Chapter 7
ASHER REYNOLDS
Islept on the sofa last night. My knee was already throbbing by the time I got home. Luckily, laundry is on the first floor, so at least I’m not dressed in yesterday’s clothes when I hear an unexpected knock.
“Chase?” I question when I open the door. “I didn’t know that the team was offering house calls these days.”
He doesn’t smile. “I’ll drive you to the arena today. I doubt that you can even bend your knee.”
I shift my weight, trying to hide my extended left leg behind my right one. “I don’t need my left leg to drive.”
He crosses his arms, the polo that I’ve already grown accustomed to seeing him in stretching across his chest. “I have an empty passenger seat and a five-year-old that would love to talk your ear off. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
The most annoying part of his unexpected arrival is that I was already wondering if I could even get in my SUV today. I slept with an ice pack on my elevated leg until it grew warm, but the throbbing from last night’s been replaced with a dull, persistent ache that makes it hard to breathe.
I really fucked up, and we both know it. I sigh. “Let me get my crutches.”
“And your brace,” he instructs from the doorway.
Putting on my post-op knee brace feels like a huge setback, but I know that there’s no one to blame but myself.
At this point, there’s no reason to put on a brave face. I grab my crutches from the wall next to the staircase and hobble over to the laundry room, where I’ve been keeping my brace on a storage shelf. I can feel Chase watching me, but I don’t look back.
I manage to carry my brace while still keeping the weight completely off my left leg. I don’t think that I re-ruptured my tear, but I aggravated the hell out of it.
When I sit down on the sofa, it’s more me throwing my body back against the cushions than anything. I must look like an idiot, but I don’t have time to think about that because Chase is crossing the small living room.
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he kneels down in front of me. Suddenly, I’m staring at the top of his head when he says, “Let me make sure that everything’s aligned correctly.”
I can feel him making sure that the brace straps are fit against the right parts of my leg, with the tightest fit against my calf. His hands move quickly. Before I’ve even processed his movements, I’m wrapped up like the Bionic Man.
He’s not rushing–his hands move with precision and focus–but I still feel like we’re in a hurry.
Usually, I’m the entire focus of his attention when he’s trying to make me take my rehab seriously.
I realize why when, using my crutches for support, I follow him to my front door, which he left open.
Lyla–I think that’s her name–is already strapped into her car seat in the back of his SUV.
I can see her waving through the front window.
“I wasn’t lying,” Chase says as he walks around to my side. He opens the door and takes my crutches before I can protest. “She’s chatty.”
“Do you work with my dad?” She’s asking before I’ve managed to slide myself onto the passenger’s seat.
I look toward Chase, who’s hopping in his side and turning the ignition. Music floats through the SUV’s stereo, something sing-songy and definitely meant for kids.
I don’t know why I’m acting like I’ve never talked to a kid.
I have–had, I correct myself–four younger siblings.
But it’s like I’ve forgotten how to behave like a functional human.
I guess that makes sense considering I’ve barely talked to anyone who isn’t a physical therapist in close to two months now.
He looks in the rearview mirror and checks both his side mirrors before starting to back out. “He’s on the hockey team, baby. We’re giving him a ride to campus today.”
“Why do you need a ride to campus?” she asks, directed at me.
From the angle of the mirror, I’m just able to get a look at her. Yesterday, I was so surprised to see Chase spinning her around that I didn’t pay attention. I was more focused on him, and how he looked so at ease with her. So happy.
But now, I can see that she’s a mini-me of her dad in a lot of ways.
Same dark eyes. Same dark hair, though hers is longer and has more of a curl to it.
And they definitely both share the same charming smile, which she’s leveling at me right back through the mirror’s reflection, waiting for my answer.
I look to Chase again. He gives me a confused, if not a little annoyed, stare back. “You can talk to her, you know. There are even studies that children can actually be treated as people. Crazy concept,” he finishes dryly.
I feel like an idiot. That happens a lot around him these days.
But he’s totally right. I would have hated to be ignored like that when I was little, even if I was relatively shy growing up.
I bite back my embarrassment and turn in my seat as much as my brace will allow.
“Nice to officially meet you, Lyla. I’m Asher. ”
It feels weird anywhere East of the Mississippi to use Asher. But that’s what Chase calls me, and if he’s talked to Lyla about me, it’s probably what he’s already used.
“Like the Pokémon trainer,” she says decisively before getting back to her original track. “Is your car broken? Our car broke down a few months ago. Grandma had to drive us everywhere.”
Now, it’s Chase’s turn to look a little flushed. “It was only for a day before we got a rental,” he corrects.
Lyla pushes past her dad’s correction, undeterred. “We used to live with Grandma and Grandpa. Now we live here. How long have you lived here?”
My mind is swirling with questions, but I try to stay focused. “I moved in a little over a week ago.”
I catch her stare in the mirror again, as she’s absorbing the information seriously. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Lyla,” Chase chides. “It’s not nice to ask people about differences unless they bring them up first. And even then–”
“I should think about how I’d feel if someone did the same thing to me,” she sing-songs back, like this isn’t the first time that they’ve had this conversation.
I’m struck with the realization so suddenly that it knocks all the air out of my lungs.
Lyla reminds me so much of Olivia. I was about seven years older than my little sister, so by the time she was this age, I was old enough to appreciate what a smart, funny, curious little person she was already becoming.
The pain is swift, but I try to push through it. Now, I have two people with intense brown eyes who don’t need to see my inner turmoil. “I hurt my leg. Your dad’s helping me get better. I’m really happy to have him in my corner.”
I don’t miss the wry smile Chase levels in my direction. I’ve made no part of this easy for him, and we both know it.
“My dad likes helping people,” Lyla agrees.
There’s a beat of silence that is easy to feel Lyla gearing up to fill when Chase cuts in. “So, what are you most excited about learning in school today?”
Lyla spends the rest of the five-minute drive to campus, where I’ve learned that she’ll be dropped off at the daycare center there–pretty cool that Radford offers that to staff–talking about the friends that she made yesterday.
I swear she doesn’t take a breath until Chase puts the car in park outside of a large, non-descript building that I’ve never been to before.
He unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll be right back.”
I glance down at my brace and how my leg is awkwardly extended all the way under the dashboard, even with the seat pushed back as far as it can go. “I’ll be here.”
I’m not sure why, but for the first time in months–even with the knowledge that Chase is probably going to chew me out about yesterday once we’re in my session–I don’t have the overwhelming desire to flee.
I have to wait long, agonizing minutes to see how Chase is going to play this session. Today’s an ice day, but I’m not going to practice.
We made the short drive from the daycare facility to the arena, and he helped me silently out of his SUV.
Then, I re-adjusted to using the crutches to navigate across the parking lot and through the facility.
If only I could have held onto the feeling of how much the crutch pads hurt when they push into my armpits, maybe I wouldn’t be in this situation.
Now, I’m sitting on one of the tables, waiting for his attention.
Zane, the athletic trainer who joined the team a few seasons ago, is in Chase’s office with him. They’re both wearing similar polos, except that Chase’s is black today. It’s weird how quickly I’ve already become accustomed to the fact that I used to have posters of him on my bedroom wall.
He still looks a lot like those posters, even though it’s been close to a decade since then. His jaw’s a little more defined, and it’s dusted with a light stubble that he’s rubbing right now, considering something Zane’s telling him.
For all the times I envied his talent or wanted to reach his same level of success, I never really thought about him as a person.
He was an idea to aspire to in my own journey toward hockey stardom.
But now, he’s my physical therapist. And my neighbor.
And the father to a little girl who seems way more in awe of his ability to pick her up and spin her around than his mean slapshot.
Now that I’ve actually met Lyla, I can’t help but wonder how that last part happened.
I mean, I know technically how that happened, but I’m curious about all the years in between. Does he share custody with his ex? Is she in the picture? Lyla didn’t mention her, even though she brought up her grandparents in the car.
I scowl. I’m not sure why I care about any of this. I don’t want anything breaking through the wall that I’ve built around myself since the accident. Feeling any emotion, even simple ones like curiosity and interest, is just a gateway to the bad ones finding a way to slither through and choke me.