I'd made my decision after the interview and I saw no reason to change it. "Mr. Filmore, I'm sorry, but--"
"Oh, I didn't tell you the salary, did I?" he said over me. "Fifty thousand."
I'd always been a saver, so I could handle at least six months as a full-time artist. Filmore's offer was a little more than my yearly salary at the clinic, but less than I'd have expected from a professional sports team. And not enough to sway me.
"That's for the first two months. Then we'll renegotiate based on Forrest's progress."
"For two months? Why so high?"
He paused. "Honestly? We don't want you to say no."
My turn to pause. My interview had obviously gone better than I'd thought, but even so, they could have had any massage therapist on the planet, and probably most alien ones, for that price. Why so anxious to get me?
He broke the silence. "Look, I'm paying that kid five point two million a year and he's doing nothing. I'd hire a circus elephant if he thought one would help. Swear to God, a circus elephant. I don't even know if you can fix him, but he thinks you can. Even if you're just a good luck charm, I'll take it."
Three years of college and six years of experience to be a good luck charm. Lovely. I rubbed my forehead. "This doesn't make sense. Why does Forrest think I can help? He hasn't even met me."
He made a disgusted clicking sound. "You really don't follow hockey, do you? I hope he knows what he's doing. You met him today. The guy you massaged? That was Forrest."
Not a fellow job candidate. My client. He'd lied, pretended to be someone he wasn't, but his tension and sadness had been all too real. I'd wanted a chance to help him, and here it was. But he'd lied to me.
When I didn't speak, because I couldn't, Filmore said, "So, fifty grand for two months with Forrest. You in?"
"I'm in."
Who said that? What happened to my art career, my decision to leave massage?
Forrest happened. Forrest and the raw pain in his eyes.
"Good. Be here at nine tomorrow morning. You can work with Forrest and then we'll sign the contract. You won't regret this."
No? I was already. But Forrest needed help. Not to mention, fifty thousand dollars in two months? "So, what's wrong with him?"
"Got any experience with groin injuries?"
Only old Mr. Keyes, who'd done the splits on his icy driveway last winter and torn a muscle in his inner thigh. He'd insisted I call him "Wishbone", and though he'd blushed whenever I touched his leg we had managed to heal the damage. "Yes, but not with a pro athlete. Or any athlete."
"Well, you'll get some now."
I bit my lip. Leg muscles healed slowly because they rarely got the rest they needed. Mr. Keyes had agreed to stay off his feet for two weeks, but I doubted Forrest would do the same.
Filmore gave me his private phone number, with an air of offering a fortune beyond imagining, and ended the call with, "See you tomorrow. Just say 'no comment' if anyone bugs you on the way in."
Who was going to bug me? What had I gotten myself into? I sat staring at his number on my notepad. I didn't want it there, interfering with my art. I could call him, say I'd changed my mind. It'd be embarrassing, but I could do it. Quit before I even began and recommit to art.
On the other hand, I could help Forrest, and I wanted to. And I could save so much money, have an even better cushion for starting my art career.
I turned my notepad over and tried to lose myself in the vortex piece instead of obsessing over Forrest and my various careers, but I couldn't focus. Not wanting to ruin the piece in my distraction, I checked my email, hoping for jokes from my best friend Jen and fearing anything from Pam.
My twin sister and I hadn't spoken since I'd confronted her on our birthday. Shattering years of family lies and denial, I'd finally told Pam to her face she was an alcoholic. She'd stormed out, but I knew I'd done the right thing. She was losing her life to the booze and I couldn't stand by and watch. Her retort of "I don't see what you're doing with your life that's so much better" had been the catalyst for my decision to focus on my art.
My now-postponed decision.
No new emails, so I headed out for a swim. I second-guessed my job acceptance all the way down in the elevator, but once I left the building I pushed my doubts aside. The path wouldn't allow me to worry.
I'd chosen my apartment largely for its huge windows and proximity to my favorite pool, but the gorgeous walkway between my building and the pool had been the final clincher. The cobblestones winding through the trees had something new to offer me every time.
I'd promised myself that if I ever failed to find inspiration on the path I'd go back and forth until I did, but it had never happened. I'd found a perfect peacock feather, seen a baby rabbit frozen in the tall grass beneath a tree, and used the pattern the sun made filtering through the leaves one particularly bright afternoon in a miniature. On this trip, I picked up a tiny rock shaped like a heart for the vortex on my latest piece.
When I entered the pool building the scent of chlorine sent the usual anticipation buzzing through me. I'd tried to decide whether I preferred the time I spent in art or in the water, but it felt like choosing between a million dollars in big or small bills.
I enjoyed every moment of my workouts. I often heard people describe exercise as torture, but I'd never understood. My first laps always felt like I'd forgotten how to swim since my last workout, but I loved them for how they transitioned into smooth powerful strokes as I warmed up. Every time I swam it happened the same way: my body becoming one with the water, my breathing speeding up but still rhythmic, my mind focusing on each movement.
All warmed up, I buckled down. Following my planned workout, I drove myself through the cool water, feeling it rush over and past me. My body and mind tired as the time passed, but I pushed myself onward, refusing to quit. The last few laps left me gasping but exhilarated.
Finished, I swam slowly until my body recovered then returned to the change room on comfortably shaky legs for what might have been the best part of all, a lovely hot shower.
It would have been lovelier without thoughts of Forrest intruding. I hadn't let my mind wander in the pool, but now memories of his sadness tugged at me and I wanted to know: was it just his recent injury or was there more going on with my new client?
Once I got home, I took my laptop to the rocking chair by the floor-to-ceiling living room windows and began researching Forrest. The first page of results provided only wild speculation about when and if he'd play again after what they called a "lower-body injury". One reporter actually suggested Forrest was faking to avoid playing for the Hogs, apparently forgetting he'd chosen Toronto. Such stupid comments no doubt annoyed Forrest, but they weren't enough to explain what I'd felt from him.
The second page of results began with an article dated February twenty-seventh. "Williams' fiancée dead in single-car crash". A chill rippled through me and I clicked the link.
"Thirty-one-year-old North American Hockey League star Forrest Williams, who yesterday signed a three-year deal with the Toronto Hogs worth an estimated fifteen million dollars, and his fiancée Marika Morrell, twenty-five, were involved in a single-car collision late last night. Ms. Morrell, the driver, was pronounced dead at the scene, while Williams suffered a broken ankle and had to be cut from the car. He obviously won't play the rest of the season but is expected to be ready for September's training camp. Police say alcohol is not a factor in the crash, although last night's heavy snowfall might be."
I studied the picture of Forrest skating, hockey stick in hand. The poor man. He'd picked up a huge contract and then he'd lost his fiancée, and right in front of him no less.
He wouldn't have been walking on that ankle for at least six weeks. Skating? Easily a month more. I counted weeks on my fingers. He'd probably been back on the ice mid-May, leaving him less than four months to regain all the strength and fitness he'd lost since the injury. And that timeline assumed he'd healed on schedule.
&n
bsp; And it didn't account for time to heal his heart.
*****
"You don't just have a lucky horseshoe up your butt, you've got the whole freakin' stable."
I choked on my wine at Jen's summation of my new job and its access to her ideal man, the hockey player.
"Don't you spit that on my floor," she warned. "It's messed up enough already."
I covered my mouth with one hand and made frantic shut-up-before-I-spray-you gestures with the other. Once I'd managed to swallow, I punched her arm. "Jerk."
"Not my fault you can't handle your alcohol."
"You'd have been handling it if I'd spit it out. And what do you mean your floor's messed up?"
Jen moved the coffee table, which I'd thought wasn't quite in its usual place, with one slippered foot to reveal a splotch of brilliant purple paint on her pale hardwood.
I stared. "They didn't."
She gave a laugh of pure disbelief and flipped her dark ponytail over one shoulder. I envied her hair's length, but swimming was so much easier with short hair that I couldn't be bothered to grow mine.
"I thought you picked light blue."
"I did."
"Then what's with the purple?"
She spread her hands wide. "Why is grass green, why does it always rain after you wash your car, why do I have the world's stupidest contractors? All questions I can't answer."
The three weeks the contractors had promised her bathroom renovation would take had passed with only a large hole in the wall (accidental) to show for them, and little had improved in the five months since. "Those guys make the Three Stooges look like Einstein. What are you going to do?"
"Drown myself in the bathtub? No, wait, it doesn't work. That's how this got started."
I refilled her wine glass. "Drown yourself in this."
"You." She pointed at me. "Are spectacular. So, when do I get my paws on Mr. Williams?"
I laughed and took another slice of pizza. "You don't. He needs rest, not whatever you'd do to him."
"He'd rest after, let me tell you. Can I at least have one of his teammates? Wait, can I have two?"
"Sure. Knock yourself out."
She rubbed her hands in gleeful anticipation, then said, "I do want to meet him, though. You really didn't know who he was?"
I shook my head. "Not a clue. Just thought he was some cute guy."
"Well, he certainly is that. What did you talk about? What was he like?"
"After the first minute or so, he was friendly. The start was weird, though."
"Weird how?"
I shrugged. "He followed me into the waiting room and I looked back to hold the door open for him. His eyes went huge when he saw me and I think he turned pale too. No idea why. He got over it pretty fast, though."
"Maybe he just didn't expect a woman to be applying to work for the team?"
"Maybe." It had felt like more than that, though. He'd seemed truly shocked to see me. "But we were okay after, so I think working with him will be fine."
"I hope so. Get him playing soon, okay? I know you don't know this, but the Hogs haven't won the Cup since--"
"1974."
She threw a hand over her heart and slumped back into the couch. "You actually know something hockey-related. I'm speechless."
"If only that were true," I said, and admitted Filmore had told me the date.
"It's been way too long. They haven't won in our lifetime. Make it happen, okay?"
"Um, it's not exactly up to me." My cell phone rang, and I headed to the front door to retrieve it.
"It's up to Forrest, though, so fix him."
"It's a team sport, idiot, one guy can't--"
I found the phone, and nervousness shot through me like it had been injected into a vein. "Jen, it's him. Forrest."
"So answer! Ooh, no, let me do it."
Wishing myself at home where she couldn't listen in, I said, "Hello?"
"Tess, it's Forrest Williams. I'm glad you took the job."
"You're welcome, Joe." I continued over his protests and Jen's violent head shaking. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"
"Once I realized you didn't know who I was, I wanted to get to know you, see if we could work together."
"And you think we can, I take it?"
"They wouldn't have hired you if I didn't." His words were arrogant but the tone was anything but. I'd never heard a voice so neutral and cold, almost robotic. Strange. But Filmore had made it clear the decision had been Forrest's. My real interview had been in the waiting room. That massage had been my interview.
I sighed. "Well, I still think you should have told me, but I get why you didn't."
"I'm glad." His voice had returned to normal, the machine-like quality gone. "Now, I need you at the rink every morning from eight to nine-thirty in case the leg acts up. It's doing okay right now, but you never know. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from three to six, except on game days when it's three to eleven, and Tuesday and Thursday from one to four, except game days again."
I cut him off as he started into the weekend schedule. "The three to six practices don't work for me. I swim then."
"Swim some other time."
"The pool's only open certain times," I said, annoyed by his casual dismissal. "And I'm trying to qualify for a swim meet in December. I won't give up on it. If we can't find another time, I don't know if this will work."
"Wait," he said instantly, then, "Please, don't quit."
The sudden raw sadness and desperation in his voice cut so deeply into me I felt a sharp pain ripping through my chest. If he'd been there I wouldn't have been able to keep from hugging him. "Okay. But I do need to swim."
"My gym has a pool. It's always open, so you can swim whenever you want. I'll get you in there."
When I didn't answer right away, thinking about my pool and my path, he said, "Listen, I need you there all those times. I have to be able to count on you, know you're committed to helping me get better."
If his voice hadn't cracked on 'need' and 'committed', and if I hadn't remembered his achingly tense shoulders, I might have said no. But I couldn't leave him to suffer. "I am."
"Good," he said, neutrality in full force again. "See you tomorrow." And he was gone.
Jen frowned at me as I returned to the couch. "Did you try to quit?"
I nodded. "He's wrecking my swim schedule. I don't want him pushing me around."
She shook her head. "Sometimes you're as dumb as my contractors."
My look of horrified shock wasn't entirely feigned. "You take that back."
"Well, don't act like them. The schedule's not up to him, you know, it's up to the team. Plus, not to be rude, but he's a pro athlete and you're… not. He has to get this fixed now, even if it means you can't swim. In fact, maybe you should plan not to swim, so you'll have time for him."
I shook my head. "No way. I promised myself back when I was twenty-five that I'd qualify for that meet before I turned thirty. You know, before I got ancient."
Jen, already thirty, winced theatrically.
"I won't give it up. This is my last chance and I'm going after it. I'll figure out how to make it all work."
"I know you will. Just remember, this must be so hard on Forrest. His girlfriend dying--"
"Fiancée," I put in.
"Which is even worse. And then with what happened after that..."
"What happened?"
She sighed. "Well, the Hogs traded away two good players to get him, thinking with a star like him they'd win the Cup. But of course he couldn't play on a broken ankle. Without him and without the two guys they'd traded, the team didn't even come close to making the playoffs. First time in forever."
"Filmore said something about how last year was supposed to be great but it didn't work out."
Jen nodded. "That's because of Forrest. Everyone saw him as the team's savior, but he ended up being a disaster."
"Because he broke his ankle in a car accident? That's hardly fair."
S
he shrugged. "Sports ain't fair, my friend. Anyhow, it sounds like he was doing all right in training camp this year, and then he got hurt again. If he doesn't get playing soon, the fans'll never forgive him, and I bet some of his teammates feel the same way. If you want to keep swimming, I get that, but I still think you need to give him as much time as you can. He needs the help."
"I know." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I want to help him. I guess it's not the schedule, really. I just wish I'd known who he was. I wouldn't have told him hockey bores me, for one thing. Plus, I gave him a massage."
"If you can help him, I doubt he cares what you think of hockey. And until the art career takes off, massage is what you do, after all," Jen said, passing me the garlic bread.
But not like that. Not feeling like I had his soul in my hands.
After dinner, I went home and sat staring at but not seeing my collection of past miniatures, my mind full of Forrest.
The man was aggravating and heart-rending at the same time. Would I be able to work with him? Work closely, too, massaging him several times a day. He'd brushed off the injury's severity just as Filmore had, but they wouldn't be paying me fifty grand for a minor problem. I couldn't work with Forrest if he kept denying the truth.
So I'd do that session with him before signing the contract, and if he continued to be as flexible and open as a concrete wall I'd bail out.
I picked up my paintbrush and began working on the vortex again, but after a few minutes knew I wanted to do something else. Even if I quit tomorrow, today I wanted to know more about Forrest.
I put the vortex on my storage shelf and brought a box filled with random odds and ends to my table. I'd build Forrest's piece on a hockey rink, I supposed, since I didn't know much else about him. I cut an oval base, grabbed a handful of clay, and was soon in that glorious place where nothing else mattered but creation. The feel of the fragments coming together, my ideas growing real under my hands, the sure and simple knowledge I was doing what I needed to do. Letting art flow through me was the best feeling in the world.
Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5) Page 30
