Toronto Collection, Volume One
Heather Wardell
Copyright Heather Wardell 2011
Published at Smashwords.com
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Table of Contents
Before You Begin This Collection
Stir Until Thoroughly Confused
Other Books by Heather Wardell
Before You Begin This Collection
Have you read my free novel, "Life, Love, and a Polar Bear Tattoo"? It starts my "Toronto series" of loosely connected books, so if you haven't read it yet, I suggest you start there! You can pick it up at www.smashwords.com or most e-book retailers.
This collection contains the next four novels in the series:
In "Go Small or Go Home", massage therapist Tess begins working with injured hockey star Forrest and as a result the art career of her dreams drops into her lap... but will that career ruin the hobby she adores?
"Planning to Live" is the story of planning- and weight-obsessed Rhiannon who finds herself trapped in her car on Christmas Day after fleeing her parents' house in a blizzard to avoid over-eating.
Mary in "Stir Until Thoroughly Confused" has finally found her dream chef career. And her perfect man, her boss Kegan. But she can't have both and she must decide which matters more.
Twenty-eight-year-old Andrea has just learned her boyfriend of fourteen years has found someone else. She needs to find out who she is so she can build herself "A Life That Fits".
I'd love to hear what you think of these books, so please feel free to visit me at http://www.heatherwardell.com and let me know! You can also find me at http://www.facebook.com/heather.wardell.author and http://www.twitter.com/heatherwardell.
Happy reading!
Chapter One
"Yes, I'm serious, Joe. Turn around."
"I can't ask you to do that." He glanced at the receptionist, at her desk beneath a framed poster of the 1974 Toronto Hogs hockey team, but her focus on her computer remained absolute.
"You didn't ask, I offered. And your shoulders are right up to your ears. Don't look a gift massage in the mouth."
I probably didn't have much time before my interview, but I couldn't leave such a nice guy in such discomfort. Besides, I'd get to touch him again, like I'd wanted to since our introductory handshake. Something about him, not just his cuteness, called to me. He felt wounded. Fragile, despite his height and clearly muscular body.
"Might make your interview easier if you were relaxed," I cajoled. "You do want to be the team's equipment manager, right? And I might be their massage therapist. So let me help you. Turn around."
After another moment's hesitation, he did. I rested both hands on his shoulders to get him used to my touch then let my fingers explore. He was tighter than a size four bathing suit on a size fourteen woman, his muscles like solid bone beneath my hands, and though I tried to be gentle he caught his breath a few times.
When he flinched, I said, "Sorry. Should I stop?"
"No," he said at once. "It hurts but it's helping. You're good."
Doubt skittered through me. I was good, and I knew it. So why was I considering leaving massage?
Because yesterday I'd vowed to chase my artistic dreams. Somehow.
Joe stiffened and on impulse I slipped one hand into his sweatshirt to work directly on the knot I'd found. As his tension eased, sadness flooded me and I had to blink back unexpected tears. I'd felt clients' newly released emotions before, but never like this. So much pain, so intense. What could have hurt him so deeply?
He only let me touch his bare skin for a few seconds before he said, his voice rough and husky, "That feels better. Thanks."
I drew my hands back though I longed to go on. "You're more than welcome. I hope it helped."
He faced me, his hazel eyes still holding traces of the pain I'd felt from him. "It did." He cleared his throat. "You don't know how much."
No, but I knew how much work he still needed. Before I could offer another session, the receptionist said, "Ms. Grayson, Mr. Filmore's ready for you."
I looked at her. "He is? I didn't hear a phone ring or anything."
She blinked twice. "Um, he emailed me."
"Ah." I gathered my bag and jacket. The team's manager had probably told her to keep me waiting. Power trip.
"Good luck," my impromptu client said, extending his hand to me.
"You too." Our eyes met as we shook hands. The pain I'd seen was gone, but it had been real and I knew he still felt it. I didn't want to leave him.
"It was nice to meet you." He released my hand. "Thank you again."
"Ditto, and you're welcome again." We exchanged smiles and I headed toward the double doors hoping we'd both get hired and I'd get to work with him.
*****
"Ms. Grayson, could you start immediately?"
At last, a relevant question. So far my interview had consisted of small talk and awkward silences. "My previous boss retired and shut down the clinic two weeks ago, so I'm free any time. And please, call me Tess."
Filmore leaned forward, his hand resting on the Hogs team logo inlayed into his desk. His little finger, bearing an enormous gold ring emblazoned with '1974', stroked the cartoon pig's forehead. I didn't think he knew he was doing it.
"All right, Tess, let me level with you."
Instead of leveling, he stared at me, hard enough that I wanted to fidget but not quite enough to force me to. When I didn't look away he stared harder, which only made me more determined not to flinch.
My eyeballs began to dry out, so I gave a slow deliberate blink. He did too, and dropped his head until his eyes nearly vanished beneath his thick grey eyebrows.
After the longest few seconds of my life, he blinked again and gave one faint nod. Had I won? He did seem marginally friendlier when he went on. "We won the Beechman Cup in '74 and we haven't come close since."
Beechman? From the reverence in his voice, I assumed the top team in the league won it. When Toronto's media described the Hogs these days, "top team" never came up.
I must have appeared doubtful instead of clueless, because he held up a hand to stop the protest I wasn't making. "Sure, we make the playoffs nearly every year, and we even reached the final round in '95. Last year, we thought we'd win it all, but then..." He shook his head. "Well, gotta move on, right?"
I didn't know what he was moving on from, but he clearly expected my agreement so I nodded.
"This will be our year." He dropped each word like a little bomb, then glanced at his cell phone for at least the tenth time and said, "We need you to help us succeed."
If I'd thought hockey mattered, the passion in his voice might have swayed me. But I didn't.
I believed in sports. I'd picked up my childhood swimming again as a so-called 'masters swimmer' at twenty-six, although the only thing I'd mastered seemed to be failing to qualify for the championship meet held every December.
I'd failed three times, but this year, my last chance before I turned thirty and moved into a new age bracket, I would succeed. The determination to get there kept me training day after day. Swimming, along with my art, had made me who I was.
Sports were important and life-changing, no question. But professional sports? Overcharging, underperforming, and irrelevant.
I chose not to share this opinion. "How? What exactly would I do to help?"
His expression suggested I'd asked if he'd sing the national anthems naked at the next game. "I can't answer that now," he said eventually. "I can only say it'd be massage."
"Good," I said, trying to ease his strange mood, "since I'm trained for it."
He sighed. "I guess we should cover your training," he began, but his phone rang as he reached the last word. He lurched forward and answered it, relief spreading over his hockey-scarred face. "Took you long enough. So?"
He listened for several seconds, drumming his fingers against the table. "Sure, but will it work?"
More listening, then his eyebrows shot up. The drumming stopped. "Good enough. Will do."
He snapped the phone closed. "Tess, thanks for your time. I'll be in touch."
Startled, I scrambled to my feet and shook his offered hand.
"Close the door on your way out, please."
I walked through the unfortunately empty waiting room, and a calm certainty settled over me. This was a sign. I was meant to become a professional artist. If only I knew how.
I'd been making my miniature scenes for nearly half my life, but hadn't considered selling them until Pam had sold her first painting a few years back. While I'd been immediately drawn to the idea, following my twin sister into a new career had seemed awkward at best and a potential battlefield at worst, so I'd put it aside. But on the weekend, on our twenty-ninth birthday, we'd battled anyhow, so why not pursue my dream?
I'd spent the hours before my interview researching the art world. The same names came up repeatedly, but they wouldn't deal with artists without referrals or gallery experience, and I didn't have either and didn't know how to get them.
I tried to focus on finding a solution but my mind kept wandering to Joe. I hadn't even asked his full name, so I couldn't find him to massage him again. He'd been so nice, and in so much pain. If he became the equipment manager, maybe whoever got the massage therapist job would take good care of him. I hoped so.
*****
Once I got home, I opened the blinds to let the late-autumn sun illuminate my twelfth-floor apartment then settled down at my work table. Time with my art never failed to soothe me. Occasionally it gave me a headache, but always joy as well.
Each miniature started with a solid base, usually plywood, about the size of my palm, to which I attached tiny three-dimensional figures and objects. I spent most of my time looking through a magnifying glass as I painted and molded clay and shaped fabric to match the image in my mind.
Finding the right form for the image of my current project had been a challenge. A week ago, I'd dreamed about a woman trapped in a pit while people gawked down at her, and I'd been working on it ever since.
Making the base several inches thick so I'd have somewhere to dig the pit was the obvious answer, so I'd rejected it. Instead, I'd tried many different ways before hitting on a vortex dragging the woman down to her doom. The concept bore only a faint resemblance to my dream, but if a piece felt right, it was right. And this felt right.
Magnifying glass in hand, I was painting the base when I thought of having objects, everything the woman wanted and needed, pulled down with her. I jotted the idea on my notepad and returned to work.
When the phone beside me rang, my fingers tingled at the sight of 'Toronto Hogs' on the call display. I hadn't expected Filmore to call so soon.
"Congratulations, you've got the job."
Chapter Two
"Do you accept?"
"I don't know what it involves."
"I'll give you the details after you've committed."
"How can I take a job I know nothing about?"
Filmore grunted. "I can't tell you everything, but of course you know the situation with Forrest Williams."
"I don't," I said as he started to go on.
"You don't? How could you not?" He sounded like I'd admitted to not knowing ice was cold. "He's the best forward in the league. At least he could be."
"I told you I don't follow hockey."
But I was starting to remember the incessant news coverage. Put up for trade by his old team earlier in the year, Forrest had been all anyone who cared about hockey could discuss. Team after team had offered him more money than I'd make in ten lifetimes, and he'd chosen Toronto.
"He played well at training camp in September," Filmore said. "Although... no, he did play well. Decently, anyhow. Considering. But he was hurt the last day of camp and he's not been himself since. He's missed nearly a month of games now and we need him healthy. You'll be Forrest's full-time therapist."
'Decently'. 'Hurt'. 'Not himself'. Could the man be any vaguer? "What's wrong with him?"
"Now, that I can't tell you until you've agreed," he said, his voice so solid I knew he wouldn't budge. "But I'm told massage will help. You can't speak to the media, or take on any other patients without my permission, and you must be available whenever he needs you. Are you in?"
I'd made my decision after the interview and I saw no reason to change it. "Mr. Filmore, I'm sorry, but--"
"Oh, I didn't tell you the salary, did I?" he said over me. "Fifty thousand."
I'd always been a saver, so I could handle at least six months as a full-time artist. Filmore's offer was a little more than my yearly salary at the clinic, but less than I'd have expected from a professional sports team. And not enough to sway me.
"That's for the first two months. Then we'll renegotiate based on Forrest's progress."
"For two months? Why so high?"
He paused. "Honestly? We don't want you to say no."
My turn to pause. My interview had obviously gone better than I'd thought, but even so, they could have had any massage therapist on the planet, and probably most alien ones, for that price. Why so anxious to get me?
He broke the silence. "Look, I'm paying that kid five point two million a year and he's doing nothing. I'd hire a circus elephant if he thought one would help. Swear to God, a circus elephant. I don't even know if you can fix him, but he thinks you can. Even if you're just a good luck charm, I'll take it."
Three years of college and six years of experience to be a good luck charm. Lovely. I rubbed my forehead. "This doesn't make sense. Why does Forrest think I can help? He hasn't even met me."
He made a disgusted clicking sound. "You really don't follow hockey, do you? I hope he knows what he's doing. You met him today. The guy you massaged? That was Forrest."
Not a fellow job candidate. My client. He'd lied, pretended to be someone he wasn't, but his tension and sadness had been all too real. I'd wanted a chance to help him, and here it was. But he'd lied to me.
When I didn't speak, because I couldn't, Filmore said, "So, fifty grand for two months with Forrest. You in?"
"I'm in."
Who said that? What happened to my art career, my decision to leave massage?
Forrest happened. Forrest and the raw pain in his eyes.
"Good. Be here at nine tomorrow morning. You can work with Forrest and then we'll sign the contract. You won't regret this."
No? I was already. But Forrest needed help. Not to mention, fifty thousand dollars in two months? "So, what's wrong with him?"
"Got any experience with groin injuries?"
Only old Mr. Keyes, who'd done the splits on his icy driveway last winter and torn a muscle in his inner thigh. He'd insisted I call him "Wishbone", and though he'd blushed whenever I touched his leg we had managed to heal the damage. "Yes, but not with a pro athlete. Or any athlete."
"Well, you'll get some now."
I bit my lip. Leg muscles healed slowly because they rarely got the rest they needed. Mr. Keyes had agreed to stay off his feet for two weeks, but I doubted Forrest would do the same.
Filmore gave me his private phone number, with an air of offering a fortune beyond imagining, and ended the call with, "See you tomorrow. Just say 'no comment' if anyone bugs you on the way in."
Who was going to bug me? What had I gotten myself into? I sat staring at his number on my notepad. I didn't want it there, interfering with my art. I could call him, say I'd changed my mind. It'd be embarrassing, but I could do it. Quit before I even began and recommit to art.
On the other hand, I could help Forrest, and I wanted to. And I could save so much money, have an even better cushion for starting my art career.
I turned my notepad over and tried to lose myself in the vortex piece instead of obsessing over Forrest and my various careers, but I couldn't focus. Not wanting to ruin the piece in my distraction, I checked my email, hoping for jokes from my best friend Jen and fearing anything from Pam.
My twin sister and I hadn't spoken since I'd confronted her on our birthday. Shattering years of family lies and denial, I'd finally told Pam to her face she was an alcoholic. She'd stormed out, but I knew I'd done the right thing. She was losing her life to the booze and I couldn't stand by and watch. Her retort of "I don't see what you're doing with your life that's so much better" had been the catalyst for my decision to focus on my art.
My now-postponed decision.
No new emails, so I headed out for a swim. I second-guessed my job acceptance all the way down in the elevator, but once I left the building I pushed my doubts aside. The path wouldn't allow me to worry.
I'd chosen my apartment largely for its huge windows and proximity to my favorite pool, but the gorgeous walkway between my building and the pool had been the final clincher. The cobblestones winding through the trees had something new to offer me every time.
I'd promised myself that if I ever failed to find inspiration on the path I'd go back and forth until I did, but it had never happened. I'd found a perfect peacock feather, seen a baby rabbit frozen in the tall grass beneath a tree, and used the pattern the sun made filtering through the leaves one particularly bright afternoon in a miniature. On this trip, I picked up a tiny rock shaped like a heart for the vortex on my latest piece.
When I entered the pool building the scent of chlorine sent the usual anticipation buzzing through me. I'd tried to decide whether I preferred the time I spent in art or in the water, but it felt like choosing between a million dollars in big or small bills.
I enjoyed every moment of my workouts. I often heard people describe exercise as torture, but I'd never understood. My first laps always felt like I'd forgotten how to swim since my last workout, but I loved them for how they transitioned into smooth powerful strokes as I warmed up. Every time I swam it happened the same way: my body becoming one with the water, my breathing speeding up but still rhythmic, my mind focusing on each movement.
All warmed up, I buckled down. Following my planned workout, I drove myself through the cool water, feeling it rush over and past me. My body and mind tired as the time passed, but I pushed myself onward, refusing to quit. The last few laps left me gasping but exhilarated.
Finished, I swam slowly until my body recovered then returned to the change room on comfortably shaky legs for what might have been the best part of all, a lovely hot shower.
It would have been lovelier without thoughts of Forrest intruding. I hadn't let my mind wander in the pool, but now memories of his sadness tugged at me and I wanted to know: was it just his recent injury or was there more going on with my new client?
Once I got home, I took my laptop to the rocking chair by the floor-to-ceiling living room windows and began researching Forrest. The first page of results provided only wild speculation about when and if he'd play again after what they called a "lower-body injury". One reporter actually suggested Forrest was faking to avoid playing for the Hogs, apparently forgetting he'd chosen Toronto. Such stupid comments no doubt annoyed Forrest, but they weren't enough to explain what I'd felt from him.
The second page of results began with an article dated February twenty-seventh. "Williams' fiancée dead in single-car crash". A chill rippled through me and I clicked the link.
"Thirty-one-year-old North American Hockey League star Forrest Williams, who yesterday signed a three-year deal with the Toronto Hogs worth an estimated fifteen million dollars, and his fiancée Marika Morrell, twenty-five, were involved in a single-car collision late last night. Ms. Morrell, the driver, was pronounced dead at the scene, while Williams suffered a broken ankle and had to be cut from the car. He obviously won't play the rest of the season but is expected to be ready for September's training camp. Police say alcohol is not a factor in the crash, although last night's heavy snowfall might be."
I studied the picture of Forrest skating, hockey stick in hand. The poor man. He'd picked up a huge contract and then he'd lost his fiancée, and right in front of him no less.
He wouldn't have been walking on that ankle for at least six weeks. Skating? Easily a month more. I counted weeks on my fingers. He'd probably been back on the ice mid-May, leaving him less than four months to regain all the strength and fitness he'd lost since the injury. And that timeline assumed he'd healed on schedule.
And it didn't account for time to heal his heart.
*****
"You don't just have a lucky horseshoe up your butt, you've got the whole freakin' stable."
I choked on my wine at Jen's summation of my new job and its access to her ideal man, the hockey player.
"Don't you spit that on my floor," she warned. "It's messed up enough already."
I covered my mouth with one hand and made frantic shut-up-before-I-spray-you gestures with the other. Once I'd managed to swallow, I punched her arm. "Jerk."
"Not my fault you can't handle your alcohol."
"You'd have been handling it if I'd spit it out. And what do you mean your floor's messed up?"
Jen moved the coffee table, which I'd thought wasn't quite in its usual place, with one slippered foot to reveal a splotch of brilliant purple paint on her pale hardwood.
I stared. "They didn't."
She gave a laugh of pure disbelief and flipped her dark ponytail over one shoulder. I envied her hair's length, but swimming was so much easier with short hair that I couldn't be bothered to grow mine.
"I thought you picked light blue."
"I did."
"Then what's with the purple?"
She spread her hands wide. "Why is grass green, why does it always rain after you wash your car, why do I have the world's stupidest contractors? All questions I can't answer."
The three weeks the contractors had promised her bathroom renovation would take had passed with only a large hole in the wall (accidental) to show for them, and little had improved in the five months since. "Those guys make the Three Stooges look like Einstein. What are you going to do?"
"Drown myself in the bathtub? No, wait, it doesn't work. That's how this got started."
I refilled her wine glass. "Drown yourself in this."
"You." She pointed at me. "Are spectacular. So, when do I get my paws on Mr. Williams?"
I laughed and took another slice of pizza. "You don't. He needs rest, not whatever you'd do to him."
"He'd rest after, let me tell you. Can I at least have one of his teammates? Wait, can I have two?"
"Sure. Knock yourself out."
She rubbed her hands in gleeful anticipation, then said, "I do want to meet him, though. You really didn't know who he was?"
I shook my head. "Not a clue. Just thought he was some cute guy."
"Well, he certainly is that. What did you talk about? What was he like?"
"After the first minute or so, he was friendly. The start was weird, though."
"Weird how?"
I shrugged. "He followed me into the waiting room and I looked back to hold the door open for him. His eyes went huge when he saw me and I think he turned pale too. No idea why. He got over it pretty fast, though."
"Maybe he just didn't expect a woman to be applying to work for the team?"
"Maybe." It had felt like more than that, though. He'd seemed truly shocked to see me. "But we were okay after, so I think working with him will be fine."
"I hope so. Get him playing soon, okay? I know you don't know this, but the Hogs haven't won the Cup since--"
"1974."
She threw a hand over her heart and slumped back into the couch. "You actually know something hockey-related. I'm speechless."
"If only that were true," I said, and admitted Filmore had told me the date.
"It's been way too long. They haven't won in our lifetime. Make it happen, okay?"
"Um, it's not exactly up to me." My cell phone rang, and I headed to the front door to retrieve it.
"It's up to Forrest, though, so fix him."
"It's a team sport, idiot, one guy can't--"
I found the phone, and nervousness shot through me like it had been injected into a vein. "Jen, it's him. Forrest."
"So answer! Ooh, no, let me do it."
Wishing myself at home where she couldn't listen in, I said, "Hello?"
"Tess, it's Forrest Williams. I'm glad you took the job."
"You're welcome, Joe." I continued over his protests and Jen's violent head shaking. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"
"Once I realized you didn't know who I was, I wanted to get to know you, see if we could work together."
"And you think we can, I take it?"
"They wouldn't have hired you if I didn't." His words were arrogant but the tone was anything but. I'd never heard a voice so neutral and cold, almost robotic. Strange. But Filmore had made it clear the decision had been Forrest's. My real interview had been in the waiting room. That massage had been my interview.
I sighed. "Well, I still think you should have told me, but I get why you didn't."
"I'm glad." His voice had returned to normal, the machine-like quality gone. "Now, I need you at the rink every morning from eight to nine-thirty in case the leg acts up. It's doing okay right now, but you never know. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from three to six, except on game days when it's three to eleven, and Tuesday and Thursday from one to four, except game days again."
I cut him off as he started into the weekend schedule. "The three to six practices don't work for me. I swim then."
"Swim some other time."
"The pool's only open certain times," I said, annoyed by his casual dismissal. "And I'm trying to qualify for a swim meet in December. I won't give up on it. If we can't find another time, I don't know if this will work."
"Wait," he said instantly, then, "Please, don't quit."
The sudden raw sadness and desperation in his voice cut so deeply into me I felt a sharp pain ripping through my chest. If he'd been there I wouldn't have been able to keep from hugging him. "Okay. But I do need to swim."
"My gym has a pool. It's always open, so you can swim whenever you want. I'll get you in there."
When I didn't answer right away, thinking about my pool and my path, he said, "Listen, I need you there all those times. I have to be able to count on you, know you're committed to helping me get better."
If his voice hadn't cracked on 'need' and 'committed', and if I hadn't remembered his achingly tense shoulders, I might have said no. But I couldn't leave him to suffer. "I am."
"Good," he said, neutrality in full force again. "See you tomorrow." And he was gone.
Jen frowned at me as I returned to the couch. "Did you try to quit?"
I nodded. "He's wrecking my swim schedule. I don't want him pushing me around."
She shook her head. "Sometimes you're as dumb as my contractors."
My look of horrified shock wasn't entirely feigned. "You take that back."
"Well, don't act like them. The schedule's not up to him, you know, it's up to the team. Plus, not to be rude, but he's a pro athlete and you're… not. He has to get this fixed now, even if it means you can't swim. In fact, maybe you should plan not to swim, so you'll have time for him."
I shook my head. "No way. I promised myself back when I was twenty-five that I'd qualify for that meet before I turned thirty. You know, before I got ancient."
Jen, already thirty, winced theatrically.
"I won't give it up. This is my last chance and I'm going after it. I'll figure out how to make it all work."
"I know you will. Just remember, this must be so hard on Forrest. His girlfriend dying--"
"Fiancée," I put in.
"Which is even worse. And then with what happened after that..."
"What happened?"
She sighed. "Well, the Hogs traded away two good players to get him, thinking with a star like him they'd win the Cup. But of course he couldn't play on a broken ankle. Without him and without the two guys they'd traded, the team didn't even come close to making the playoffs. First time in forever."
"Filmore said something about how last year was supposed to be great but it didn't work out."
Jen nodded. "That's because of Forrest. Everyone saw him as the team's savior, but he ended up being a disaster."
"Because he broke his ankle in a car accident? That's hardly fair."
She shrugged. "Sports ain't fair, my friend. Anyhow, it sounds like he was doing all right in training camp this year, and then he got hurt again. If he doesn't get playing soon, the fans'll never forgive him, and I bet some of his teammates feel the same way. If you want to keep swimming, I get that, but I still think you need to give him as much time as you can. He needs the help."
"I know." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I want to help him. I guess it's not the schedule, really. I just wish I'd known who he was. I wouldn't have told him hockey bores me, for one thing. Plus, I gave him a massage."
"If you can help him, I doubt he cares what you think of hockey. And until the art career takes off, massage is what you do, after all," Jen said, passing me the garlic bread.
But not like that. Not feeling like I had his soul in my hands.
After dinner, I went home and sat staring at but not seeing my collection of past miniatures, my mind full of Forrest.
The man was aggravating and heart-rending at the same time. Would I be able to work with him? Work closely, too, massaging him several times a day. He'd brushed off the injury's severity just as Filmore had, but they wouldn't be paying me fifty grand for a minor problem. I couldn't work with Forrest if he kept denying the truth.
So I'd do that session with him before signing the contract, and if he continued to be as flexible and open as a concrete wall I'd bail out.
I picked up my paintbrush and began working on the vortex again, but after a few minutes knew I wanted to do something else. Even if I quit tomorrow, today I wanted to know more about Forrest.
I put the vortex on my storage shelf and brought a box filled with random odds and ends to my table. I'd build Forrest's piece on a hockey rink, I supposed, since I didn't know much else about him. I cut an oval base, grabbed a handful of clay, and was soon in that glorious place where nothing else mattered but creation. The feel of the fragments coming together, my ideas growing real under my hands, the sure and simple knowledge I was doing what I needed to do. Letting art flow through me was the best feeling in the world.
Once I started to make money from it, it would be even better.
Chapter Three
Buffeted by reporters and camera operators, I struggled to reach the arena's staff entrance.
"Are you Williams' new therapist?"
"Can you confirm he plans to quit after this season?"
"What can you tell us about his condition?"
"Is it true they're paying you a million dollars to treat him?"
"Why do you think you can help when the team staff has failed?"
I kept muttering "No comment" but they just closed in tighter and fired more questions at me. About five feet from the door, the crowd thickened to where I couldn't move, but before I could panic a tall black man with "Security" in big white letters across his broad chest appeared in the doorway.
"Let her through, guys." His voice, calm and certain, parted them at once.
"At least tell us who she is," someone implored him.
"Nope." He waved me forward. Once we were safely inside, he said, "You are Forrest's therapist, right? They told me to watch for you."
I nodded, shaking with delayed reaction.
"It's okay, kid." He gave me a pat on the shoulder that buckled my knees. "You did good. They won't bother you much tomorrow."
"Thanks." Not liking the wobble in my voice, I sucked in such a deep breath I made myself lightheaded, then let it out and pulled myself together. "So, where's the ice?"
He smiled. "Through there," he said, pointing. "You go before I head back outside. Don't want those vultures coming after you again."
I returned his smile and headed down the indicated hallway, emerging into the arena about ten feet above the ice. The players, at least thirty of them, wearing Hogs jerseys of various colors, were taking shots at both nets while the goalies tried to stop them. Good-natured ribbing, and some comments with a harder edge underneath, filled the air, along with the occasional curse as a play went wrong. I searched for Forrest but couldn't pick him out. I'd assumed their shirts would have their names on them, like in a game, but they didn't.
Then I saw a single player, the only one wearing a red jersey, at the far side of the ice. I moved down the aisle to stand by the players' bench for a clearer view and watched him circling with his head down, looking like a little kid forced to walk to school in the rain. His stiff movements, especially in his right leg, were so different from his teammates' smooth flow that I wondered whether he was doing himself any favors skating with such obvious discomfort.
Another player spotted me and cruised over. "Who're you looking for, baby? Me, I hope."
Not likely. I'd never gone for the primping type, and this guy was their poster boy, with a tiny precise line of stubble along his jaw and a soul patch beneath his bottom lip. It was probably the only soul he possessed, and I didn't doubt he spent more time grooming than Jen and me put together. "Forrest," I said, trying not to show the irritation crackling through me.
He leaned closer, enveloping me in a wave of cologne that seemed excessive for a hockey practice, and let his eyes slither over me. "Word of advice. Run. He's trouble, and you could do way better."
"I'm not dating him," I said, disgusted by his assessing scan of my body. "I'm his massage therapist."
"You," he said. "He gets you?" Shaking his head, he yelled, "Hey, Gump, she's here to see you," in Forrest's direction, but got no reaction.
"He wears his stupid MP3 player all the time." He rolled his eyes. "Listen, my advice still stands. Run. Maybe even run faster. He's not worth it."
He skated away, shouting, "Gump!" again, before I could respond. Forrest's own teammates treated him like that? Yet another explanation for his sadness, as if I'd needed another one.
The others took up the shout, a few calling him "Gump" but most yelling "Forrest", and Forrest finally heard them and pulled out his earphones.
"Your therapist is here," the first guy called, his tone turning 'therapist' into 'cheap sleazy whore', and the other players turned to stare at me. I fought the urge to back away by holding my head even higher and focusing on Forrest.
He skated over. "Sorry, I didn't see you."
"That's okay," I said, feeling awkward with the rest still watching us. "So, how do you want to do this?"
"They gave us a room near the dressing room," he began, but a man standing nearby cut him off with, "I need to talk to her first."
"Tess, this is Mike, the team's head trainer. Mike, Tess is--"
"I know who she is," Mike said, his blue eyes hard in his weathered face. "You go on ahead, Williams. Grab a quick shower and I'll bring her down in a few minutes."
Forrest clearly didn't want to leave me to Mike's dubious mercies, but he gave in and headed down a tunnel into the arena's depths.
Mike turned to me. "I've been working bloody hard for Forrest, and I don't see why he needs you. What've you got that I don't?"
The guy who'd come over to me was leaving the ice at just the wrong moment. "What's she got, Mike? Where do I start? She's blonde, she's pretty cute, she's female. Need more?"
"Get lost, Corey." Mike gave him a push and Corey moved on, although not before saying to the guy behind him, with enough volume I knew he'd meant to be overheard, "Wish I was old and washed up. Maybe then the team would pay for my girls too."
Outrage flashed through me at the insult to me and to Forrest, and I turned to go after him.
Mike caught my arm. "Do you want to screw Forrest over completely? Let it go."
I snapped myself out of his grip. "I should just let that go."
"You have to. Corey's a jerk, yes, but he's got a point, and he's not the only one who feels that way."
"They're not being fair then."
"Look, from their perspective, it's the other way around. Forrest gets traded here, gets hurt, and then gets everything he asks for even though he's done nothing for the team. That's just how they see it."
"And how do you see it?" If he badmouthed Forrest too, I'd go straight to Filmore. Someone on the team had to be on Forrest's side.
Mike jerked in a breath to reply, then held it for a second before blowing it back out and shaking his head. "I don't know how I see it. He definitely pulled a muscle, and they're tough to heal, but it should be showing more progress than it is. It got better, to a point, and then he just got stuck. We tried having him bike, but that hurt too so he had to stop. Walking is fine, and he can skate a bit but not enough to play in a game. I don't understand it."
Frustration was clear in his voice, but so was compassion for Forrest, and I realized his initial anger with me was at least partly from guilt that he hadn't been able to make Forrest better.
Mike went on. "Forrest's been through a lot lately, so Filmore insisted he see a psychologist. The shrink says he's distant but cooperating, and he goes three times a week so you'd think it would have some effect, but nothing's changed. When he arrived for training camp he wasn't nearly as confident as I'd expected given how good he is, and he's even less confident now. I don't know what's wrong with the guy. If I didn't know better, I'd say..."
"Say what?" I said when he didn't finish.
"Well, I'd say he didn't care about playing," he said, looking me square in the eyes. "But I know he does. He's trying to get better, maybe trying too hard. I can't figure it out. None of us can. I hope to hell you can, or his career is over."
With those inspiring words, he led me down the tunnel to a door labeled 'Video game room'.
I raised my eyebrows.
"Yeah, it used to be that. All old stuff, but they enjoyed it. Until Filmore took the room away yesterday so you guys would have somewhere private."
Making the other players like Forrest even less.
"Good luck," he said, and moved away.
"Mike?"
"Yeah," he said without turning around.
"Thanks."
He turned. "For what?"
"Telling me the truth," I said.
He gave me the faintest of smiles, still a lot better than his earlier expression, and left.
The room's peeling white walls were plastered with Hogs posters and a few pictures of bikini-clad girls with gravity-defying chests. A ratty couch piled with video game equipment was backed against the wall to leave more than enough room for a top-notch massage table and a rickety desk and stool. Easy to tell who they valued.
I unloaded my bag onto the desk beside a folded blanket, arranging my oils in their usual order, letting the routine calm me. I needed calming: the more I heard about Forrest, the less capable I felt. If Mike hadn't been able to help, why was Forrest so sure I could?
I heard a light knock and turned to see Forrest, hair still damp from his shower, wearing a Hogs sweatshirt and pants with snaps along both sides of the legs. "Are you ready, or should I come back?"
"Come on in."
He pushed the door shut behind him, not quickly enough to block Corey's, "Have fun, Gump!"
"Yeah, right," Forrest muttered, standing as far from the massage table as he could.
Thinking it might relax him, I said, "Do you want me to call you Gump too?"
"God, no, I hate it. I made the mistake of asking Corey to stop, so now he says it every chance he gets."
"He does seem that type. Forget him, he's a moron."
"What did he say to you when he came over?"
"Nothing," I said. "Now, I was thinking--"
"Tell me."
We locked eyes, and I knew he both wanted and didn't want to know. I couldn't repeat the 'washed up' part, or tell him Corey had basically called me a hooker. "He said you're trouble."
"I probably am." No joking in his voice, no emotion at all, just the robotic neutrality from the night before.
"Well, let's get to it and we'll see how much trouble you are." I wouldn't let him dwell on Corey another second. "I'd like to do a full-body massage today to see where your issues are."
"My leg's the only issue. So, no."
I raised my eyebrows. "I'll spend most of my time on your leg, but your shoulders are brutal. And your back's probably just as bad."
"Sure, because my leg's messed up. Fix it and I'll be fine. The leg's my only issue."
No, buddy, you've got more issues than that, from what I've seen so far. Was he shy about getting undressed? "I'll keep you all covered up except for whatever I'm working on. You don't need to be embarrassed."
He shut his eyes for a second, then opened them and said, "I'm not. See, I'll prove it," before pulling his pants away in two pieces to reveal black boxer briefs.
I'd never been this close to a half-naked pro athlete before, but if they all looked this good I'd been missing out. The man was built. His legs, nicely hairy without being ape-like, showed great muscle definition, his thighs in particular substantial and strong. And I'd be touching them. Lucky me.
"Okay, good start." I raised my eyes to his face, resisting the temptation to let them skim over his crotch. "Now the shirt."
He shook his head. "I told you, just the leg."
I pulled my mouth to one side and stared at him.
He stared back, copying my expression, then said, "Don't bother, Tess, it's not happening."
Did he have some hideous tattoo, maybe a girl's name splayed across his chest? Probably. I'd wear him down eventually. "All right, if you say so. Just the leg."
"The right one."
"I know," I said. "You skate differently when it's down. Okay, on your back, please."
"I do? How?"
"You don't push off with your right foot."
"I'd better start." He settled onto the table. "I'll end up weaker on that side if I don't."
"You'd better not start." I began to cover his bottom half with the blanket so he wouldn't get cold. "Your body's trying to protect the leg."
"My body doesn't know what it's doing."
I tapped him lightly on the forehead. "It does too. Don't be an idiot."
I finished with the blanket, letting the excess pile up over his hips. If he found my touch arousing, the blanket would hide the evidence. My old client 'Wishbone' Keyes had been quite proud of himself the time he'd got it up during a session, but I doubted Forrest would feel the same.
"Do you care which oil I use?"
"Whatever works fastest."
"Oh, that's rose," I said as innocently as I could. "Rose mixed with pink bubble gum."
"Yeah, that'll make me popular with the guys."
I laughed, and picked my favorite, fresh-cut grass. I uncovered his left leg, then put one lightly oiled hand on either side of his knee and moved slowly upward.
He pushed himself onto his elbows. "Wrong leg."
"No, right leg. Correct one, I mean. I need to know what the good one's like first."
He dropped back down. "Is this your way of sneaking into a full-body massage?"
"Never you mind. Take deep breaths and relax."
I spent a few minutes learning him, how his muscles lay beneath the skin, where his tension tended to collect, how his body felt healthy and strong. I closed my eyes to better visualize what I was feeling, opening them only to make sure I wasn't missing a spot or heading into his blanket-buried crotch.
When I'd finished, I held the feel of him in my mind as I re-oiled my hands and moved to his right leg. He tensed at my first touch, light though it was.
"If it hurts at all, you tell me," I said softly, not taking my hands away. "Got it?"
"It has to hurt to get better."
The hell of it was, it did have to eventually. I'd have to dig in to find the problems and encourage circulation, and he wouldn't enjoy it. I needed him to relax, though, and that didn't require hurting him. "Not today, it doesn't."
"Do it right," he said, his leg tightening even more beneath my hands. "I'll deal with it."
I made tiny circles with my palms, just moving the skin without interfering with what lay beneath, until he raised his head and said, "What?"
"I can't work if you're holding yourself tight against the pain."
"You have to," he said, "because I can't help it."
The neutral tone had returned. Mike had mentioned Forrest being distant with the psychologist. He probably spent his three sessions a week refusing to open up and share what he was thinking and feeling, which explained why the therapy wasn't helping. In the same way, I couldn't help him unless I knew when I did too much and when I didn't do enough.
I'd learned a technique in school; it was meant for nervous kids but it might work, might let Forrest hide himself away but still communicate.
"Talk to me," I said. "Be the injury and talk to me."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. What's your name?"
"You've forgotten my name?"
"Not your name." I laid my hand gently across his right inner thigh. "Its name."
He studied me. "You're serious."
"Totally."
"A million sane massage therapists in the world and I get you."
"I know, aren't you lucky?" I said, and he laughed. Unwillingly, but still a laugh. I smiled at him.
"Tess, this is crazy."
"Could be, but you're not getting out of it, so let's go. What's your name?"
I ran both hands over his skin, no pressure, just soft and soothing strokes, until he said, "Corey put you up to this, didn't he?"
"Learned it at school."
"Where, clown college?"
"What's your name?"
"Insane," he muttered, but he lowered his head.
I continued the gentle stroking, feeling his tension beginning to release beneath my hands, until he said, "Wayne, I guess. For Wayne Gretzky."
I smiled even though he wouldn't see it, happy he was going along with me. "Nice to meet you, Wayne. How do you feel?"
His leg tightened again, then he released it all at once and said, "I hurt."
I hurt, too, hearing the unshed tears in his voice. So much pain behind those two little words. I didn't have a chance to say anything comforting, though, before he sat up.
"This is stupid, there's no point." He fought to free his body from the blanket. "I want to go."
I moved behind him and put both hands on his shoulders before he got loose, and he stopped struggling. "No, Forrest, we can fix this."
He sat in silence as I rubbed my thumbs over his tight trapezius muscles to make them lie more comfortably between his shoulders and neck. "Let me help you," I said softly, my heart aching. "We'll get you playing again."
He said, "Promise?", so quietly I could barely hear him.
On the first day of massage training, and on many occasions afterward, they'd told us never to promise results. Promise a certain number of sessions, promise to give a certain treatment, promise to avoid or work on certain areas. But don't promise results, because you don't know if you can deliver.
"I promise."
Chapter Four
I signed the contract, of course, and over the next few days Forrest and I settled into a routine: a short massage before practice and a longer treatment afterwards. Other than a daily swim, I spent the rest of my time on my miniature about Forrest, exploring what little I knew about him.
He'd introduced himself as Wayne when he'd arrived for his second massage, and Wayne and I worked together during treatments, discussing what hurt and where my touch had the most effect. Forrest himself, if asked directly, would only say he was fine, so I'd stopped asking.
His leg was less tense beneath my hands, though, and I could work more deeply now without hurting him. His skating, to my untrained eye anyhow, looked more fluid and comfortable, and he said it felt better too.
My art itself was going well, but the selling process was at a standstill. Jen, better at Internet searches than me, had managed to find one Toronto gallery accepting submissions from new artists. The word 'submission' didn't sit well with me, but I'd photographed some of my pieces following their directions and sent them in. The longer I went without a response, the more I dared to hope.
As for my swimming, I did miss walking my beautiful path before every swim but having the huge but never-used pool at Forrest's gym all to myself gave me a freedom I'd never had at the community centre.
Life, overall, was good.
Until Forrest insisted on playing in Saturday night's game.
He knew he wasn't ready. I could see it in his eyes, and I couldn't let it pass. "Why so soon? It hasn't even been a week."
"The season's a month old. I need to play."
I turned to Mike. "You agree with this?"
He looked at Forrest. "You sure?"
"It's fine."
"He's been saying that since the first day." I shook my head. "It's not fine." I faced Forrest head-on. "You're going to make it worse. You know that, right?"
His jaw tightened and he didn't meet my eyes. "I need to try. I need to be part of the team."
"Then we'll all support you, won't we?" Mike threw me a skate-blade-sharp look.
"I do support him, and he knows it."
Forrest nodded without looking at me.
I sighed. "You know how it feels, so play if you're okay."
As I watched him warming up before the game that night, though, I knew he wasn't okay. Not even close. His skating did flow better than the first day, but he looked tentative, like a new skater terrified to fall.
I tried to blame the impression on my new vantage point. Filmore had insisted I watch the game from his private box, which was huge, better decorated than my apartment if you like swamp-green and silver, and so high in the arena's rafters I could see the entire ice surface at once. I'd grown used to being down at ice level; from this height the players, especially Forrest, seemed too small and delicate for what they were about to endure.
"You've done a great job, Grayson," Filmore said. "I figured his career was over."
Nice. He'd only been hurt a month. "He's working really hard," I said, staring down at Forrest.
He'd taken part in the team's activities at afternoon practice, although still wearing the red jersey that meant he was injured and shouldn't be bumped into, and most of the guys clearly didn't know how to handle his presence. Some of them dished out a little too much fake cheerfulness and reassurance, the youngest ones seemed too over-awed by his former superstar status to even look at him, and Corey and the small group of players who followed him around ignored Forrest entirely.
Forrest had pushed himself hard but his injury meant he kept falling behind the others, and as his frustration increased he withdrew from his teammates until he barely even responded to the few who were able to make normal conversation with him.
If he'd been a longstanding member of the team, it would have been easier. But he'd ruined their playoff hopes last season, then he'd spent two weeks of training camp with them and raised their expectations again, and since then he'd been on the sidelines while they went on without him. I understood why he'd wanted to play in the game. I disagreed with his decision, but I understood it. He was determined to prove himself worthy of the sacrifices the team had made for him.
Sympathy filled me, sympathy and a desire to wrap my arms around him and hold him safe. He didn't want that, though; at least I didn't think he did. He was a strange mix of yearning and standoffish, reaching out to me and then snapping himself away at almost the same moment, and I wondered if missing his late fiancée was what made him swing between showing extreme pain and showing no emotion at all.
The players left the rink and the Zambonis came out to flood the ice and get it ready for the game. Time dragged as I made awkward small talk with Filmore but at last the arena lights dimmed and the fans burst into raucous cheering. The other team's five starting players skated onto the ice, roundly booed by the fans, then heavy pounding music began to play. My heart pounded right along with it.
"... on left wing, Corey Miles!"
Corey took a few running steps and jumped out onto the ice already skating fast, like the two defensemen who'd been announced before him. Forrest would be next, and I pressed my hand against my upper chest to keep my racing heart from leaping from my body and catapulting itself down to the ice.
"And introducing on right wing, in his first game for the Hogs, wearing number eighty-five, Toronto native Forrest Williams!"
The announcer sounded excited but the crowd didn't share his sentiment, and I longed to punch each and every one in the stomach to let them know how their boos felt to me.
I couldn't imagine how they felt to Forrest, who'd made his own running jump onto the ice and now skated around with the others as if he couldn't hear the crowd. He'd told me he'd grown up watching the Hogs and dreaming of being one. Now he was here, and the fans hated him?
"They're pretty pissed about last year still," Filmore said, his tone consoling. "They'll forgive him when he shows what he can do."
The boos changed to cheers when the starting centre, Magnus Axelsson, appeared. At thirty-six, the team's captain was nearing the end of his career but still a strong player, and I hadn't heard anyone badmouth him. Being so close to the ice, I'd been privy to little squabbles and feuds, but none involved Magnus. He'd also been one of the few who'd been comfortable talking to Forrest, and the only one to keep trying long after Forrest turned distant.
The two teams stood facing each other, shifting from skate to skate as a tiny blonde sang the national anthems at a pace that made me want to scream, "Hurry up, already!", then Magnus and an opponent scrambled for the puck the referee dropped between them. The game was on.
For three whole seconds.
I'd noticed some odd body language between our defenseman and a guy from the other team during the warm up, and they both dropped their gloves the instant the puck hit the ice.