Page 43 of Top Shelf
I huffed, but it was a garbage salad. It had been one of those ready-made Caesar salads with something that might have once been chicken. I’d only managed a few bites before I gave up. I needed to get my actual shit together.
“So…yes?”
Right. She needed an answer. “Yep. Yes. I’ll text you my order.” I tried for a smile, but whatever I managed was not that, at least going by the look on her face. “Thanks, Rachel. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’m going to finish up here and then take off. Have a good night!”
I watched her walk off, and then I took a breath and finally looked at my phone. Three minutes past five. That was going to bother Ferris. He probably knew doctors were always late, but I was profoundly aware of how important his schedule was to him.
I nearly tripped over my own feet trying to move faster than my legs wanted to go, but I caught myself and didn’t get a concussion as I made my way around the corner and through the heavy door that led to the waiting room.
Ferris was there, staring down at his fingers, which were fidgeting in a sort of sharp pattern against each other. He jolted when the door opened, then looked up at me with his wide, dark eyes. His lips curved into a smile, and my heart flipped upside down in my chest.
“Mr. Redding.”
He winced. I knew he hated being called that, but I didn’t have a choice. This was my job.
“You ready to start?”
He pushed himself to stand, then grabbed his crutches and limped heavily past me. I caught a whiff of his soap—stronger this time—and realized his hair was wet. He’d just showered. Was that for me?
God, I had to stop thinking that way. I was the one setting the firmer boundaries with him. I couldn’t let myself want shit like that.
“How has your day been?” I asked as I led the way to the clinic room.
“Um. It wasn’t that great. My mom is starting to make me stressed-out, and I miss my bed. The one at her place isn’t very comfortable. It’s like your hotel bed.” He froze, and I glanced back at him when I heard the noise of the crutches go silent. “Are you still at the hotel?”
I laughed and shook my head. “No, thank god. I have a real house with an expensive mattress.Andall my own furniture.”
His shoulders relaxed. “It took me a long time to get used to the frat house, but now it’s like home. I think moving out will be hard.”
I started up walking again, as much as I wanted to just stand there and listen to him. I couldn’t let myself get derailed from the fact that he was my patient and I was meant to be treating him.
After swiping my badge, the doors clicked open, and I stood aside for Ferris to enter first. The room still smelled a bit like sweat and that weird scent elderly people got from being in the hospital for too long. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ferris wrinkle his nose, then press his sleeve to it.
“Let me start up the fans. Go ahead and have a seat.” I gestured to one of the tables with fresh paper on it. “Get your boot off, and we’ll work through some stretches.”
He bit his lip and didn’t move.
“You okay?”
“It’s going to hurt today. Isn’t it?” His voice sounded very small.
Turning, I abandoned my trip to the fan switch and approached him carefully. There were cameras, so I couldn’t do the thing I wanted, which was to take him into my arms and kiss him until his entire body went lax. Instead, I took his free hand and squeezed the way I knew he liked.
He let out a small sigh, and his gaze met mine for longer than usual.
“It’s going to hurt, but each appointment is going to get a little bit better. Maybe not less painful at first, but your flexibility and range of motion will start going back to normal.”
He let out a breath, then nodded. “Alright. I’m ready for it.”
I wasn’t sure he was telling the truth, but I had to trust him. I let him go, a slow drag of fingers across his palm, and then before I could do anything foolish, I turned away and walked toward the fans so we could get started.
Ferris tookthe appointment like a champ. He was sweating and holding back tears by the time it was over, but I could already tell he was bouncing back. Maybe if my injury had happened when I was ten years younger—before the NHL took such a massive toll on my body—I would have had a second chance to make a comeback.
But I realized, as I helped him sit in a chair and get his boot back on, I wasn’t bitter. It felt good to know that the work I was doing would help him put his feet where mine had once been. God, I wanted to see him on the ice.
I wanted to see the way his body moved when he skated. I wanted to see the ferocity in his eyes when he blocked each shot. I wanted to see the expression on his face when their team won because he gave them a shutout.
