Maybe This Christmas

by Jennifer Snow

  Ben reached for it and filled his own. “I am sorry…” He seemed to choke on the word. “But only that I made your injury worse. I’m not sorry that I played the game the way I always do. The way you always do. One hundred and ten, man—remember?”

  “One night. One game away, Ben. You couldn’t let your competitiveness slide for one night?” He hobbled toward the fridge, but his brother got there first.

  “Me? I’m competitive?” Opening it, Ben reached inside for the cream and handed it to him.

  “Yes,” he said, adding it to his coffee, making it extra creamy, draining every last drop from the carton.

  Ben shot him a look. “And you’re not?” He blocked his access to the sugar and only an unwillingness to damage his leg further prevented Asher from physically moving his brother out of his way.

  “I wouldn’t have done this to you,” he said, abandoning the sugar.

  “Bullshit. Westmores win. Plain and simple,” Ben said, his voice rising, but he handed him the sugar bowl. “I’d have delivered that body shot to Mom if she’d been protecting the puck.”

  “Excuse me?” Beverly asked, entering the kitchen.

  Ben’s eyes widened, then he shrugged. “Well, I would have.” Then he pointed at Asher. “And so would you. You’re just butt-hurt because you have to wait a little longer for the milestone game.”

  “And that makes you happy, doesn’t it?” Asher said, advancing toward him.

  Ben scoffed, putting his coffee cup down. “Fuck off, man. You know that wasn’t my intention.”

  “Language, Ben,” Beverly said, stepping between them.

  “No?” Asher leaned around his mother to stare at his brother. “Admit it, you hate that I’m hitting this milestone so much earlier in my career than you did.”

  Ben ran a hand through his hair. “Every milestone you reach, I’ve beaten you to it, little brother. Blame the birthing order, not me.”

  “Hey, don’t drag me into this.” Beverly held out an arm to each man.

  Asher’s hands clenched at his sides and he forced a breath. Their mother would knock both of them out, if things came to blows. “Look, you’re not here to apologize, so why don’t you just get your ass on a flight to Tampa.”

  “Fine.” Ben shrugged.

  “Fine.”

  “Boys, it’s the holidays. Ben, just apologize to your brother, and Asher, accept that it’s part of the game, and let’s move on,” Beverly said, looking back and forth between them expectantly.

  Ben remained silent, his gaze burning into his above their mother’s head.

  Asher leaned on his crutch and waited.

  “I’ve got a flight to catch.” Ben kissed their mother on the head and turned to leave.

  Beverly shot Asher a look.

  “What? You heard him, he’s got a flight to catch.” And good riddance to him.

  * * *

  Limping into the arena without his crutch an hour later, Asher stopped to sign hockey sticks for several Bantam players leaving their early morning practice.

  “When do you think you’ll be back on the ice?” the tallest kid asked.

  “Hopefully before the end of the year,” Ash said, handing him back his stick. He had his first appointment with Emma that afternoon, and he hoped she could work some miracles on his leg. His argument with Ben that morning only fueled his fire to get back on the ice quickly. The next game against the Avalanche was on New Year’s Eve in Denver, and that was his new goal, his new focus for his recovery.

  “Sorry about the milestone game,” the other boy said, readjusting the oversize hockey bag on his shoulder. “It totally sucks.”

  Asher forced a nonchalant shrug. “I agree, but I’ll have it in a few weeks.” These kids looked up to him, and part of the role of being an inspiration was to fake a positive attitude, even when he wasn’t feeling it. Injuries were part of the sport.

  “Well, if you’re feeling up to playing sooner than that, let us know. We could use an extra player on the lake. It’s finally frozen enough to play on,” he said.

  “You got it,” he said, though Asher could barely remember the last time he’d actually played a game of hockey on an outdoor lake or for fun. Thirteen maybe? No. Even then, the drive to beat his older brothers had always dulled the joy of the game.

  Seeing his brother Jackson entering the coach’s bench near the ice, he waved goodbye to the kids and hobbled over. “Hey.”

  “How’d you get here?” Jackson looked surprised to see him.

  “Walked.” After the confrontation with Ben, he’d needed the forty-minute walk in the bone-chilling cold to clear his head and cool him down.

  “What part of ‘stay off the leg’…never mind,” Jackson said. “Feeling any better?”

  “I will soon. Going to see Emma today,” he said, taking a seat on the cold wooden bench. He stared out toward the ice as Jackson’s Atom team players skated out and did several warm-up laps. They were all so eager to get out there. He remembered that feeling well, though his determined drive was always to prove he was the best. The youngest in the family, he’d had a lot to live up to. His gaze landed on the HOME OF THE WESTMORE BROTHERS sign hanging on the wall across the arena. Westmore Brothers. Not Ben. Not him. Both of them.

  Why did sharing the town’s pride with Ben irk him so much? Did Ben feel that way? Would Asher feel differently if he was the one always a step ahead?

  “Did you talk to Ben?” Jackson broke into his thoughts.

  “You knew he was coming to see me?” He stretched his leg out in front of him, feeling the error of his ways for having taken the walk. The muscles around the knee joint seized and throbbed.

  “He stopped by here first to borrow my balls or for validation or something, I’m not entirely sure,” Jackson said, checking his player lineup. “So you two are good?”

  “No.”

  He glanced at him. “Why not?”

  “Because the asshole’s non-apology went from condescending to insulting in less than a minute.”

  Jackson muttered something under his breath as he sat. “Look, Ben can be a jerk, and you know he doesn’t like to admit he was wrong.”

  “Understatement.” He didn’t know how his brother’s fiancée put up with him. Though, as an attorney, Olivia was probably the only one who could effectively argue with Ben.

  “But you’re just like him,” Jackson said, opening his coach’s bag and grabbing a stack of pylons.

  “More insults?” Was everyone forgetting he was the victim here? He should have gone to see Emma early. She wasn’t a fan of Ben. She’d be on his side.

  “Not insults. Truth. And here’s more. Without the rivalry with Ben, you wouldn’t be where you are.” Jackson waved his team in closer.

  “Wow.” His family really wasn’t concerned with his ego.

  “Ben has always forced you to work harder, dig deeper, push yourself further…”

  “I work my ass off. I always have.” His jaw tightened. So, now they were giving credit for his success to Ben as well?

  “Relax, man,” Jackson said, sensing his growing frustration. “I’m not saying you wouldn’t have done well on your own, but competing with Ben has always been a driving force in you. The competition between you two has made you both great. You feed off of one another’s energy. You push each other.”

  Asher sighed, unable to argue with the words.

  “Just think about it—if Ben didn’t raise the bar so high, what would you measure your success with?” Jackson stood and skated out onto the ice, calling his junior league team in to the center of the rink.

  Asher’s gaze landed on the community pride banner once more. That was the problem. He thought about Jackson’s question more than he cared to admit. And he wasn’t sure of the answer.

  Chapter 7

  Emma stood in her therapy office doorway, saying goodbye to her previous patient as Asher entered the clinic’s reception area. The receptionist had gone for her afternoon break, so he didn’t s
top to check in, just continued on toward her.

  “That guy only comes in here to see you, you do realize that, right?” Asher asked as she led the way into the therapy room. Asher’s gaze—or rather, glare—was still focused on Marcus Fields—a single dad who’d just moved to town with his daughter the month before—as he left the office.

  She rolled her eyes. “Right. It has nothing to do with his dislocated rotator cuff,” Emma said, placing a new sheet on the therapy table. She’d learned a long time ago not to get her hopes up about Ash being jealous. He was merely afraid of another guy interrupting their arrangement. “Besides, I only cause him pain.”

  “Maybe he likes that.”

  She sighed. “And maybe you’re just trying to prolong the inevitable. Pants off.”

  Asher laughed. “See, I bet he likes it when you’re bossy, too,” he said, bending down and removing the brace.

  She took it from him and set it aside as Jane, the receptionist, knocked and entered.

  “Emma, I’m heading out. The snow’s getting bad out there and I need to pick up Aiden from…” She stopped when she noticed Asher unbuttoning his jeans. “I, uh…sorry, I didn’t realize you had another patient today…Hi, Asher, I mean Mr. Westmore, Ash…”

  Oh geez. The three of them had gone to school together since kindergarten. And it was just Ash. Watching women get blubbery around him definitely ignited Emma’s jealousy fuse. It was annoying enough knowing women fell at Asher’s feet wherever he went, seeing it made her gag.

  He smiled. “Hey, Janie. How are you?”

  The receptionist blushed. “Janie—wow, haven’t been called that in forever…”

  Okay, that was enough. “No problem, you can head out. I’ll lock up,” Emma said, sounding sharper than she’d intended. The beautiful redhead with the curves of Jessica Rabbit made her feel inadequate on the best of days. She really didn’t need Ash comparing the two of them.

  Emma would lose.

  “Right. I’m leaving,” Jane said. “Sorry to hear about the knee and the game. My son cried watching it on television,” she told Ash quickly.

  “Tell him I almost cried living it. But Emma’s going to get me back on the ice in a couple of weeks…”

  “Six to ten.” A couple? He was insane.

  “A couple, and then I’ll make everyone proud,” he said.

  “Oh, you already do…You and Ben,” Jane gushed.

  Emma noticed him twitch and his smile fade slightly at the mention of Ben, and she wondered if he’d spoken to his brother yet. “You better go,” she told Jane, glancing out the office window. Thick, blowing snow blocked her visibility of the buildings across the street. “It looks nasty out there.”

  Jane nodded. “Yes. Right.” Her gaze returned to Ash and she hesitated. “Unless you need me to stick around…”

  Nope. Definitely not. “I can lock up,” she said.

  “Okay. Thanks, and be careful leaving. A lot of snow has accumulated already.”

  “Thanks. Drive safe,” Emma said as the receptionist shot a final dreamy look at Asher, before shutting the door.

  “She’s still as cute as ever,” he said.

  Cute? Ha! The woman could be a playboy model. “You do realize I’m in control of how much pain you experience here today, right?” she snapped.

  He laughed as he slowly removed his jeans and sat on the table in his boxer briefs. “Don’t be jealous, Em. You’re still my favorite.”

  She ignored the comment. “You’re supposed to wear shorts to therapy.” Her mouth was slightly dry at the sight of him in his underwear. Sure, it was a sight she saw often, but never in her workplace.

  “It’s November, Em. Where would I get shorts? Besides, I didn’t think you’d object.” He winked at her.

  And damn, she wished it had zero effect on her, but even after years of friendship, years of add-on benefits, the simple, playful gesture had her heart in a mess. It wasn’t fair that she’d moved to this unrequited love territory and he was still the same old oblivious, fun-loving Ash.

  She sighed, pushing the thoughts aside for fear of actually taking her frustration out on him during the session.

  Professional. Just keep it professional. “Okay, let’s get started.” Lifting his leg, she helped him rotate to lie on the table. “I’m just going to slowly start adding movement to the knee joint…”

  As Asher lay on his back, she carefully lifted the leg and slowly started to bend the knee. “Let me know when the pain gets to a five or six…” Normally, she’d start slower on a patient, but Ash was an athlete, an athlete in top physical shape other than his knee, and his body could handle an extra push. While she’d insisted moments before that his recovery would take the full six to ten weeks, she knew it would be faster.

  He winced as the leg approached a ninety-degree angle and she eased back on the pressure slightly. The surgery was less than a week ago; she wouldn’t push him too far too soon.

  “It’s okay. I can handle the pain,” he said, gripping the white sheet at his sides.

  She straightened the leg slowly and the tension eased from his face. “Okay, take a breath. We’re going to bend farther this time,” she said.

  He closed his eyes as she folded the leg at the joint, taking him slightly farther than the first time. Several more back-and-forths and beads of sweat appeared on Asher’s forehead.

  She hated seeing him in pain. Working on strangers was tough enough; rehabilitating him would be a whole new challenge. He wanted to get better quickly and he could handle anything she threw at him, but she questioned her ability to get him where he wanted to be as fast as he wanted to get there.

  And no part of that had to do with the fact that a speedy recovery meant less time with him in Glenwood Falls. None.

  After several more slow bends, she straightened the leg and laid it on the table. “I’m going to hook you up to a CPM,” she said, moving away to get it.

  The continuous passive motion device would move the damaged joint through a small, continuous range of motion that she would increase each session.

  “Does it hurt?” Asher asked as she placed the device around his knee.

  “It might, a little, but we’ll start slow and work our way up to complete range of motion.” She touched his arm. “You’re not going to heal overnight, Ash.” Patience in his recovery would be his biggest challenge. She knew exactly how it felt to want to heal faster, how frustrating it could be when the simplest actions required so much effort and had often resulted in pain in the first few months following her own injuries.

  He nodded, touching her hand. “Just don’t go easy on me, okay?”

  She couldn’t make any promises, so she ignored the question, turning her attention to the machine. Setting the range, she turned it on and watched his expression for signs of pain.

  He took a deep breath, but relaxed against the pillow.

  “It feels okay?”

  “It feels like shit, but that’s okay.”

  She sat in the chair next to the bed and jotted a few notes on his file, then, setting it aside, she said, “So, have you talked to Ben?”

  His expression hardened slightly. “He stopped by this morning.”

  “I assume it wasn’t the apology you were hoping for?”

  He sighed. “Not exactly.” He shifted on the table, and she saw his hands clench at his sides. From pain or the mention of Ben she wasn’t sure.

  She hesitated. “You know Ben’s not my favorite person, right? But he was really a mess that night at the hospital. I don’t think he knew how injured you were going into that game.” No one had really known, because Ash had kept the extent of the injury to himself. Examining his knee now, she saw the markings of the multiple injection sites.

  Obviously, someone had known. The team’s doctor, most likely.

  She knew it was useless to ask him who’d been providing the cortisone injections and meds.

  He nodded. “The only person I have to blame is myself,” he sai
d, but she wasn’t sure he fully believed it.

  He rotated slightly and closed his eyes as his forehead wrinkled. She watched his chest rise and fall as he took several deep breaths. She remembered her own recovery—the intensity of the pain, the back and forth between determination to get better and a lack of will to push through.

  Removing the machine a few minutes later, she gently touched the red, swollen joint. “How does this feel?” she asked, her fingers applying a little pressure as she massaged.

  “A lot better than the machine,” he said, releasing another slow, deep breath.

  She increased the pressure as she continued to massage, careful to avoid the area around the surgery incision. Her fingers roamed over the bruises from the needle injections he’d been administering himself and she swallowed hard. “You should have told me how bad this was,” she said.

  “You would have convinced me to stop.”

  “Exactly.” Her hands circled the knee joint, her fingers caressing the soft, tender flesh. She couldn’t believe he’d done this to himself. “I know the timing sucked, but I’m actually glad this happened now. You don’t know how much more damage you could have caused if you’d kept going.” Or how bad of an addiction to the pain meds he could have developed. That thought haunted her most. Asher was a strong, capable man. His heavy reliance on the drugs was out of character for him, and she hated to think that if this hadn’t happened, he might have spiraled into a situation that would be even harder to climb out of.

  He reached out and touched her arm. “I’m not happy that this happened when it did, but you’re right. I messed up,” he said, sliding his fingers down her bare arm and back up again. Down and up. A shiver danced along her spine and her knees felt slightly unsteady. The simplest, slightest touch from him and she nearly came undone. The gentle way his rough fingers stroked her skin caused goose bumps to surface.

  Suddenly, she was aware that they were completely alone. The office was quiet and empty. Everyone else had left for the day. The sound of the old baseboard radiator kicking in echoed in the hallway and the wind howling outside the old, thin-paned windows were the only noises shattering the silence of the building.