Todd wasn't happy about my decision to relocate, but I think he understood. While we've been attempting to make a go of this long-distance relationship, the stresses that are piling on top of me do nothing more than push Todd to the bottom of my priority list, and that just adds more guilt on top of what I already suffer on any given day.
"...and I could probably swing next weekend," I hear Todd say.
I push up from the bed, scrub my hand over my face. "I'm sorry...next weekend?"
"To come visit," he says with hurt in his voice. "Were you even listening to me?"
"Yes, of course," I lie, feeling another slice of guilt. "Next weekend would be good. It's the last free weekend I'll have before we start into preseason games, so things will get really hectic."
"Look...Vale," Todd says, and I can hear resignation in his voice. "If this isn't working for you..."
"No," I exclaim quickly, and then soften my voice. "It is. It will. We'll make it work. I just...it's been stressful starting with the Cold Fury. But it will settle down, I promise."
Silence.
A slight clearing of his throat.
Finally, with some relief in his voice, "Okay, then...I'll fly in next Friday night and we'll make a weekend of it."
"I can't wait," I say, and I hate how I have to force enthusiasm in my voice.
"And maybe we could get a hotel...so we could have some privacy," he says in a low voice. "I really miss you."
I wonder if Hawke is still here. Perhaps sitting back in the living room with Dad, large frame stretched out on the couch. Those jeans fitting a little too perfectly...
I give a vigorous shake to my head and scream internally at myself to stop thinking about Hawke. I focus...make myself think of Todd with his light blond hair and kind brown eyes. The sweet way he kisses, and the gentle way he...
Hawke wasn't often gentle. He could be, but he liked it rough and tumble...just like me.
F-u-u-u-c-k!
My hand goes to my hair and I pull hard on a lock of it, trying to force my thoughts to settle down.
"Yes," I say quickly and with total focus on Todd and his sweet, romantic ways. "A hotel room would be nice. Just me and you and a lot of catching up together."
"Awesome," he says, and the relief in his voice is almost painful to me.
"Okay, I'm going to grab a shower and get to bed. Five o'clock rolls around pretty early for me," I say softly.
"All right, sweetie. Take care of yourself. Talk tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow," I tell him, and then say, "Good night."
I know my first move should be to get my ass in the shower so I could indeed get some much-needed sleep, but instead, I head back out to the living room. I immediately see Dad still sitting in his recliner and I can tell just from the lack of tense vibes in the air that Hawke is gone.
Dad angles his head and looks at me with a censuring smile. "Why were you so rotten to Hawke?"
I walk around the couch and plop down on one end. Swinging my legs up so I'm facing my dad, I say with a shrug, "I don't know. It's just awkward."
"You two have some air to clear," he says as his eyes slide back to the TV where a baseball game is on.
I study my dad intently. His face is still puffy from the last dose of steroids he took to control the brain swelling. There are dark circles under his eyes because he's not sleeping well, but otherwise, he's doing relatively well.
All things considered.
Almost four years ago, Dad went to a doctor because of unrelenting headaches and blurred vision. What we thought might be a result of stress turned out to be from a golf-ball-size glioblastoma in his head. Most of the tumor was removed with surgery, the remainder blasted with chemo and radiation. He recovered and went back to work.
But we waited for it to come back, because it was most likely coming back.
Borrowed time, lots of praying and living under a shroud of dread.
It came back less than two months ago.
And I quit my job in Columbus and moved with my dad so he could enter a clinical trial at Duke.
Hoping beyond hope...against all odds...for a cure.
Chapter 5
Hawke
It's a standard power-play drill, me stationed point at the blue line.
The puck gets passed back and forth. Garrett to me. Back to Garrett. He eyes the net, tapping the biscuit back and forth. Winds up...reconsiders, passes back to me.
My stick reaches out to connect, and the puck slides right under it, crosses the blue line, and kills the play.
Coach blows his whistle and I slam the blade of my stick on the ice in frustration.
"You're out, Therrien," he says. "Camden...take his place."
I skate off the ice, ripping my helmet off. The minute I hit the bench, I sit my ass down and slouch back.
Been off my game all fucking day and can't seem to get my shit together. It's a good thing this is only the second full day of practice, or else I'd be worried as shit about my ability to make the first line. Everyone deserves an off day, right?
Poor goddamned soul, Dave Campbell, lives in a perpetual off day now, and I can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that he could be dying very soon.
When he opened the door yesterday to the apartment he and Vale share, I knew in one glance that something was seriously wrong. His face was swollen, his skin pale.
He took one look at my face and his eyes softened with regret that I was seeing him like that.
Fifteen minutes later, I had the entire story, and it's some crazy, whacked-out sci-fi shit too.
Apparently Duke is running a phase-one clinical trial--whatever the fuck that means--to try to eradicate a disease that is essentially terminal to patients. Recurrence of a glio-whatever-the-fuck-he-called-it is fatal. No cure. Nada. You're going to die.
Except apparently Duke engineered some mojo fucking treatment, taking the polio virus of all things, mixed in a little bit of the common cold virus, and bingo, a half-teaspoon cocktail injected right into the center of his recurrent brain tumor.
I didn't understand all of the technicalities, but Dave was very educated on what was going on. Apparently the virus breaks down the cancer so that it's not invisible to the body's own immune system. The theory is that then the immune system will in turn attack the tumor and kill it.
Hocus fucking pocus, but apparently the clinical trials have been working.
Somewhat.
About 50 percent of the patients have done well, while 50 percent have died.
Still, as Dave says, "What did I have to lose? Fifty-fifty odds are pretty damn good when I was looking at zero percent chance of survival."
The shitter was, those patients that died were probably due to overdosing of the drug. In a phase-one clinical, as he described it, the main priority isn't to kill the cancer but to try to figure out the maximum dosage that would do the job without killing the patient.
So far, it appeared to be working for Dave. Perhaps a little too well, because once the virus started working on the tumor, it got inflamed, causing it to triple in size and put pressure on his brain. Dave had to go in for an emergency dose of steroids and a chemotherapy drug designed to reduce the swelling.
And amazingly, he seems to be feeling pretty good now that the inflammation is under control. He's just under watch and will have another MRI to check the tumor's size in a few weeks. He's being monitored by Duke and it's a wait-and-see game.
"Vale never hesitated," Dave told me yesterday with equal measures of pride and guilt. "Quit her job without even discussing it with me once I got accepted into the trial."
"Lucked out getting on with the Cold Fury," I observed.
"Not luck," Dave said slyly. "Called in a favor to Brian Brannon. We went to college together."
"What did he owe you for?" I asked curiously.
"He didn't," Dave told me quietly. "But now I owe him everything. There wasn't an opening on the staff, so he talked to Gray and they created that position so
Vale could have a job."
And I thought that was a fucking nice thing to do, because you don't just add on a salary all willy-nilly within an organization like this. Made me even more proud to be part of this team and instilled in me some type of gratitude I felt like I really owed the Brannons now, on Dave's behalf.
I watch the drills continue out on the ice, wondering if Coach is going to put me back in today. We've been out here almost two hours already, so it's unlikely.
And yeah, this shit with Dave has me a bit wigged out, but that's not the only thing that's got my jockstrap in a twist.
In fact, probably not even the greatest thing.
No, that's reserved for one Vale Campbell, and I can't even begin to list all the ways in which she's bothering me.
But I'll give it a try, because there's nothing else to do at this moment but ruminate on all the ways she's tying my stomach in knots once again.
First, the long-standing grudge I'm carrying over the way in which she cut me out of her life. That sort of speaks for itself.
Second, the fact that even after all this time and all the bitter feelings, I still fucking feel something for her. I'm not sure if it's an unrelenting longing for what we had, or the fact that I feel terribly sorry for what she's going through right now. Hell...it's probably because she's still the hottest goddamn woman I've ever known despite how much she's changed over the years, but it's irking the hell out of me that I'm affected like this.
Third, the fact that she's apparently got a boyfriend. That was clear last night when she answered the phone with a "Hi, honey," all sweet and breathless sounding. No clue who the fucker was on the other line, but I wanted to pound him senseless, and feeling that way also irritates me.
Finally, and this is by far the most important thing that has my mind all tripped up, is that she started to say something--implied, really--that perhaps there had been an opportunity for us to reconnect years ago. It was subtle, and her words were cut off when her phone rang, but she clearly said, "Maybe you should have asked why back when..."
Asked what, Vale?
What? Why? What? Why?
All these fucking questions are driving me bonkers.
I left after she answered the phone, promising Dave I'd come back and see him in a few days. That's one thing I'm not going to let go of, my renewed friendship with him. Not when he's going through...
Christ, it hurts to even think about it.
Hurts to think about the way Vale must be suffering and terrified for her father.
One thing I know for sure is that she's back in my life even if only by way of us working together, but now Dave is back in my life too, and I need to figure out a way to live with all this shit that's been stirred up.
More important, my anger and hurt over what she did all those years ago need to take a backseat right now. I don't need to make this any more stressful for Vale, with what she's already carrying on her shoulders. And besides, why do I really need the answers anyway? That's over and done with and I've moved on.
She's clearly moved on.
Sudden resolve surges within me and I push up off the bench. Bruce Duvall is the only athletic trainer out here on the ice during this practice session, as there's usually one nearby at all times in case someone gets injured. I assume Goose and Vale are in the training or therapy rooms.
Bruce looks at me as I swing my legs over the boards and drop down onto the ice. As I skate by him, I say, "Knee's feeling a little sore; going to get it iced."
He hardly spares me a glance but gives a quick nod before his gaze slides back over to watch the drills in session. I skate across the empty half of the rink to the far side where the door to the underbelly of the arena is, slapping on my skate guards and heading back toward the locker rooms.
Confident that practice will be over soon, I go ahead and strip down out of my equipment, tossing the various items in the large canvas bins on wheels set along one wall. The equipment staff will handle the cleaning and laundering of everything. I put on a dry T-shirt and workout shorts, slip on a pair of athletic slides, and then make my way over to the training rooms.
There are three rooms devoted to the athletic training department. The treatment room where Vale taped my knee, the therapy room that holds ice baths, TENS units, and other modalities, and then the workout room where the athletes can work on strength and conditioning. All three rooms are side by side with glass walls facing the interior of the locker room, and are connected room to room by doorways. I imagine Vale gets an eyeful if she is so inclined after practices and games, as some of the guys walk around naked and let their junk hang loose. But she's a professional and so are we, so I suppose it comes with the territory.
As long as none of the guys willfully wave their dicks in her face, it's all good.
I can see Vale in the treatment room, which has a row of five padded tables along one wall, an adjacent wall holding a long counter with cabinets above and below that hold supplies. The far wall houses Bruce's and Goose's offices with a small supply closet separating them. I don't see Goose in there so I have no clue where he is, but it's even better that we're alone.
I have some things to say.
I walk in, watching as Vale rips tape off a box and starts unloading packages of Steri-Strips from it. She doesn't hear me walk in and I don't want to startle her, so I rap lightly on the door jamb.
She still gives a little jump and turns to face me with a smile on her face. It pains me when it slides right off as she recognizes me, and cool politeness takes over.
"Hey," I say as I walk her way. "Knee's a little sore. Thought you could take a look at it."
Vale's brows draw inward with concern and she motions toward a table. "Did something happen to cause it?"
"Nah," I say, not feeling the slightest bit guilty for my lie just so I can have a few moments to talk to her. "Just came off the ice and noticed it."
I hop up onto the table with my legs hanging over the edge and kick off my slides. She's silent as she turns to the sink and washes her hands. After they're dry, she walks up to me and says, "Go ahead and lie back. I'm going to do some range-of-motion tests."
I do as she says, contemplating the best way to break the ice with her. So far, her stilted, short answers to any questions I've posed have made it clear she doesn't want anything to do with me. So obviously, asking her questions isn't going to work.
I'm silent as she maneuvers my leg, trying not to focus too much on the feel of her soft hands against me or the smell of her shampoo...I had thought before it was flowery, but I think it might actually be strawberries, and the scent is fucking delicious.
"Any pain when I do this?" she asks with one hand on my calf, the other on my thigh as she rotates my knee.
"Not really," I say, because I don't want to call any attention to my knee. What happens here today will go in my chart, and that will be considered when decisions are made at the end of camp.
"How about this?" she asks, rotating the opposite way.
"Nope."
The hand on my calf slides down, grasping the bottom of my foot firmly. With the other hand still holding on to my thigh, she pushes hard into my foot. "This cause any pain?"
"Nope," I say quickly, and then add, "I think it's nothing more than my muscles getting back in shape. But figured some ice can't hurt, right?"
Vale slowly lowers my leg and gives me a small smile. "Well, doesn't appear anything's loose or torn, but if it's worrying you, we can make an appointment with Dr. Godson."
He was the team's orthopedic doctor, and I sure as shit wasn't doing that. Talk about an unnecessary red flag.
"I think it's just lack of conditioning. Got lazy this summer," I tell her firmly. "Just get me some ice and I'm sure it will be fine."
"Well, let's go sit you in an ice bath," she says as she turns back to wash her hands again at the sink.
"No fucking way," I growl. "Those things are torture and my balls will go into hibernation until next summer. Ju
st an ice pack will do."
Vale chuckles without turning around to look at me. "Okay. Just an ice bag. I'll be right back."
She turns and heads through the door to the treatment room. I take a moment to admire her gracefulness. It's something she always had...more of an innate security about her body, causing all of her motions to seem effortless. I remember one time we were at a party in Sydney, and some of the girls were dancing on the tops of the tables. Of course, Vale had to do the same thing, and I remember being entranced with the way her body undulated as I stared up at her. All the other girls looked awkward and forced, but Vale was fluid and so damned sexy, she had every guy in the room panting after her.
Back then, it made me proud to have such a hot, gorgeous, and sexy girl, but if she did something like that today, it would drive me insane to have other men watch her that way. I guess when you grow up and mature, certain things become more important.
"Here you go," she says as she comes back. "Scoot back on the table and stretch your leg out. Keep this on for twenty minutes, then you can go."
She places a towel over my knee, then lays the bag of ice on top.
"Thanks," I say quietly.
"It's my job," she quips, and then walks back over to the box of supplies she had been unloading.
"Well, you're very good at it," I say quietly. I watch as her head drops a little, but she remains quiet.
"Vale?" I murmur.
Her neck twists so she can look at me over her shoulder. Eyes guarded, fingers clutching hard at the small box in her hand.
"I'm sorry your dad's going through this shit. And you too...I'm sorry you have this stress on you."
Right there, in her eyes, the tension just drains, and for the first time since we've reconnected, she looks at me with no filter, and I can guess her feelings.
I see gratitude clear as day.
"Thank you," she says with a smile. "That means a lot."
"If there's anything I can do, for either of you, I hope you'll ask me."
I know that may be pushing it, and fuck, I'm not sure why I offered, but it's out there now. I expect she may draw inward again, but her smile goes a little wider.
"I appreciate the offer, Hawke. I think we're okay, but I don't know...maybe visit Dad every once in a while. He doesn't know anyone here and I'm so busy all the time."
Hawke Page 5
