Offside (48 page)

Physical therapy took up most of my days, alternating between building up the strength in my arms and just trying to make my legs work at all. I could feel them, but my mind just couldn’t seem to make them work. I’d been through dozens of tests, and they kept saying there wasn’t any spinal cord damage, but aside from wiggling my toes and bending my knees just a little, I still couldn’t control them. Apparently, the doctors and experts on such things still thought my progress was good enough, and Danielle said I would probably be ready to go home in the next week.

I couldn’t decide how I felt about that.

I would be able to see Nicole every day again…in theory. At least we would be close to each other. I was pretty sure Dad was going to make that pretty fucking difficult, though. He hadn’t said a word to her in my presence, but his disdain for the girl who had cost him his soccer champion was plain to see.

He still insisted I was going to play again.

I kind of refused to think about it.

Soccer had been my life for so long, not being able to play just felt…weird—like I was in a dream or something. Well, all of this shit kind of felt like a dream, but that part especially. With the replacement shoulder blade, I didn’t have full movement of my left shoulder anymore and couldn’t raise my arm completely above my head. Even if I got full use of my legs back eventually, I wasn’t going to be able to play goal.

Okay, so maybe I thought about it a little.

I blamed that shit on Justin Hammer—my therapist.

He seemed to think I needed to talk about it all the fucking time and kept asking me how I felt about this shit and how I felt about that shit. I didn’t know how to feel and usually ended up yelling at him. He seemed to think that was all fine and dandy though. I apparently had anger issues and needed to learn to get it all out.

Fucking ridiculous.

I kind of liked the guy, though.

Dad came by later that night and started reading over my progress charts and crap. He bitched about the physical therapist, the insistence of the shrink, the price he was paying for the meals, and the doctors who continued to say my chances of walking again were about fifty-fifty.

“Fucking idiots,” he seethed. “I need to get you home so you can start some real training again. They’re just letting you slack here.”

“My arms are a lot stronger,” I told him. I tried to remember the exact words Danielle had used, but they weren’t coming to me.

“And this bullshit about your left arm mobility—we have to work on that, too.”

“I thought Doctor Winchest—”

“Winchester is a fucking moron!” Dad yelled. I cringed against the pillow a bit. He’d been like this more and more lately—going off in places where someone could just walk in on us and hear him. He used to be really careful to keep his voice down in those kinds of situations, but he wasn’t anymore.

“I talked to Wayne today and told him how well you were doing,” Dad suddenly said. I looked up at him with disbelief.

“What did he say?”

“He said the offer would still be open,” Dad told me, “providing you got off your ass and got yourself completely recovered in the next year.”

I had the feeling those weren’t Wayne’s exact words.

“What if…what if I can’t?” I asked quietly.

“Don’t give me that kind of shit!” Dad responded. “You see? That right there is why I need to get you out of here before that stupid PT and her nay-saying can bring you down anymore!”

“Danielle said—”

“Don’t fucking repeat a word that came from her mouth!” he yelled. “Stupid bitch. She’s as bad as the one who put you here.”

I tensed, trying to keep myself from uttering the words that wanted to come from my mouth. No good would come of it.

“You should be training in Europe right now,” he continued. “If it wasn’t for that two-bit cock-sucker, you would be.”

I looked down at my hands in my lap and tried to breathe normally. It wasn’t really working, but I knew if I said anything, it would just be worse. It was better to let him belt it all out.

“I’m taking you home this weekend,” Dad said as he threw my chart back onto the table. “I’ll get you a PT who knows what the fuck he’s doing and get you away from that faggot shrink and his ‘Thomas needs to learn to cope with his disabilities’ bullshit.”

I really didn’t think Justin’s bread was buttered on that side, but I hated talking to him about everything. I usually didn’t say much unless he was trying to get me to talk about Nicole. I didn’t mind that topic.

“This weekend,” Dad repeated, and then he walked out of the room.

My breath whistled between my lips in a deep sigh as I exhaled, and I closed my eyes. As my head dropped back to the pillow, I was enveloped in Rumple-smell, and my muscles relaxed.

I didn't know what time in the morning it was, only that my head was still full of sleep when voices roused me.

“…I understand your concerns, Doctor Malone, but physical therapy is not always that cut and dried. There are a lot of considerations—”

“I am fully aware of how PT works,” Dad said, cutting Danielle off. “That's why I've hired my own therapist to work with
my son
in our home.”

I heard Danielle take a long breath.

“Mr. Chase is known to me,” Danielle said softly. “Though I can't deny he's had some results, some of his methods are considered…questionable.”

“You know what?” Dad's voice grew a little louder. “What I don't need from some barely-educated
therapist
is advice on my son's care. I actually went to medical school, you know, and I don't need
you
offering
me
advice on whom to hire. Consider yourself out of the picture.”

I opened my eyes as Dad closed the door in Danielle's face. Dad turned and looked over to me.

“Get out of that damn bed,” he told me, “and get whatever you want to take with you. We're leaving today.”

Shit.

On our way out, the resident doctor, Danielle, and Justin all showed up trying to talk Dad out of it. Obviously, they didn't understand who they were dealing with. No one talks my dad out of anything. No one.

Justin said he'd like to come to the house to meet with me. Dad said over his dead body.

Danielle tried to give him a bunch of paperwork, which he tossed on the floor at her feet.

The other doctor attempted to talk to him about my condition in general. Dad told him to shut up.

Then his phone rang. It was obviously Doctor Winchester.

“At this point, I'm just not interested,” Dad said, his voice just barely still in control. “I appreciate what you have done for him so far, but I'm not happy with his progress…I know that's what
she
says, but her opinion is really not holding much weight with me.”

Dad looked pointedly at Danielle.

“Bottom line is, he's going home. Now. I'll be taking care of him from this point forward.”

Dad hung up and turned to me.

“Get going,” he said.

I wheeled myself toward the door, refusing to look at any of the three people who had been taking care of me in various ways since I woke up. It wouldn't do any good, and I just didn't want to deal with it. I made it out to Dad's car without too much difficulty, but once there, I wasn't really sure what to do.

This wasn't something I'd practiced.

Through Dad's bitching, I managed to get myself positioned next to the passenger seat and eventually flopped into the car. Dad grabbed the wheelchair and gave it a forceful shove toward the rehab center doors before he got into the driver's side.

“How will I get into the house?” I asked.

“I already got another chair for you,” he told me.

“But the stairs…”

Dad grumbled under his breath.

“I guess you'll go through the back entrance.”

I hoped the rain hadn't been too bad, because it got muddier than shit out in the back yard.

We sat in silence for a few minutes as Dad maneuvered out of the parking lot, down the street, and onto the highway. I just stared out the window, wishing I hadn't put my phone in the bag behind me or that I had at least kept Nicole's pillow in the front with me.

I was getting tired, and holding myself upright in the seat of the Mercedes wasn't nearly as easy as sitting in the wheelchair or in the hospital bed. We hadn't even been on the road for fifteen minutes yet, and there was probably close to another twenty minutes before we'd get home.

“Now that you are out of there, we're going to get a few things straight,” Dad suddenly piped up.

Whatever discomfort I was feeling physically was overrun by the dread that came over me from his words.

“What things?” I asked quietly.

“The Skye girl is history,” he started. I tried to speak up, but he shushed me. “History. She's not coming anywhere near our house, and you're not getting your phone back. I put up with her shit in the hospital, and I have no more tolerance for that insolent bitch.”

Again, I tried to speak up, but he just started screaming.

“It's her fucking fault you're like this!” he yelled. “She's fucking coddling you, back-talking me, and if I hear one fucking word out of you about it, I will fuck her life up! You hear me?”

My breath was caught in my chest, and I couldn't draw in any air. My hands started to shake, and I tried to grip the edge of the seat for support, but my fingers weren't cooperating. When I didn't answer right away, he backhanded my shoulder, causing me to gasp.

At least I could breathe again.

“You fucking hear me?” he screeched again.

“I hear you!” I replied quickly and louder than I meant to. “Just…just leave her alone, all right?”

I glanced to my left and saw his slow, calculated smile.

“Now you're seeing some reason,” he said. His hand went back to the steering wheel. “Next, your new PT is Steven Chase. He's very innovative with his ideas, and he's achieved some fantastic results. He's going to work you hard, and you're going to start making some real progress.”

“I thought I was making progress,” I countered.

“Bullshit. You still can't even move your legs reliably. You should be. He's going to fix that.”

I honestly didn't know what else could be done, considering the hell Danielle had been putting me through over the past weeks. Though he hadn’t said much about Steven Chase, something about his words made me nervous. I had the feeling I was going to miss Danielle.

“I don't want to hear any bitching or complaining from you, either,” Dad said. “You're going to work your ass off, and if you aren't making progress, you're going to answer to me. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said softly.

“You just need a little more encouragement,” Dad said after a few more minutes of silence. We had just reached the stretch of road right before our house. “I've got everything set up for you in the guest room next to my study. Everything is on the first floor, so you can get to the kitchen and whatever. Steven is going to set up equipment right there in the living room. It will be a lot better than being at that place.”

I wasn't sure if I agreed or not, but I nodded anyway.

I was still trying to cope with the idea of not being able to see Nicole. I wondered how in the hell I was even going to tell her what had happened. Dad ran his hand through his hair and then turned into our long driveway, expertly maneuvering through the tree-lined, hilly course.

“You know I'm just trying to do what's best for you,” he said. His voice had gone back to calm and smooth again. “You want to get better as quickly as possible, don't you?”

“Sure,” I said meekly.

“That's my boy! I knew you wouldn't be shut down by this shit. You're going to be fine.”

He parked next to the house and brought a wheelchair out of the garage for me. It was nicer than the one at the rehab center; I had to give him that. It was a little easier to get from the car to the chair, but I was already so worn out by the time I had myself in it, I could barely move my arms enough to spin the wheels. The yard was muddy, and after the second time I got stuck, I couldn't get myself back out. Dad screamed at me a bit but ended up pushing me the rest of the way around the house and in through the mudroom off the back of the garage.