Chapter Seven

Keely

After leaving the hospital yesterday, I went straight home and got to work on brushing up on my knowledge of meniscus injuries and how best to go forward. I called my old PT, Dr. Jacobs, and she was helpful in devising a plan for his therapy.

Just as I got off the phone with Dr. Jacobs, I got a text.

Unknown: Hi Keely. This is Penelope Roberts. The Assistant General Manager for the Hawkeyes. The property management company confirmed your apartment is available but you won't be able to move in until they re-key it. They said they'll have someone down there in two days to get you new keys.

I instantly add Penelope to my phone. I have a feeling I'll need her contact information.

Keely: Thanks Penelope. That won't be a problem. I'll get the key whenever they have it.

Penelope: Great! I'll keep you posted. Thank you for being so flexible and jumping in to help Reeve on such short notice.

Keely: I owe him one.

The next day, I spend most of it rushing around from store to store picking up everything that I think Reeve might need when he gets home.

Though my job title is PT for this position, in all reality, my responsibilities will be significantly more extensive than that.

Already today, I picked up crutches, a wheelchair, and a shower walker since Reeve won't be allowed to submerge his surgery incisions until the stitches dissolve on their own, and a few other things to make his life a little easier.

Brent Tomlin, the Hawkeyes left wing and Slade Matthews, the center, who also all live in The Commons, came by earlier to grab the wheelchair from the apartment and a pair of loose gym shorts and a t-shirt for Reeve to come home in before they left for the hospital to pick him up.

I also picked up all of his meds from the pharmacy and a few PT items that we'll be able to use during our stretches, which I'll want to start him on as soon as possible. If we want to get him back on the ice in six weeks and I want to earn that PT opening position, he and I both have our work cut out for us.

Standing in the kitchen, organizing his meds, I notice one important item is missing. There are no pain meds in the pharmacy bag. I didn't bother to go through the bottles when they handed me the bag, I just assumed it would all be there.

I pulled out the list of prescriptions on the receipt and noticed that no pain meds were listed there either.

Weird.

I'll have to call the hospital and ask them to send a new prescription to the pharmacy for me. He'll need them to get through the pain of the surgery but also the hoops I'm about to make him jump through to get him fit to skate again.

I pick up my phone to call, but then I hear the front door of the apartment open.

"We're home!" I hear a male voice call out.

The sound of a wheelchair being pushed down the short hallway into the large one-bedroom apartment echoes through the space, and then I see Brent pushing Reeve toward the living room with Slade behind them, carrying a backpack, a pillow, and a sleeping bag.

"Are those crutches?" Reeve asks, his eyes wide with interest.

I can already tell that the coloring in his cheeks is better today than it was yesterday after surgery. But post-surgery pain is the worst twenty-four to forty-eight hours after surgery so things will get worse before they get better, especially if I can't get his pain meds filled today.

"Yes, why?" I ask but he's already starting to stand out of the wheelchair on one leg, his other leg lifted enough not to touch the ground.

He groans out in pain, but his face shows he's determined.

"Whoa, whoa," Brent calls out, trying to keep the wheelchair steady.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Slade says, trying to get around Brent and the wheelchair before Reeve crashes to the ground.

I bolt around the kitchen island, headed straight for him. "Reeve, hold on, let me help you."

"I've had enough of being carted around in a wheelchair by this maniac. Thank God he decided on a career in the NHL and not in NASCAR. His car wouldn't make it even one lap around the track still in one piece. Plus, I'm starving. The hospital food sucks."

I pull the crutches off the couch where I leaned them up against it earlier. I part the two crutches and then hand Reeve each one, standing close by until they're tucked safely under his armpits, just in case he loses balance.

"Thanks for picking all this stuff up," he says, his amber eyes connecting with mine, a soft smile across his lips.

The height of the crutches will need to be adjusted because he's so tall, but he's already hobbling his way over toward the kitchen. He tries to hide the groans of pain each time he takes a step with the crutches, but I hear them.

"What?" Brent says, gaining our attention again and tosses his hands up. "I ran him into one gurney on the way down the hall. No one was even on it, and now he refuses to give me a 5-star review for my transportation services."

"Yeah, can you believe the nerve?" Slade teases, heading for the living room.

"You ran me into a parked truck in the parking lot," Reeve says, already scouring through the fridge for something to eat.

"Such a baby. You grazed the bummer at best." Then Brent looks over at me when he realizes that he won't get sympathy from Reeve or Slade. "Typical goalie. Such an ice princess. He doesn't know anything about being slammed against the sidewalls. If he did, he wouldn't be grumbling about a low-speed fender bender with hospital equipment."

I laugh and then I notice Slade dropping the pillow, sleeping bag and backpack on the couch in the living room.

"What's all that for? Reeve didn't have that in the hospital with him, did he?" I ask, though I know the answer based on what he had in the ambulance when we showed up.

"I'm staying the night tonight--doctor's orders. They want someone with him tonight," Slade says.

"Overkill. I'll be fine," Reeve mutters from the kitchen, with a mozzarella cheese stick in one hand and a chocolate protein shake in the other.

"Well, if someone has to stay, I'll do it. You don't need to. My apartment isn't ready yet, so I'll take your spot on the couch."

Brent and Slade both look at Reeve for his answer.

When my attention shifts to him in the kitchen, he's standing there as if he just stopped eating when I proposed the new sleeping arrangement.

"I just got hired to help during his recovery,it makes more sense. And my uncle Oakley's apartment is over fifteen minutes from here so if he needs something, I won't have to drive across town," I say, looking at all three of them since no one has answered.

Slade and Brent keep their eyes on Reeve, waiting for his answer.

"Plus, she actually knows what the fuck she's doing with the meds. Slade would end up giving you too much of something and you'd end up foaming at the mouth of having the runs for a month--some shit like that," Brent shifts his gaze to me. "Oh... sorry for the cursing."

"It's fine," I chuckle.

I'm used to the locker room talk, so cursing is the least offensive thing I've ever heard.

"I can read a prescription bottle, Brent; I'm not stupid," Slade says.

"I wouldn't be so sure. The jury's still out, and they're taking a long weekend."

Reeve and I both laugh--our eyes connecting--and then he downs the last of his protein shake.

"Are you sure you're okay with staying? I doubt you snore as loud as Slade."

"Hey! I heard that," Slade says in the living room.

"Is that the prerequisite? Whoever snores the quietest gets to stay?" I ask.

Though I wouldn't blame him. He probably didn't sleep well last night.

It's hard sleeping in a hospital with machines going off and nursing staff coming in frequently to check on vitals.

"And you'd better like the Discovery Channel."

"The Discovery Channel? Really? Why?"

"Shark week," Brent and Slade say in unison.

"Your teammates know you well."

Reeve just shrugs, opening up a cardboard pizza box that he just pulled from the fridge. I'm guessing leftovers from earlier this week. Or at least I hope so.

"Well then, if you don't need us, we'll get out of your hair and let you get settled," Brent tells me. "But if you need any help, let us know. Most of the players live in this building, except Kaenan Altman and me. But we're all available to babysit the cripple if you need to run an errand."

"Oh, speaking of," I say, reaching for my phone. "I need to call the hospital and tell them that they forgot to send your pain meds to the pharmacy."

The three of them share a look as I unlock my phone.

"You don't need to make that call, Keely," Reeve says.

I can't tell if it's my imagination or if Brent and Slade squirm at Reeve's response like they know something I don't.

"Why not? You're going to be in pain as soon as whatever they gave you in the hospital wears off," I protest.

This doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't he want the meds? He was hit by a car not even thirty-six hours ago.

"We're taking off. We'll see you guys later," Slade says, grabbing his pillow, sleeping bag, and backpack off the couch and heads for the front door.

"I'm serious about calling any of us. There's a Hawkeyes contact list magnetized on the side of the fridge. We all have one and everyone's name and number from the franchise are on there. Call day or night," Brent says.

I nod, and then Brent turns, taking one last look at Reeve.

"Looks like you're going to be in good hands tonight. Lucky bastard," Brent says with a grin and then leaves, following Slade out.

I wait until I hear the door shut on the apartment and then I ask the question.

"What's the deal with the pain meds?"

"I just don't need them. I don't like the way they make me feel different. I need to stay sharp out on the ice at all times. I don't drink during the season unless we win our game that night and I go out with the guys to celebrate. Then I stick to a two-beer minimum."

He finishes his fourth slice of pizza and then motions to the last slice as if to ask if I want it.

"No thanks, I ate before I got here."

He picks up the last slice to polish off the leftover box.

"Is there any other reason I should be aware of for why you don't want to use prescription narcotics to handle your pain? The more I know, the better I can help you."

He shakes his head, picking up the empty box and dumping it in the recycle bin. "Nope," he says simply.

"I'm going to be asking you to push through your limits in order for us to get you back out on the ice and ready to play. You're going to be in a lot of pain without some kind of pain management."

"Give me your worst Doc, I can handle it. If I couldn't, I wouldn't have survived the last twenty-five years of my life dedicated to a career in hockey."

"I'm going to remind you of the big talk you just laid down when you're on your knees begging me for mercy when we start getting to the real work."

"Keke," he says, leaning over the island and using a new nickname that I've never heard him use before. "I have no doubt in my mind that before this is all over, you'll have me on my knees...begging."

We hold each other's stare for a moment, and then I clear my throat. No matter what I want or what he wants, I have to remind myself that being his PT is the only thing that can happen between us or else it could cost him sponsorship deals or even his career.

He doesn't know it yet, and I'm too embarrassed to tell him, but getting involved with me isn't worth it.

"Come on. My knee is starting to hurt," he says. "Come sit with me and watch the Discovery channel while I ice it."

"Oh... you're actually serious about the Discovery Channel?" I ask.

"Well, yeah, only a psychopath would lie about that. But first, let's get you out of the scrubs," he says heading for his bedroom.

I follow him into his room—he pulls out one of his old high school hockey t-shirts and a pair of boxer briefs. "They might be a little big on you but they're better than the scrubs you have."

"You don't like the scrubs?" I ask.

"It makes me feel like you're an in-home care nurse, and I'm your geriatric patient. I'm all for role-play, but with the potential of retiring from hockey if I don't recover back to optimal condition, it hits a little close to home, you know?"

I just chuckle and pick up the clothes he lays on the bed.

"Good to know. I won't wear the scrubs anymore if you don't like them. How about you head for the couch and get comfortable? I'll change, and then I'll grab the ice pack."

"I think I have a brand-new gallon of Rocky Road ice cream in the freezer. Grab two spoons."

He starts working his way slowly to the couch.

For the love of God, Keely... you're so close to your dream of working for a professional team.

Whatever you do, don't fall in love with Reeve Aisa.