Playing Hard (10 page)

Normally in his downtime, he was studying the Saints, or studying other teams, or, at worst, watching some other sport. If he took vacations, they were active ones with some of his Saints buddies. Skiing or hiking or making a beeline for somewhere warm where they could swim and Jet Ski and windsurf by day and party by night.

But right now knowing that the Saints were playing in the divisional series and he wasn’t was an acid burn in his gut. Any thought of sports—any sport—just made it worse.

So his usual distractions were out. He’d tried to read and watch movies but his concentration was shot.

The only thing that made him feel better was Amelia.

Who’d kicked his ass soundly at four games last night before she’d insisted it was past her bedtime and left him alone. Now she was at work and the day loomed before him in a big ugly stretch of nothing to keep him from having to face his current reality.

His current reality sucked balls.

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to be in it.

Hence the phone call. Because if he couldn’t have Amelia sitting on his sofa, smelling delicious and smiling at him with those pretty blue eyes, then he wanted to at least hear her voice.

Which maybe was the most pathetic thing about his situation.

It was Thursday. He’d met her Sunday night. Then his world had been wrecked. Literally. Less than five days and she was already the high point in his day. Which seemed crazy.

He didn’t know which was the scarier option: that it might be the truth and he’d finally met someone who could hold his interest, or that it was just the trauma of the situation and his brain choosing Amelia to fixate on rather than facing reality.

The first one seemed ridiculous. The second one made him a jerk. But he didn’t know how to find out which option it was other than to see it through.

Which left him with nothing to do but sit here and know that he was missing out on what would have been the biggest game in his career. All because of Finn.

Fucking Castro.

Who might well be playing Oliver’s goddamn position today. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask. Maggie had called earlier on her way to Boston and he’d wriggled his way out of a conversation in about thirty seconds flat by pretending the nurse was at the door. Anything to avoid hearing details about tonight’s game.

Pretty damned weak.

He dropped his head back against the sofa, his left hand balling into a fist. His right hand twitched in sympathy. Which hurt.

Fuck it, maybe what he really needed was to start drinking. Maybe then he’d sleep until Amelia arrived.

Oblivion sounded damned good about now. And it wasn’t as if the weak-ass painkillers he was taking could interact badly with alcohol.

Pushing up off the sofa with his good hand and leg, he fumbled for the walking stick propped beside him with every intention of finding himself a big glass, some ice, and pulling out the bottle of fifty-year-old scotch that Maggie had given him for his thirtieth birthday.

His plan was interrupted by a knock at his door.

Fuck. Who was bothering him? It better not be a fucking reporter—if one of them had managed to sneak past Tony then he was going to tear someone a new one.

But when he peered through the peephole in the door, he was confronted not by an eager reporter but by the immaculately dressed form of Lucas Angelo. With his wife, Sara, at his side.

“Aren’t you two supposed to be in Boston?” he said as he threw the door open.

“Hello to you, too, Ollie,” Sara said. She stood on tiptoes to reach his cheek to kiss him hello. She smelled, as always, faintly like engines as well as the light flowery scent she wore.

“Hello,” he replied, smiling at her.

He was in a crap mood but he wasn’t going to take it out on Sara, who was a complete sweetheart. Not to mention Lucas would probably kick his ass if he did. Or Maggie would. Hell, most people involved in the Saints would line up to smack him upside the head if he upset Sara.

“Lucas,” he added, stepping back to let the Angelos in. “What are you doing here?”

“You have a checkup with your surgeon this morning,” Lucas said. “Did you forget?”

“No,” he lied. Crap. He’d known about the appointment. So his little scotch plan would’ve been a disaster. “But my driver is picking me up at eleven for that.”

“Well, now it’s us and my driver,” Lucas said.

“I’m a big boy now. I can go see the doctor by myself.”

“Maybe. But I’m in charge of player well-being on this team and that means I’m coming along to hear what George has to say about your hand.”

“If you’re in charge of player well-being, you should be in Boston,” Oliver retorted.

“Which I will be about two hours after we’re done with you,” Lucas said. “Sara’s flying me there.”

Sara nodded then disappeared into the kitchen. Oliver looked at Lucas somewhat warily. Lucas, who really didn’t like helicopters despite being married to a woman who flew them and having to spend more time in them than most people due to his punishing schedule. But Oliver had never known him to take one when there was a non-airborne transport method available. Like a train, the team bus, or a car in the case of Boston. So he must be worried to show up here today and subject himself to a helicopter flight because of it.

“Checking up on me?” he asked, feeling suddenly nervous. Had Lucas already spoken to George? “I was going to go to the appointment. I don’t want to fuck up my recovery.”

“Good,” Lucas said. “I don’t want you to fuck it up, either. But no, not checking up. Like I said. I want to know what George has to say. Easier to get it from the horse’s mouth.” He looked Oliver up and down. “Why are you answering the door, isn’t the nurse here?”

“Been and gone. Besides which, I’m allowed to walk short distances.”

“Short. When you need to. You’re still supposed to be resting.” Lucas jerked his head toward the living room. “We’re early so how about I take a look at your ankle while I’m here?”

“Alfie—the nurse—rebandaged it this morning.”

“I’m sure he did an excellent job. But Alfie isn’t a doctor. I want to see it for myself.”

Oliver couldn’t find an argument to that. Lucas was his boss and one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country. If he wanted to check out a sprained ankle, Oliver wasn’t going to stop him. He turned and limped back to the couch, taking as much weight as he could on the stick.

“Are you getting sore in the hips at all?” Lucas asked, following him.

“All of me is still sore,” Ollie pointed out. “I was in a car accident.”

“Funny man,” Lucas said. “I’m serious. Using a cane and wearing a boot puts your hips and back out of alignment. You could still be taking something stronger, you know. I’m happy to call in a prescription for you.”

Ollie shook his head. “No, I’m good.”

Lucas grinned at him.

“What?”

“I told Maggie you’d say that. She said to tell you you’re an idiot.”

“I’m used to Maggie telling me I’m an idiot.” Ollie eased himself back down on the sofa. Lucas dragged the coffee table forward so he could sit on it and then lifted Ollie’s injured foot. “You know,” he said, as he expertly stripped off the walking boot and began unwinding the bandage, “taking the painkillers for a week or so isn’t going to kill you.”

“Not taking them isn’t going to kill me, either,” Ollie said, gritting his teeth as Lucas unwound the last part of the bandage.

His foot was several dark shades of purple and green and still very swollen.

Lucas studied it then started probing gently with his fingers. “Flex your foot—carefully—” he said.

Ollie obeyed. It hurt. He gritted his teeth.

“Are you icing it regularly?”

“Yes. Following doctor’s orders,” Ollie said.

“Good. It looks less swollen than it did Tuesday, so that’s good. Keep the boot on for a few more days and I’ll check it again when we’re back from Boston.” Lucas rewrapped the bandage. “Ice, elevation, you know the drill. Like I said, if your hips or back get sore, tell the nurse. He can organize a massage for you. Using the boot and the stick is going to throw your gait out and we want to keep any change under control, get your ankle back to normal as soon as possible.”

“I’ve sprained my ankle before,” Ollie said. “I know the drill.”

“I know. But this is a bad sprain. Frankly, you’re lucky you didn’t snap the tendon completely,” Lucas said. “And you already have a weakness on your right side from your ACL.”

As if he needed reminding about that. But ankles and knees could be managed. Braced. Strapped. Pampered. The important thing was getting his hand back. He looked down at the plastered blob of it where he was resting it on his leg.

Lucas’s gaze followed his. “How does it feel?”

“Hurts. The stitches are itchy.”

“Itching is good. Itching is healing. Don’t try and poke something under the plaster to scratch. That’s never a good idea. Keep it elevated as much as possible, too.”

“Thank you, Doctor Obvious. Do you think Dr. Banks will let me lose the plaster? I feel like I’ve got a fucking mummy hand.”

Lucas shrugged. “Maybe. It’s a balancing act between protection and you being able to start physical therapy. Right now, it’s early and your hand will still be swollen and bruised. And if you move it the wrong way you’ll tear your external stitches. Or worse, the internal ones. Which would mean more surgery. But the longer it’s completely immobilized, the longer your recovery will be. So it’s George’s call. He’s the expert.” Sympathy was clear in Lucas’s bright-blue eyes. “I know it’s frustrating, working with only one hand. If you need more help—”

“No,” Ollie said. “Alfie’s enough. I can manage.”

“If you change your mind, you just have to yell,” Lucas said. “We can afford all the help you need.”

He didn’t care about the cost. He could afford a full-time housekeeper if he wanted. He had money. But money couldn’t guarantee him a fully functional hand. Nothing could.

Which made him suddenly want that scotch all over again.

*   *   *

It was nearly half past eight by the time Tony called up to let him know that Amelia had arrived.

Finally.

The game had started half an hour ago and he’d been sitting on the sofa for the last hour arguing with himself about whether or not to turn on the TV, desire to know what was happening warring with the raw burning anger that he wasn’t there.

He made it to the door before Amelia knocked, priding himself on his increased speed with the boot and his stick. Amelia looked surprised to see him when he pulled the door open.

“Are you supposed to be opening doors yourself?”

“My ankle is improving,” he said. “So yeah. Hello, Amelia.”

She smiled up at him. “Hello.” She held up a plastic bag. “Have you eaten? I got takeout. Italian. Lasagna. Tell me you like lasagna.”

“Yes, Amelia, I, like most guys, like lasagna. And no, I haven’t eaten.”

He still didn’t have much of an appetite so he’d waited, figuring she’d need to eat.

Her smile widened and some of the tension he’d been carrying all day melted away. Good call, inviting her over. If anyone was going to get him through tonight, it would be her.

“Great,” she said. “I’ll get some plates and things.”

He stepped back from the door to let her in. Saw the moment her eyes clocked the sling around his neck and her smile faltered.

“Don’t frown, Amelia,” he said. “The sling is a good thing. Or a compromise, maybe.” He rotated his hand in the foam padded strap gingerly. “I saw my surgeon today. He doesn’t want me using my hand but he agreed to take me out of the plaster. So sling it is.” The black plastic splint he now wore made his hand look kind of like a robot, which wasn’t really that much improvement over a mummy. But the plastic was far more comfortable than the plaster, so he was trying to be grateful and obey Dr. Banks’s strict instructions about avoiding too much movement.

Her eyes were on his hand, at the bruised tops of his fingers—now starting to turn interesting shades of green—visible above the top of the splint. They were still slightly swollen but at least looked like fingers.

Then she looked back up at him, smile firmly back in place, if a little less believable than it had been a minute ago. A worrier. But apparently she wasn’t going to grill him.

“That must be a good sign,” she said. “Am I allowed to ask what else he said or is that something you don’t want to talk about?”

He didn’t want to talk about it. George Banks had been thorough and brisk and declared it too early to know much about what was going on with Ollie’s hand function. Still, Ollie had caught the look that Lucas and George had exchanged when he’d struggled to bend his fingertips more than a quarter inch or so. But it wasn’t fair to take his crappy mood out on Amelia.

“He said it’s too early to tell much,” Ollie said. “But I start seeing a hand therapist next week.”

Her smile this time was genuine. “That’s great! Though sympathy on the physical therapy. It always seems to hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“I’ll take pain over a hand that doesn’t work.”

“Smart man.” She nodded to the kitchen. “I’ll go deal with the food.”

*   *   *

By the time he’d made it back to the sofa and settled himself at the far end, propping his foot up on the brand-new ottoman that had arrived that afternoon with a note from Sara saying it would give him more options to support his leg, Amelia reappeared with napkins, a plate of garlic bread, and glasses.

“Nice ottoman,” she said.

“Sara Angelo sent it. Her dad smashed up his knee pretty good a few years ago and she said he had one.”

“Gives you more ways you can sit on your sofa,” Amelia said. “Smart.”

He wondered if she’d noticed that he’d strategically had the ottoman placed at the far right end of the sofa, so that he could sit with his leg up, his bad hand resting on the arm of the sofa if he wanted out of the sling and his good hand free to … well, do other things if he could coax Amelia to sit next to him now that he wasn’t taking up the length of the sofa.

“Eat,” she said, offering the garlic bread. “I’ll be back with the pasta. Do you want something to drink?”