Chapter 9 #2
He simply stared at her, and she took a few steps toward him as if it could close the yawning gap between them. She felt a gust of relief when he broke his silence.
“Why won’t you believe this is not about her, Ange? It’s about the money. Period.”
“You’ve never been into the lavish lifestyle.
I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you’re still driving the same Chevy pickup you were back then.
So explain to me where this motivation to make the big bucks comes from.
” She was treading over dangerous ground, pushing him, but what could he do except growl at her to shut up?
He’d hurt her as much as he could back then, and she’d grown a thick scab over the wound.
Sure, he could rip it off, but the wound wouldn’t go any deeper than it already had.
He grinned suddenly, lending him a borderline unhinged quality that shook some shivers through her. “I did upgrade trucks, but you’re not far off. It’s still a Chevy. I’ll show it to you sometime.”
She let the maybe-invitation pass and waited.
His voice dropped so low she strained to hear him.
The unsettling grin disappeared at the same time.
“My dad’s got a bad heart, Ange. He had to have bypass surgery late last year, and he wasn’t covered by insurance.
We nearly lost him, and I was so damn glad when the doctors were able to save him, but now he’s got a mountain of medical bills he doesn’t even know about because I’m paying them.
“I told the doctors and the hospitals to send them to me. But I’m not making enough to pay them all off at once.
I worked out payment plans with some of them, but there are other institutions I can’t even get to respond to me, and they’re threatening to take him to collection, not me, because everything is in his name.
I don’t want him stressing about any of this because I need him to get better, especially now that Mom’s gone.
” His voice cracked on the last words, and he blinked rapidly, as though holding back tears.
“And then there’s my little brother, Joe. I’m paying to put him through college, and that’s a promise I made Mom that I have to keep. The bonuses I was counting on from getting into the playoffs were going to take care of a huge chunk of that.
“I stuck this time, Angie. I worked my ass off with the Hawks in the AHL, and I finally broke out with the big club. Started on the fourth line and worked my way to the second line. I was about to finish my first full year in the NHL, and we’re heading to the playoffs.
But if I can’t play, someone will take my place, and I’ll be out.
We’re heavy at left wing, and we have some guys who can really play who’ve been in the AHL with the Hawks, like I was, chomping at the bit, just waiting for their turn to show what they can do. Guys just like me a year ago.
“So that bonus money I’ve been hanging my hat on for making it to the postseason?
Poof! Gone. And at twenty-six, I’m a veteran on the downhill side of the age bell curve, which means my priority is all about making the dough, and that right there makes me a mercenary. It’s not even about the game anymore.”
She could feel the desperation and worry rippling through him, could feel the churn of battery acid in his stomach at the thought he might never get another bite at the apple.
But also the care that ran deep for his father and brother, the responsibility sitting heavy on his broad shoulders.
Sam had always had a big, unguarded heart.
It was how Brianna had been able to dismantle it so easily.
“Then you’re not all about the money, and you should stop beating yourself up for going after what you want. What you’re actually all about is taking care of your father and your brother and honoring your mother’s dying wish. I don’t call that mercenary.”
“Whatever. Doesn’t matter what the motivation is. The result is the same.”
They sat in silence for long minutes before an idea struck her. “If you like, I could take a look at some of those bills and maybe offer some different approaches. I deal with medical offices and insurance a lot.”
“I’ll think about it.” His tone told her he was done with this conversation.
She’d dragged far more out of him than she’d expected, though, which gave her a new perspective on her patient and former friend.
But she had to check herself. How far was she willing to cross that professional-personal line?
Had she dug into other patients’ lives to this degree?
Did she offer to help them with their billing problems?
She’d answer the thorny question later. Maybe.
The soft clicks and hums of equipment filled the air, like crickets singing in the distance on a warm summer night.
She held out her palm for the stress ball. “I’m sorry, Sam.” It was all she had, as lame as the sentiment sounded.
“You and me both.” He dropped the elephant into her palm, then softly brushed her chin with his knuckles—sort of miming a friendly punch. Here’s looking at you, kid. Did it mean they were back on even ground again? Maybe … as long as she could stick to the professional side of that line.
She walked him to the door and let him out. “I’m telling Celia to change the combo in the morning,” she teased.
He glanced at her over his broad shoulder and grinned—a genuine one this time that lit up her insides in ways it shouldn’t have. “You gotta do you, Ange.”
She leaned against the door frame. “And you gotta do you. I’m sure you’ll figure out a different way to sneak in and run your own therapy sessions.”
He shook his head, and his tousled curls bounced.
“Nah, I’m done with breaking and entering.
I realized tonight I don’t know shit about taking care of my own goddamn ankle and that I need to let the pros do their job.
That’s the quickest way I’m gonna get to where I need to be, and if that means missing the playoffs, then so be it. ”
She shot upright. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing!”
“Yeah, yeah. A breakthrough. One point for Team Angelina, a big goose egg for Team Sam.”
“What will you do if you end up missing the playoffs?”
“Same as I’ve always done. I’ll figure out a way. I don’t want you worrying about me. That’s one more stress I just can’t handle right now, okay? I give myself over to your capable hands, and I’ll follow your instructions. G’night.”
“I’ll email you next week’s schedule.”
His back to her, he grunted an acknowledgment. She watched him limp his way down the hallway. When the elevator doors whooshed open, he turned and gave her a bob of his head before punching a button and disappearing behind the stainless-steel doors.
With a resigned sigh, Angie closed and locked the door behind her and headed for her desk, where she plopped down and stared at Sam’s chart, tapping her pen against the margin.
After scheduling his sessions over the next few weeks, she copied them into her own calendar and emailed them to him.
Then she reread her notes from their last official PT session.
Tonight didn’t count, she’d decided, because she had been off the clock and his exercising had been his own call—plus, he hadn’t really been here, had he?
Besides, if she wrote what had unfolded truthfully, minus the scorching-hot kiss, she would have to add that he’d sneaked in, which would serve no purpose besides getting Sam in trouble—and whomever he’d conned the code out of.
Angie would also have to report that he had suffered a mishap that might have set him back.
She returned to her notes, skimming them once more.
Swelling continues to improve. Full plantar flexion achieved. Limited dorsiflexion with pain. Instability during single-leg stance.
All true and already logged. Still, she paused, chewing the end of her pen. On paper, it wasn’t bad. In reality, it wasn’t good enough.
The truth was that his ankle still wobbled under stress. His upper body overcompensated. The ligament was holding, but barely. And he masked discomfort like it was a competition.
She flipped back to her earlier notes, each day a snapshot of her optimism.
Estimated recovery: six weeks. She sighed.
Optimism had a way of sounding like certainty when you said it to a patient who needed to believe in a miracle, and Angie had screwed up when she hadn’t shut down the hope of four weeks.
Wasn’t it better to underpromise and overdeliver?
He’d just looked so hopeful and helpless, and her sappy heart had rushed to comfort him. Again.
Look how that turned out last time. When will you stop trying to pick up Sam Durbin’s pieces?
“You’re only making it worse,” she muttered aloud.
She dropped her head into her hands. Maybe he only needed seven weeks.
Her pen hovered, then she wrote quietly in the margin: Re-evaluate timeline at Week 3.
She closed the chart, leaned back in her chair, and exhaled. He’d take the news badly when the time came. But better he be angry with her now than sidelined for months later. Even after his little speech tonight, did she believe he’d truly had a “breakthrough” and would kowtow to her orders?
Not a chance.
Wouldn’t it be fabulous if he actually made it in six weeks? If the team was still in the hunt, they’d be at the end of round two. He could make it back, and she could be the one to give him the good news. How sweet would that be?
Oh, to see his smile when she told him he was good to go! If only.
Meanwhile, how could she help him get there and steer him away from his self-destructive rehab at the same time?
The threads of a plan stitched themselves together.