Chapter 8 Spencer
EIGHT
SPENCER
I wake to the sound of nursing staff speaking softly in French.
And then, English. It’s my mother’s voice.
“…and how long until he can safely be flown home?”
I’m near 36 years old and I wake to the sound of my mother making arrangements like I’m six.
I blink my eyes open. The light is dim, but even that is too much. My body is a live wire of pain—sharp and deep, radiating from everywhere and nowhere.
It’s been three days since the accident. Or has it been four? Drifting in and out. Hearing bits and pieces. Trying to absorb what has happened and what lies ahead.
“Spencer,” my father says, leaning forward. “You’ve scared the hell out of us.”
“I guess so, but here I am,” I rasp, my throat dry as sand.
My mother works to adjust the blankets, my father reaches for my hand and squeezes it, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. I try not to flinch.
“We’re arranging a transfer,” my mother says quickly. “Mass General has a specialist in spinal trauma, and—”
“No.” I say, making the slightest shake of my head.
They both stop.
“I’m staying here,” I say. “I’ve got a good team and I’m not getting put on a plane just so Liza Fairfield can come fawn over me in a hospital gown.”
My mother blinks. “Liza and her whole family are very concerned. Rachel is, too.” She adds quietly.
Rachel is my lying, cheating ex-wife, and Liza is the woman my parents would like to fill her shoes.
“No.” It’s all I can muster.
The truth is, I don’t have the energy for whatever matchmaking charade they’re trying to play while I can barely move without crying out in pain. Being back in Boston is the equivalent of putting a live stream camera in my hospital room.
Injuries. Let’s just say the list is extensive:
Three fractured ribs
A broken clavicle
Cracked wrist on my dominant hand
Dislocated shoulder
A hairline fracture in my pelvis
Severe Concussion
Torn ligament in my left knee
Multiple contusions and lacerations
A spinal compression fracture (they say is small)
A hell of a lot of bruised pride
It could have been worse. It should have been worse. But it’s still enough to knock me out of commission for weeks, maybe months.
And I won’t lie—I’ve never even imagined a person could be in so much pain.
The pain meds help, but I’m cautious. Too cautious, maybe. I don’t like the way they make my head foggy. The way they take the edge off more than just the pain.
Gina calls later that afternoon.
“How’s our star athlete?” she asks, managing warmth and sarcasm in equal measure.
“Still as broken as yesterday, but I managed to drink through a straw by myself today. Impressive, huh?”
“Your ego and your body are in a race to recovery?”
“I’m putting my money on the body, right now,” I say.
We talk about logistics. The firm. The board. The press. She’s managed to keep everything quiet so far, sticking to the script of “minor injuries” and “extended personal leave.”
“Keep it that way,” I tell her.
“I will. But you really need to move ahead with naming someone to officially hold the reins while you’re recovering. It’s becoming a shit show over here, with everyone thinking they’re in charge.”
“It’s got to be Matt Lindley, without a doubt. Senior partner. Level-headed. Not looking to stab me in the back—yet.”
“Good. It’s who I’d have chosen, too. I’ll make it happen. But Spencer?” she says more softly. “Don’t rush this. We miss you, but we’ll keep the wheels turning.”
I hang up and stare at the ceiling.
My mind goes to her.
Rhea.
I wonder if she’s heard about my accident. Probably not. Gina’s good at what she does. But part of me hopes she has—that she’s thinking about me, too.
I want to reach out. But not now.
Not until I know how this shapes up. Not until I’m standing on my own two feet again.
Literally.
I’ve already had enough OT and PT to understand this recovery will be more brutal by far than the race I came here to ride.
But I’ll be damned if I’ll sit in bed and feel sorry for myself. I’ve worked too hard on my body, my business, my future—to let it all unravel now.
The race didn’t go the way I planned.
But I’ll be damned if the rest of my life doesn’t.