Crossing the Goal Line

by Kim Findlay

  Bridget shrugged and turned to go. She was busy, but her dad would be thrilled.

  Sure enough, later that day Bridget got a text telling her where and how to pick up the tickets. Bridget saved the text and showed her dad that night when she got home. Her mother thought Bridget should go, since Mike was “her” friend. Cormack argued that she’d just been to a game. Since Bridget was working till after the game started, the problem was solved: her father went with Cormack. She knew Patrick would be irritated when he found out, but fortunately, the O’Reillys had had lots of experience with arguments among siblings.

  * * *

  MIKE SAW BRIDGET only briefly on occasional mornings. They’d nod, and that was about it. He was absorbed with work, where he’d won the starting goalie’s job. Now he had to make sure he played well enough to keep it. His entire focus was on rebuilding his hockey skills and reputation. When he wasn’t practicing, training or playing, he was watching tape and conferring with coaches. He still had to prove himself. His last playoff performance was fresh in everyone’s mind so he overheard a lot of negative comments, but he kept up his cool front. He wasn’t nicknamed Iceman for nothing.

  October started well. There were a couple of shootout losses, some wins. Turchenko started in the second of a back-to-back pair of games and didn’t do well. Yes, things were going almost exactly the way he wanted. And then, just as that first month was winding up, it happened.

  Toronto was playing Philadelphia on Hockey Night in Canada, one game before the first meeting of the season against Quebec. Mike was playing like he wanted to, and feeling good about the next game against his former team.

  There was a two-on-one breakaway in the third period. Mike was focused on the player with the puck, but kept his peripheral vision on the man’s teammate, waiting for a possible pass. He could hear the crowd responding in the background over the scraping of skates on ice. Everyone was shouting, and suddenly his goalie crease was crowded with hockey players, one guy landing in the net. Mike was trying desperately to ignore everything but the puck when he felt a weight on his ankle through the pads, and a sharp pain. The whistle blew, and one by one the players stood up, all except for Mike.

  Damn. He knew what that feeling was.

  The coaches and trainers came out. Mike insisted on getting on his good foot to let one of the trainers pull him over to the bench upright, but that was just for pride’s sake. He wasn’t going to be playing the rest of this game, or quite a few after this. Turchenko put on his helmet to take over, while Mike finally surrendered and let the medics carry him away.

  Mike had his ankle tended to by the team doctors. They fitted him with a soft, removable cast which meant he had to take more care not to reinjure himself, but overall recovery would be shorter. He was given a strict regimen to follow, including in-home therapy sessions with the team trainers. Then he was sent home to recover. And to wait. Wait to see if Turchenko would take his job.

  “Home” was the solitary splendor of a hotel suite. Last season Mike had been traded at the trade deadline, so they’d put him up in a hotel for the remainder of the season. He’d been so angry with management—they’d asked him to waive his no-trade clause. He’d agreed to the deal but walked out in an icy fury before even finding out where they wanted him to go.

  He hadn’t even thought of listing his property in Quebec. Reality just hadn’t sunk in yet. Quebec City had been his home for his entire hockey career. He was popular, had friends, fans. But management slanted the news so that it seemed he’d asked for the trade, and when his replacement had led Mike’s former team to sweeping a playoff series over Mike and the Blaze, the fans back in Quebec had seemed to be happy he was gone. Suddenly he was no longer wanted at home in Quebec, but he had nowhere else to go. Toronto hadn’t welcomed him. He’d been waiting to hear that another trade was in the works, but that hadn’t happened. He’d finally listed his Quebec home when he’d come back to Toronto at the end of the summer, but he was still living at the hotel.

  And he was once again quietly and impotently furious. Unlike the O’Reillys, his temper was slow-burning and stayed under the surface. His career was out of his hands, and it was infuriating.

  Two days later he was able to watch Turchenko earn a win against Ottawa. He wanted to throw the remote at the television. That was supposed to be Mike’s win. Mike didn’t think Turchenko played well, but he was good enough, and the pundits were predicting Turchenko would take over the starting position permanently.

  That would leave Mike playing backup until Toronto could find another team willing to take on his expensive contract. If he didn’t bounce back from this injury, regain his form, there might never be another contract. That, he refused to think about.

  The best-case scenario was that he’d recover and play at his previous top level. In that case, whether or not the Blaze kept him till the end of the season, neither Toronto team would be able to offer what he could ask for in free agency next summer. There wasn’t a single scenario that left Mike living in Toronto, so this was a temporary stay. The impersonal hotel room underlined the impermanence of his future. When he wasn’t winning, it turned out people didn’t want to be with him. His mother had called, but she was busy in Phoenix. She’d come if he asked, but she’d raised him to be self-reliant.

  Then he got the text.

  * * *

  THE O’REILLYS WERE watching the game when Mike went down. Bridget had been at a meet on the other side of the city, and had stopped in on the way to her basement suite. Her mother warmed up some food for her while she joined her dad and Cormack and Bernie and Bert.

  Bridget’s mom didn’t follow hockey, but she liked Mike, and even though they hadn’t seen him for a month, she picked up from their talk that the young man who had no family around had been hurt. A couple of days later when Bridget stopped by to catch up, she found that her mother had made up her mind.

  Bridget and most of her brothers had inherited their father’s temperament: they could fire up in anger, but it passed as quickly. Bridget’s mother didn’t have a temper, but she could be incredibly stubborn when she made up her mind. Mike’s story had touched her, and she was concerned that he was injured, in a new city, with no family for support.

  Bridget tried to explain that he was a highly paid professional athlete and could afford any care he needed, and that the team was invested in keeping him well. Her mother said that he had been very nice to the family, and that they should return the favor. When pressed, Bridget had to admit that she did have a way to contact Mike. She hated doing it. Mike hadn’t reached out to them since he’d provided those tickets, so she felt she was crossing a boundary Mike had put in place. But as a result of her mother’s insistence, she finally agreed to ask him if they could do anything for him.

  She pulled up the number on her phone that Mike had given her and started typing.

  This is Bridget O’Reilly. My mother was worried—

  “Do you have to tell him who you are? Doesn’t the phone number let him know that?” Her mother was reading over Bridget’s shoulder.

  “Mom, he sent me one message. I highly doubt I’m in his contacts. It’s just going to pop up as a random number.”

  “And say we were all worried. You make me sound like a fusspot.”

  Bridget rolled her eyes, since her mother was behind her and out of view, but she deleted the second sentence.

  This is Bridget O’Reilly. We hope you’re doing well.

  Bridget was not going to sound like she was up at night worrying about his injury.

  Do you need any help?

  “Ask if he’d like some soup. There’s nothing better than homemade soup when you’re not feeling well.”

  “He doesn’t have a cold, Mom. He broke a bone.” According to the papers, it was an ankle bone. He’d be out four to six weeks, which meant it would be December before he’d be playing again. She star
ted her text over.

  This is Bridget O’Reilly. We saw you go down and hope you’re recuperating well. My mother has some homemade soup she thought you might like.

  She hit Send before her mother came up with anything else.

  Bridget knew Mike would think they were overstepping. He’d probably block her number, if he hadn’t already. After all, they hadn’t done anything but nod in passing for most of a month. He couldn’t be close friends with every group of fans he interacted with.

  Bridget was so convinced he wouldn’t actually respond that when her phone pinged an hour later, she expected it to be Jee. Instead, the message read, I’d love some soup.

  Bridget stared, as if the text was some kind of trick. Now her mother would be able to say she’d told her so.

  Actually, that wasn’t the worst part for Bridget. Her mom needed someone to take her to see Mike. She wouldn’t drive downtown. Bridget, who had time off in the middle of the day, was the one who would have to chauffeur this trip. She expected an awkward meeting, but Mike had said yes for some unknown reason, so they pulled into the closest parking garage and carried a bag with soup, rolls and pie into the lobby of Mike’s expensive hotel.

  Mike had a suite on one of the top floors. Once the front desk let him know they’d arrived, a bellboy went up the elevator with them to let them into his suite. Bridget followed her mother down a hallway with a couple of bedrooms, and came out to the main room, with a combined seating, dining and kitchen area surrounded by windows with sweeping views of the lake. Not bad, Bridget thought.

  “Mrs. O’Reilly, Bridget, thanks for coming. Sorry, I can’t get up very well...”

  Bridget finally got a good look at Mike.

  He was stretched out on a couch with his cast resting on a pillow. He had a couple of remotes beside him, as if he’d just turned off the TV or video gaming system set up across the room from him. He looked tired, stressed and not very welcoming. You didn’t have to invite us, Bridget thought. But then he smiled, a tired, but friendly smile.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  There were several seats to choose from: the room was bigger than Bridget’s whole apartment.

  “I’ll take this stuff over to the kitchen area,” Bridget said, transporting the bags to the other side of the island.

  Her mom put her coat on the edge of a chair. Then she crossed over to Mike and put a hand on his forehead. She adjusted a couple of cushions.

  “How’s that? Are you doing okay? Don’t you have someone staying with you?”

  “Much better, thank you. I’m doing as well as expected. I don’t need an attendant, as long as I’m careful.”

  Her mother gave him a look she’d given to Bridget as well as her brothers many times.

  “And of course you’re careful?” she said, disbelievingly. “I could tell you about my kids...”

  Bridget paused as she put the soup in the mostly empty refrigerator. Just what stories was her mother planning to share? Fortunately there were more stories about her brothers than herself. Her mom apparently didn’t believe the broken arm she’d gotten in the superhero contest the boys had invented was very funny, but Bridget thought Mike was looking less gloomy. Misery loves company.

  Bridget sat on the edge of the love seat that faced Mike’s couch while her mother learned the details of the injury, and the resulting recovery process. She looked around. It was a nice suite, though rather corporate—bland and not at all homey. She noticed some weights, a bench, and a complicated home gym over near the windows. She was sure that wasn’t part of the original hotel decor but it would explain the dining table pushed back against the wall. Mike must be working out here while he was recuperating. That made sense: she couldn’t really picture him hobbling to the hotel gym. She tried to imagine how much a suite like this would cost, and couldn’t even come up with a ballpark figure.

  She came back to the conversation when she heard her name.

  “Don’t you, Bridget?” her mother was saying with a disapproving look.

  “Don’t I what?”

  “You work out after your morning swim practices.”

  “Yeees...” Bridget agreed cautiously.

  “Mike wants to fit in some additional workouts when the team people aren’t around, so you could help Mike in the mornings. He has to be especially careful with that cast.”

  Bridget’s mother cast a doubtful look at what was around Mike’s ankle. As kids, they’d always had the familiar plaster casts, but while Bridget had been fortunate enough to keep her bones intact while competing, she’d seen these casts. This one was blue plastic, with inflatable padding, and could be removed as needed. Mike had left it open, probably anxious to avoid as much muscle atrophy as possible.

  Bridget had helped teammates do their workouts with those soft casts, but that was a whole different thing than working out with Mike Reimer. Bridget opened her mouth to object. Mike beat her to the punch.

  “I couldn’t impose. I’m sure Bridget is too busy for that.”

  Bridget looked at her mother. She was giving Bridget that look, the “didn’t I raise you properly?” look. What was her mother thinking? Mike could have all the help anyone needed, so why would he need her? She turned to look at Mike, and, for just a moment he looked—sad? Lonely?

  “Don’t you have people from the team coming in every day?” Bridget asked.

  “Of course, if I want to do additional workouts, I’ll be fine on my own. It’s not like I haven’t worked out before. I understand, you’re busy.”

  Was he actually lonely, maybe bored here, all on his own? Where were the beautiful women coming to keep him company? His entourage? Did hockey players have those?

  “And what are you eating? Do you only have access to hotel food?” Bridget’s mom spoke as if she were referring to a school cafeteria rather than a starred restaurant. “I’d be happy to send you some. I always make too much.”

  Bridget knew her mother would be thrilled to have someone else to cook for. And she also knew who her mother would enlist to deliver the food. Well, if she was being pressed to come by anyway...she bit her lip. “Mike, it wouldn’t be a horrific inconvenience to come over sometimes and work out with you. But I feel like we’re imposing.”

  Mike sighed, and his shoulders dropped. “Honestly, it would be nice to see someone from time to time. I’m not a good patient. Too much time on my own and I get a little...restless.”

  Bridget’s mother smiled. “I know what it’s like. I raised six kids, and none of them were good at being sidelined. I can send some of the boys over in the evenings as well. Just till you’re back on your feet. You tell them when you’ve had enough and I’ll make sure they don’t overstay their welcome. Now, I’ll go warm up that soup for you.”

  Her mother headed over to the kitchen area. An occasional mutter about the pots was all they heard from her for a while.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Bridget asked, watching him closely.

  Mike let his head rest against the back of the couch. “Really, I don’t. Most of the day I have nothing to do but watch sports channels talk about whether Turchenko is going to be the permanent starter. If you could take pity on me, it would at least distract me for a while and I’d feel like I was doing something to keep my job.”

  “Then I guess you’ve got a spotter for the duration. And a food delivery service, if I know my mother. Cormack’s the only one still living at home, so she has a lot of mothering not being used.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY Bridget stood in front of the suite doorway, backpack containing her post-workout clothing on her shoulders, and carrying a cooler with her mother’s next installment of food. Her hair was still a little wet from the pool. Tony had been into splashing this morning. Bridget had restrained herself from drying her hair. She was only here to do a workout. How she looked didn’t matter. Still
, she’d made sure to wear her least ratty sweats.

  She’d been provided with a key card to get in so that she didn’t have to disturb the bellboys or make Mike hobble down the hallway. She’d texted him to let him know she was at the hotel. She was nervous, even though Mike sounded as if he’d like some company. She’d worked out with many people, including men, so it wasn’t like she didn’t know what she was doing. Maybe it was because he was such a highly paid athlete. Or because guys could have real ego issues if they were challenged by a woman. That was all she was worried about, surely.

  She made her way down the hall, taking in the view of the clouds obscuring the lake. She pulled off her jacket and saw that Mike had maneuvered himself to the bench. He was wearing only shorts—and his cast, of course. It shouldn’t have been disconcerting. She’d worked out with swimmers in less. Yet somehow this felt more personal. She wasn’t at a competition with a bunch of people around. She was alone with Mike in his home.

  He smiled when he saw her. She smiled back, hesitantly. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “The trainers are taking care of my leg, keeping the muscles working around the broken ankle. I need to do the upper body, and core work, maybe the rest of my leg work tomorrow. Since I can’t do any cardio until I’m okayed to swim, it’s just weights for now.”

  Bridget cast an eye over his equipment. It was comprehensive.

  “Looks like you should have everything you need. I was going to fill up my water bottle—some for you too?”

  He nodded, already concentrating on setting up the bar for his first reps. She got the water and grabbed some towels. They began.

  Bridget stood over the bar, ready to spot in case Mike got in trouble. He had more weights on it than she used, but he was a big guy, and he had different goals for his conditioning than she did. He settled in place, told her how many reps he was intending, and they started.

  Once she was in a familiar routine, Bridget found she was calmer. She was also more aware of Mike as a man. She’d seen him, somewhat vaguely, at the pool, and she’d seen him in jeans when they played road ball and in dress clothes at the rink. But now he was wearing only those shorts and she could get a good look at just how fit he was.