Chapter 6 Then

His knuckles were white again.

Gripping a chair. Gripping the refrigerator door. Gripping his crutches. It didn't matter. For the last four weeks, ever since his injury, Connor had held everything in a tight fist. I'd mentioned it once, but it only upset him. He'd yelled that cripples had to hold on tight, so they didn't fall. But he wasn't even standing now. He was sitting in the penalty box, behind the Plexiglas barrier, watching his team practice while white-knuckling the hockey stick lying across his lap.

He was angry and tense, scared he would never get back on the ice. I understood that. But the constant state of stress wasn't healthy for his recovery. So I tried to ease the pressure without calling attention to the fact that it existed at all.

"Hey." I took the seat next to him and pried his fingers from the hockey stick. Bringing his hand to my mouth, I forced it open and kissed his palm. "How has your day been?"

Connor frowned and motioned to the ice. "Franklin is getting better and better. The kid is faster than me and more agile, too."

Brimley Franklin was filling in as center, the position my husband played. At twenty-three, he was hungry for playing time and eager to make a name for himself. I weaved my fingers with Connor's. "He doesn't hold a candle to you."

"Don't patronize me." He wrenched his hand from mine and pushed to his feet. "Let's get out of here. I need to get my bag from the locker room and then stop at the pain management clinic before we go home. I forgot something there yesterday."

"Oh. Okay."

He stormed off before I'd even finished speaking. The team doctor walked over while I stood outside the locker room, waiting for Connor.

"Hey, Meredith. How are you doing?"

"I'm good. How are you, Dr. Gallo?"

"Tomorrow's the big day, right? Fitz starts PT?"

I nodded. "It is. I'm really excited. It's been a tough month. Connor isn't so great at sitting around. He can't see the progress happening with internal healing. I'm hoping the physical therapy shows him there's a light at the end of the tunnel."

He patted my shoulder. "Don't worry. He'll get there. Anxious is normal. He wouldn't be the player he was if he wasn't chomping at the bit."

I nodded. But it wasn't the anxiousness I was worried about. It was the anger. Last night Connor had thrown a glass at the wall when I'd questioned whether he needed to attend every practice and every away game. The question had been innocent. I wasn't sure of the rules or what he was contractually obligated to do. Yet he had turned red and the veins in his neck bulged.

My husband and I had been together for a long time. I'd witnessed his every shade of pissed off over the years, but it had never been directed at me. Something about his anger lately was different. Though I didn't dare mention that to Dr. Gallo. I didn't mention it to anyone.

During the car ride to the pain management clinic, Connor and I made small talk. I told him I'd gotten two new patients today, referrals from others I'd treated. But that seemed to upset him, too.

"What are you going to do with all these patients when you have a baby?"

Considering you had to actually have sex to get pregnant, something my husband had lost interest in since his injury, I didn't think it was a pressing issue.

"We spoke about this. I'll hire someone."

"I don't want a nanny watching our kid all the time."

I glanced at him and back to the road. "I meant I would hire someone at my practice. Another psychiatrist. A part-timer, maybe."

Connor's jaw flexed. "Must be nice to have the future look so bright."

I wasn't taking the bait. He could find something to fight about in anything I said or did lately. Instead, I reached over and rested my hand over the balled fist that sat on his lap. "My future looks bright because it's with you."

He ignored my comment and pointed up ahead to the clinic. "There isn't an open spot. Just double-park and put the flashers on. I'll run in."

Once I'd stopped, I opened my car door so I could go around and help Connor out.

He shook his head and motioned to the door. "Close it. I don't need help. I won't be long."

As soon as he went inside, the spot directly in front of the building opened up. So I parallel parked at the curb to make it easier for traffic to pass. When I'd finished, a cell started to ring, but it wasn't mine. Connor had left his phone in the cupholder. Elite Physical Therapy flashed on the screen, so I answered.

"Hello?"

"Hi. May I speak to Mr. Fitzgerald, please?"

"Umm… He's not available at the moment. This is his wife, Meredith. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Maybe. This is Elite Physical Therapy. Mr. Fitzgerald has an appointment tomorrow at nine. We were hoping we could push that back to eleven. One of our therapists had an emergency and is going to be out for a few days, so we're trying juggle all of our appointments."

I looked over at the door to the clinic. No sign of Connor yet. "Can you hang on for two minutes? I want to double-check with him. He also has practice, and I know he doesn't like to miss. It'll just be a moment or two."

"Of course. No problem."

I got out of the car and went inside the clinic. Connor wasn't in the lobby, so I walked up to the front desk. The woman was on the phone but covered the receiver. "I'm on hold. Can I help you?"

"Yes. My husband is somewhere in here, Connor Fitzgerald. He just walked in." I held up his cell phone. "He has a phone call that's important. Can you possibly let him know?"

"Can I see some identification, please?"

"Sure."

I dug into my purse and showed the woman my driver's license.

"Sorry," she said. "He's a pretty big deal, so I wanted to make sure you weren't a fan."

I smiled. "I am a fan. His biggest one."

The woman thumbed toward the door behind her. "I'm on hold with an insurance company that's impossible to reach. Mr. Fitzgerald went in the back to speak to the PA. It's the last door on the right, if you don't mind going back yourself. We were just closing up, so there's no one else back there."

"Thank you."

The long hallway had a half-dozen doors, all closed. Light streamed onto the floor from the last room at the end. As I approached, Connor's voice came through a doorway, loud and angry.

"Give me a break. I'm six foot four and two hundred and forty-five pounds. I don't take the same dose as most of your patients."

"It's not the dose I'm concerned with," a man replied. "It's how long you've been on them. You should be weaned off by now, or at least tapering. You shouldn't have as much pain after four weeks of healing. And if you do, we need to consider that something else might be wrong."

I stopped a few feet from the door, holding my breath to listen in.

"Well, I do. So give me the fucking script. I have PT starting tomorrow, and I need to be able to work my knee."

A loud sigh. "This is the last time, Connor. I mean it."

My heart quickened. Apparently, I wasn't the only one concerned my husband was eating oxycodone like they were Tic Tacs.

I waited a minute before approaching the door. When I popped my head in, Connor scowled. "Why are you in here?"

"You have a call from the physical therapy place. It sounded important." I handed him his phone.

Back at home, he disappeared into the shower while I made dinner. When he came out, the chicken was in the oven cooking, and I was in the living room straightening up.

Connor looked around, eyes narrowed. "Where's my bag?"

Unlike most players, my husband didn't leave his hockey equipment in the locker room after practices. He schlepped a big bag back and forth every day. During the season, it pretty much sat next to our front door whenever he was home. But when we'd walked in earlier, his crutch had caught on the bag's shoulder strap and almost caused him to trip.

"I put it in the closet."

"Why?"

"It got tangled in your crutches when we came in. I figured you wouldn't be using it for a while, so why not put it away?"

He hobbled over to the closet on his crutches and ripped the door open. Pulling the bag out, he flung it at the front door. It hit with a loud bang.

"It belongs there."

I held up my hands. "Fine. I was only trying to help."

"I don't need any fucking help," he grumbled and turned, disappearing into our bedroom, slamming the door hard enough that our walls shook.

Once again, I did my best to ignore it, despite the pang of frustration in my gut. Deep down I knew he wasn't really angry at me, though I was getting tired of it being directed my way. When dinner was ready, I set the table and put food out. Connor appeared after I was already seated and eating by myself.

He held on to the back of the chair across from me and hung his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped down your throat."

I ripped off a piece of bread and swirled it in the sauce on my plate. "You've been doing that a lot lately, Connor."

He raked a hand through his hair. "I know. I'm an asshole. I just feel so useless, and I don't know what I'll do if I can't play again. It makes me feel all this rage inside. But I shouldn't be taking it out on you. It's not an excuse for treating you badly. I'm really sorry, babe. You've been amazing through this. I'll do better. I promise."

I nodded. "I'm concerned about you, Connor. Mood swings and anger are side effects of opioid abuse."

A beat of silence.

Then it was like a switch flipped. His face twisted with anger. "Opioid abuse? My mood is not a side effect of the damn painkillers, Doctor. It's a side effect of my career being over at twenty-fucking-nine. Of course I'm goddamn angry." Connor shook his head. "I can't expect you to understand, not when your career is taking off so fast you have to hire someone to have a damn baby."

"That's not fair."

He moved toward the door on his crutches. "Yeah, right, my comment is what's not fair."

I stood. "Connor, wait. Don't run away. Let's talk."

"Why, so you can psychoanalyze me like I'm a patient? No, thanks." He ripped open the front door and hopped through. "Don't wait up. One of us has to work in the morning."

I sighed as the door slammed shut. So much for his promise to do better.