2. Monty
CHAPTER 2
Monty
Mid-June
T he strong powerhouse I knew as my Nana Booboo had never seemed so small and weak, covered to her chin by her favorite quilt—a patchwork of my old cheer tees and uniform shirts. I struggled to believe this was the same woman who pulled me out of sunrise-to-sunset (as she called it) preschool and took over my daily care while my parents worked and traveled.
I scooted the plastic and metal visitor’s chair as close to the left side of the bed as was possible and lifted the blankets by her hip to find her hand. It was tiny and cold, so I kept it under the covers and gave it a gentle squeeze.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and the left side of her mouth curled up into a smile. “M-my boy,” she whispered.
“I’m here, Nana. Did you have a nice nap?” I squeezed her hand again, and this time she squeezed back and the side of her mouth twitched with effort to form a smile. Her face was lined from years of smiling and laughing—and probably smirking from getting her way. I longed to see those lines deepen again.
As if exhausted by the effort, she closed her eyes and sighed.
It had been a month since her stroke, and except for a brief cursory visit from my parents to set up her health-care plan, I’d been her only familial visitor. Her siblings and their families had all moved out of Colorado decades ago, and my late grandfather’s family was far too busy living their high-society lives to check in on the woman who had grown his business and their money when his father struck oil all those decades ago. Their son, my dad, was their only child, and after my sister died, I became their only grandchild.
“How’s … the h-h-how-sss?”
“The house is fine, Nana.” Her speech was improving each week. It had terrified me in the days after the stroke when the side of her face drooped and all she could muster was moans and grunts.
I’d moved into her sprawling Victorian out by Lake Moonshine after boarding school. Scandalizing my parents when I chose coaching over a business career, I’d taken classes at the local university instead of attending an Ivy League school. What was the point? I had all the money I’d ever need, and I for sure didn’t want my dad’s life.
“D-Dr. sa-says…” She closed her eyes again and pressed her lips together. The left side of her face scrunched in determination. “Says I need … acc … acc…” She sighed.
The door to her private room squeaked open. I glanced over my shoulder and greeted her doctor, a fit man in his mid-thirties who resembled a grown-up Harry Potter, circular eyeglass frames and all.
What a chump .
“Nice to see you, Montgomery.” He pushed at the center of his frames. As they slid up his nose, he cleared his throat. I’d told him countless times to call me Monty, but he hadn’t. Like calling me by my full name gave him an air of authority.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
“Working hard. She’s strong, but it’ll take time.”
“The rehab my parents set her up for—can she do that at home?”
“I’m glad you asked. I was telling Nancy here this morning that we can’t release her until her home is accessible.”
I frowned. “What does that mean? It has an elevator.” My mind flashed back to the old house. It had been through dozens of renovations over the years. The elevator was added when her diabetes made it hard for her to walk up the stairs.
He schooled his expression into what he probably thought was kind, but it came off smug and his explanation condescending. “It means an extended ramp—the one you have isn’t up to code—and a bathroom renovation. An entire bathroom must serve as a shower, with a drain in the floor. Grab bars in the others.” My eyes widened as he went on to list even more extensive modifications her house would need.
With seven bathrooms between the house, garage, and pool, it would probably be cheaper to build Nana a new house.
“What’s the timeline for her coming home?” I asked.
The doctor explained the benchmarks required for her to leave the rehab facility. I held on to her hand as he went over the requirements that were even more extensive than the house renovation list .
“And she’ll need twenty-four seven monitoring until we’re confident she can be alone safely,” the doctor finished.
“N-no babysitter!” Nana barked out, and I laughed. It sounded more like nah baybahtah, but we both understood clearly what she meant.
“Don’t worry, Nana. It’s just a formality to keep you safe. We’ll hire a nursing agency. You’ll make some new friends and be waited on hand and foot, like you deserve. Teach them how to watercolor.” Nana was a masterful watercolorist, and since her dominant hand hadn’t been hampered by the stroke, I assumed she retained her ability to paint.
She harrumphed in objection, but her lips twitched, so I could tell she didn’t totally hate the idea.
“As for when she’s going home, it’s hard to say. The stroke was extensive, but she’s strong and has made significant gains. It will all depend on how she continues to progress. Get the renovations done, and then we’ll talk.” He turned on his heel and strode out the door with an air of self-importance.
I rolled my eyes at Nana, and she gargled a laugh.
“I don’t like him,” I said. I leaned forward to place a kiss on her forehead. “But I love you, so I’ll do what he says. What color tile do you want in your fancy new bathroom?”
The Denver Edge had made it to the playoffs and advanced all the way to the last round in their quest for the Stanley Cup. The first of the two teams that won four out of seven possible games would win the hardest and most difficult trophy in sports .
They lost Game 5 in Miami, so they were back in Denver for Game 6. It would be their last home game of the season, so I was called in to don the third Ridgie costume and visit the private boxes for photo ops. The backup Ridgie was outside working the pavilion and greeting fans, and the main bear would be on the ice and in the stands during the game. Our handlers were all in touch so that no two—or three—Ridgies were seen at the same time.
Jared, my handler, and I were able to catch some of the game from inside. Our team was literally on its last legs. After a nasty shove into the boards, one of our best defensemen, Brendan Trotter, had to be escorted off the ice on one skate. His defensive partner, Trask Emerson, had left the game in the first period and hadn’t been back. When Jason Dexter, our starting goalie, missed a fifth shot, his blocker fell off his hand, revealing a heavily taped wrist. He’d left the game and hadn’t come back. And from the way Tasha’s brother-in-law, Xavier Schwann, was skating, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some cracked ribs. And those were just the guys I knew personally.
Hockey players were nuts.
They were probably the most skilled and strongest athletes of any team sport—except maybe all-star cheer, of course—and yet they continued to push their bodies day after day and year after year to the breaking point for a trophy. And they were underpaid—the entire team together made just over what the starting center for Denver’s basketball team earned.
I kind of understood their drive, though.
I’d trained to be the best in my sport, and I didn’t care about the money. I donated all of my earnings from coaching and sponsorships .
If this team didn’t turn this game around fast, they’d be done tonight.
It wasn’t looking good.
With eight minutes left on the clock in the third period, the Miami Ice Cats called a time-out. The crowd noise increased, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I sipped my water and almost spit it out when the cameras zoomed in on Ridgie Number One, chasing a pigeon on the landing between sections 102 and 202. From what I could gather by watching the replays, it hadn’t been a problem until it had flown down to the ice and almost got smashed by a stick. The refs had chased it off the ice and up into the stands.
Up steps, down steps, back up. Jumping, swiping. Just as I was thinking he was going to hurt himself, he tripped down the steps of 202, rolling at least three times before coming to a stop on the landing behind 102’s accessible seating.
“Ridgie Number One down!” Jared’s radio squawked. “We need Number Three to 202 STAT. We have crying children!”
On the screen, Ridgie Number One was loaded onto a stretcher. His handler lifted a bear paw to wave at the cameras as the paramedics rolled him into the hall and out of sight. The camera then panned the crowd. Kids were crying, and the place was in chaos.
Jared assisted me in attaching my bear head, and then we booked it to 202, where I emerged to thunderous applause. I waved, took a bow and did a standing back handspring to ensure the crowd that Ridgie the Bear’s booboos were all fixed.
“Rid-gie flip! Rid-gie flip! Rid-gie flip!” The crowd chanted their request, and who was I to deny them? Before anyone could tell me no, I motioned to the yellow-shirted arena staff to keep the path clear on the landing.
Then I took off.
Back handspring into a back tuck, punch front to a cartwheel, two more back handsprings and a half twist, landing clean. I raised my arms, pumping the air and clapping my paws.
The game was still on hold since the pigeon’s first merry jaunt over the ice. Continuing to fly free, it had made it down to the ice again. The refs chased after it, and from the looks of it, they were trying to direct it toward the tunnel.
I remembered a prop I’d seen in the mascot closet: a giant butterfly net. I jogged into the hall, motioning for Jared to come with me.
We entered the elevator. I pressed the button to take us to ice level and told him my idea. “Ask one of the other handlers to get the oversize butterfly net and bring it to me in the tunnel.”
“You think you can catch that thing?”
I shrugged. “Probably not. But me trying will provide comedy until a bird catcher can figure out what to do.”
“I’ll get your skates.” He bolted out of the elevator, and I headed to the tunnel to wait.
A few minutes later, Ridgie’s skates were on and I had the net in hand. I walked to the opening and waited for the cameras.
The announcers called attention to me, and I raised my arms, waving the net for dramatic effect.
“And there’s our Ridgie the Bear! Will he succeed where everyone else has failed? Let’s cheer him on!”
I skated out to center ice, where the refs were still trying to corral the poor bird. I stopped just short of them and covered my bear mouth with a paw, mocking their attempt. The crowd ate it up as the Benny Hill theme song filled the arena. The comedic tune provided a laughter-inducing soundtrack for my plight.
The refs parted, and I closed in on the pigeon, swiping at it with the net but not really trying to catch it. Farther down the ice it went, until it was right in front of the goal.
If I could trap it in our net … my thoughts raced as they formed an idea. Slowly, I glided toward the bird, legs spread apart and arms out to the side, trying to appear as big as possible. The bird saw me and hopped back … then back again until it was just inside.
I skated into the net and plastered myself across it in a big bear hug. The fans went wild. I couldn’t see the bird, but I didn’t need to. The announcers were still giving a play-by-play.
“And Ridgie effectively traps the pigeon! The little fella could escape through the bear’s five-hole, but he seems content to stay in the corner, folks. Here come the referees and linesmen to assist. It looks like they’re going to try to trap the pigeon in an ice bucket! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s exactly their plan!”
I glided backward to allow them access, and two of the officials went into the net, one armed with a bucket and the other with a poster from a fan. The bucket closed over the bird, the poster underneath the bucket, and it was trapped.
I took a victory lap around the ice, waving and pumping my fists to keep the crowd excited.
And I threw in a few back handsprings for embellishment. I’d probably get in trouble for those—and for upstaging Ridgies Number One and Two, but so what? This crowd needed a pick-me-up, and so did the team .
Play resumed, and Xavier scored, making it a 5-4 game. With three minutes left, the backup goalie was pulled, and team captain Dean Hathaway tied it up with a minute left.
The Edge won in overtime, 6-5, and we would be going to Miami for Game 7.