Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
BLUE
I’ve been keeping busy.
Probably too busy for a guy who’s supposed to be on bedrest, but I can’t help it. I haven’t held onto many of the “life lessons” I learned growing up, but the warnings about idle hands being the devil’s plaything…
Well, I guess those seeds were sown too early.
These days, I’m not worried about the devil getting into my hands; I just can’t stand sitting still and doing nothing. On the rare occasions I watch more than an hour of television at a time, I always have a chess piece I’ve whittled to sand or a crochet project to work on.
My friend Justin Cruise taught me how to crochet back when I was a Badger in Portland, straight out of university.
He has an Instagram account where he models his creations half-naked to raise money for a foundation that supports the unhoused.
He encouraged me to do the same, but I rarely put my face on social media, let alone my body in nothing but a scarf wrapped creatively around my crotch.
I give in other ways.
Like fixing up old furniture to donate to the thrift shops who donate their proceeds to animal shelters around town.
This antique side table, someone set on the curb for trash pickup, is going to be a beauty when I’m done. I spotted it on my way to grab sourdough pastries for breakfast at The Miller’s Secret and brought it home to keep me busy.
Now, I drag my sandpaper across the top in long, even strokes, following the wood’s natural lines.
The walnut emerges from beneath someone’s misguided coat of barn-red paint like a river appearing through fog.
Dark swirls. Tight knots. The story of the tree’s life written in rings; the story of the people who used it in what looks like a wineglass stain.
But it’ll all buff out. All it needs is a little time and care.
I left my orbital sander in the closet for this one. I was in the mood for slow work, for the meditation of it. I needed something to keep my mind off the fact that I should be in Canada with my team, helping defend against one of the best offensive lines in the league.
I’m fine to play. My head’s been clear all day.
There’s no dizziness when I stand, no nausea, and my vision is as sharp as it’s ever been.
But when I called her this morning, Dr. Lyle refused to believe that I possess supernatural healing powers.
She insisted I stay home. Still, if I’m this locked in at my follow-up, I’m practically guaranteed to be cleared for the home game on Thursday.
I got lucky. This time.
But hockey is a violent sport, and I’m not getting any younger. The next time some guy with a grudge decides to make me a target, that could be it, the end of my career.
And…then what?
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself more and more often. Not just this weekend, but for the past few months.
Since Bea left.
Since I realized how much I want to be there for her and our baby, and started thinking that helping raise a child would be a meaningful reason to transition out of the NHL.
I’ve always known that I’d retire in my thirties.
Maybe not this early in my thirties, but I wouldn’t be devastated if this were my last year.
It was never that I wasn’t willing to rearrange my life to be a good father. I just wasn’t sure I could trust myself to know how to do the job right.
There weren’t any good fathers where I grew up, no one to show me what that even looked like.
But I never had a hockey mentor, either.
I learned to play from experience, from getting out on the ice every winter with my friends and playing until we couldn’t feel our legs. I still did well enough at my university tryout to win a full scholarship. I was rough around the edges, but my instincts were spot on.
Maybe being a father would be the same.
And like so many moments of synchronicity in life, that’s when it happens…
That’s the moment the anchor on the broadcast I turned on for background noise announces, “In local news, singer-songwriter Beatrice Nix—formerly of the indie rock group Violet Widow—and an unidentified female passenger were involved in a multi-vehicle collision on Interstate 10 this morning. Authorities say the women’s vehicle was struck by a driver who later fled the scene.
The incident is currently being investigated as a hit and run. ”
My hand stops moving.
The word stops spinning.
I jerk my attention to the screen to see what looks like cell phone footage of a smoking car crushed against the highway median, then EMTs loading someone whose face I can’t make out onto a stretcher.
My heart punches my ribs as the video cuts to a small crowd gathered on the shoulder, and Beatrice standing next to a woman in scrubs.
God, there she is. Here, home, back in Louisiana, with a big, round belly, looking more beautiful than ever. But pale. Too pale, I think, seconds before her eyes slide closed and her knees buckle.
By the time a man in a suit scoops her into his arms as she faints, I’m across the room, shoving my feet into my boots.
“Both women were transported to Ochsner Medical Center, where they are listed in stable condition,” the anchor continues, giving me some comfort.
But not enough. Not nearly enough. “The other vehicle involved has been identified as a white Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck. You can see the image on your screen. Authorities are asking anyone who may recognize this vehicle or have information about the driver to contact Crime Stoppers of Greater New Orleans. Tips can be submitted anonymously. You’ll find the tip line number and additional details on our website at… ”
Committing the truck to memory—and vowing to make sure the driver gets the justice he deserves—I head for the door, trailing sawdust in my wake.
I briefly consider swapping out my shirt, but I don’t know how old that story is.
Things could have changed since they recorded that segment, and stable condition means nothing.
Stable can turn critical in a heartbeat.
And it’s not just Beatrice at risk. It’s the baby.
Our baby.
The thought connects like another hit against the boards, the air leaving my lungs in a rush as I grab my keys and wallet and shove my phone into my pocket.
I should have been there for her. I should have been protecting her every step of the way.
Instead, I left her vulnerable. Exposed.
As I push through the side exit into humidity thick enough to chew, I remind myself that a drunk driver could have just as easily hit my vehicle as the car Beatrice was in this morning.
I couldn’t have necessarily kept her safe.
But I do drive a truck, one big enough to fit a man over six feet tall with an oversized frame, not an old Honda Civic.
Old Honda Civic…
Fuck, I know who drives a Civic, a shitty little Civic I’ve been after her to upgrade for months.
Clover…
The thought makes me stumble halfway down the driveway. I reach out, bracing myself against the rock wall behind the house. Of course, it’s Clover. She’s Bea’s roommate, Bea’s friend. She’s also the closest thing I have to a little sister.
Looks like I’ve let her down, too.
I have to get to her, get to them both, let them know I’m here to help in any way they need. Pushing off the wall, I sprint for my truck. Two minutes later, I pull out of the narrow driveway and onto the street, heading west.
Ochsner is the big hospital near the airport. I’m not exactly sure how to get there, but I know the general direction. I can pull up the map once I’m on the highway.
And in the meantime…
I punch buttons on my stupidly complicated digital console until my cell connects, then tap Clover’s contact, praying she’ll answer.
But I’m not really surprised when it rings.
And rings.
And rings, until her voicemail finally picks up.
“Hey, this is Clover. I’m either busy or forgot to charge my cell again. Oops.” A soft, self-conscious laugh and then, “But please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
At the beep, I say, “Clover. It’s Blue.” My voice is tight, and so rough I have to clear my throat before I add, “I just saw Bea and the car wreck on the news. I also saw someone on a stretcher that I really hope wasn’t you, but I…
” I clear my throat again. “I’m worried.
Please call or text as soon as you get this.
I just want to know that you’re both okay.
I’m on my way to Ochsner now to help in any way I can.
So just…let me know what you need. Anything you need. ”
I end the call and lay on the gas, racing down the highway at ten miles over the limit. Please let them both be okay. Please.
They’re both so special to me. Clover because she’s like the sister I lost, and Bea because she’s…
Because she’s Bea.
Because she’s magic and light and laughter and gentleness and strength and the only woman I can imagine wanting to hold in my arms for the rest of my life.
And she hasn’t responded to your messages in months.
She didn’t even let you know she was coming home.
The knowledge settles heavy in my gut as the hospital exit comes into view.
She came home. She’s been here, in my city, just a couple of dozen miles away, and I had no idea.
I didn’t sense her return the way I thought I would.
The energy didn’t shift; the world didn’t stop turning.
That part of me that used to clock her presence like a compass clocking north didn’t sit up and take notice.
There was nothing.
Maybe that’s because there’s nothing between us anymore.
Maybe the connection has been severed. A game of tug-o-war only keeps going as long as someone’s holding on to both sides of the rope. If Bea has dropped hers, if she’s let go once and for all…
Pain flares behind my ribs.