mind."

  "Okay, fine. But I still think he needs some days off."

  "I'm thinking a full week."

  Forrest leapt from the table like it had burst into flames. "You can't be serious. I need to work more, not less."

  "And you thought I'd help you with that? Think again. You're exhausted. Look at your poor eye."

  He pressed a finger to the twitching skin. "I feel fine."

  "Sure," I said, "because all the stress is exploding into twitches."

  "I can still skate even with a twitchy eye."

  "Not for a week, you can't."

  "I changed my mind," Forrest said to Mike. "I'll work with you instead."

  Mike shook his head, his mouth pulling into a grin of evil delight. "Oh, no, this is perfect." Turning to me, he said, "You'll let me know what he's up to, right?"

  "Every day."

  He winked at me and walked out, leaving me with the livid Forrest.

  "You promised you'd help me."

  "I am. Come on, you're asleep even before I start the massages now. Your leg is so tense I can hardly do anything with it, your shoulders are so high they could be earrings, and your eye's twitching non-stop. You need the rest."

  He tried to answer but I went on. "Stop lying to yourself. You know you're exhausted. I see you sneaking extra breaks in practice. You're ruining yourself and it needs to stop. Sometimes the best thing to do is take a break."

  He stared at me, his jaw set but the fury fading from his eyes.

  "Forrest, take the week. Seven days." I studied the Hogs calendar on the wall. "That'll be next Wednesday."

  "Tuesday."

  "Today doesn't count, since you skated this morning. I'll take you to my friend's yoga class tonight, and we'll go for walks too. Wednesday you can skate again, and you'll have three days to practice before Saturday's game. Okay?"

  When he didn't answer, I turned to see him sitting on the edge of the table, head in his hands. "I need to get better."

  The desperation in his voice made my breath catch. I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder. "It'll happen."

  He took hold of my wrist, keeping my hand in place. Without raising his head, he said, "I didn't just ask to work with you to scam Mike."

  "No?"

  He shook his head. "Everybody else only cares about the team. Mike was talking about what I'd done to the other guys, but you talked about what I did to me. It's different. I feel like you..." He dropped his head still lower and didn't finish the sentence.

  A lump the size of a hockey puck rose in my throat. How horrible, with everyone depending on you, to be unable to perform to your own standards. I put my other hand on his shoulder then couldn't stop it sliding around his back.

  He stiffened, then leaned forward and wrapped his arms around my waist, hunching over and pressing his forehead into my shoulder.

  I held him tight with both arms, trying to take away his pain. I couldn't be the only one who cared about him. Could I?

  *****

  By that evening, I wasn't even sure I cared. He didn't make it easy.

  After holding onto me in silence for a good minute, he'd pulled away and left without a word.

  I'd called after him, "Spend the afternoon resting, okay?"

  "Fine," he'd said without looking back, so shortly I couldn't hear anything in his voice.

  Suspicious, I'd asked Mike to make sure the team's gym would keep Forrest out. Mike had done me one better and also warned Forrest's private gym, and sure enough Forrest had tried to get into both places.

  Our greeting was cool at best, and he muttered, "Still can't believe you had Mike call the gyms," as we walked into the community centre.

  "Can't you?" The outrage I'd felt all afternoon rose again. "Well, I can't believe you'd try to go after agreeing you wouldn't, so I guess we're even."

  He stalked into the men's change room without answering, and I hurried to change so I could beat him into the studio.

  Jen, standing at the front ready to teach, said, "He's really here? I can't wait to meet him."

  I nodded. "Watch out, though, he's in a mood."

  "You did tell him about the other students, right?" She glanced at the arriving ladies, all residents of the local seniors' home.

  I grinned. "He wouldn't be here if I had."

  "If he doesn't kill you, can I get his autograph?"

  I didn't have a cha
nce to answer. Forrest, in sweat pants and a t-shirt that did nothing to hide his muscular build, stood frozen in the doorway, his widened eyes flicking over his classmates.

  Jen drew a quick breath. "You touch that every day?"

  "Four times a day, actually."

  "Damn. I'm in the wrong career."

  Leaving her to stare, I headed for Forrest. He backed away but I reached him before he could bolt.

  "You are evil," he said, shaking his head. "You didn't tell me about this."

  "Didn't I? Come meet my best friend."

  To my amusement, he flustered the usually articulate Jen so much she could barely squeak out her request for an autograph. He obliged, smiling, and Jen couldn't even thank him coherently, her face such a bright red I feared for her blood pressure.

  Forrest and I found space at the back, and he said, "Why don't I impress you that much?"

  "Because she's wanted to meet a player for years. She actually likes hockey."

  "And you only like torturing me."

  "It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it," I said, then shushed him so we could hear the still-pink-cheeked Jen.

  My two years in her advanced class made these beginner poses simple for me. Forrest, on the other hand...

  He tried, I had to give him that, but he had even less flexibility than I'd expected.

  "This isn't possible," he complained under his breath, trying to put his palms on the floor with his knees straight.

  "Bend a bit if you have to."

  "I am."

  I turned to look; his knees made almost a ninety degree angle, but his fingertips barely brushed the floor. "Bend more."

  "It's because I'm tall." He pulled himself upright, his face disgusted. "You can do it because you're short."

  I stood up too. "I'm five feet seven, which isn't short. And anyhow, that only matters if you're all legs, which you're not."

  "It's easier for you," he insisted.

  "Fine. Touch my toes instead."

  As he bent forward, I recognized the stupidity of my suggestion and struggled not to laugh.

  He straightened. "You did that on purpose."

  "I didn't," I said, a snicker escaping.

  Several ladies shot glares at us.

  "Behave yourself, woman, you're in class," he whispered, shaking his head in mock disapproval. The corners of his mouth twitched with suppressed amusement, though, and when our eyes met we fought the giggles together for a few seconds before settling down.