Page 22 of Hat Trick

“Yeah.” He rubs the crutch tip into the pavement and looks down at me. I’ve always felt tall standing at five-ten, but he’s making me feel short. “None of this is your fault. I don’t mean to project. My parents flew back to Chicago the other day, and everything’s been an adjustment while I learn to fend for myself.”

“It’s not my fault. And it’s not your fault either.”

“If I had gone to Hudson’s house like he asked… if I had stayed at the club later and not been such a party pooper, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Maybe an asteroid is going to hit Earth tomorrow, and we’re all going to die. Do you want to keep playing this game?” I ask, arching my eyebrow.

“Point taken.” The crosswalk tells us it’s our turn, and we move across the street. “This is the most I’ve talked to anyone besides my therapist or parents in months.”

“Did you already forget your social skills?” I open the passenger door for him when we reach my car. “You’re better than that.”

“Am I?” A wince crosses his face when he lowers himself into the seat. “Not sure that’s true.”

“Do you want to keep these in your lap? Or should I put them in the back seat so you have more room?” I ask, gesturing to his crutches.

“The back seat is fine. Thanks.”

“There are your manners.” I grin and open the door behind the wheel, making sure the crutches fit across the seats. “Let’s get out of here, Mitchy.”

He tells me his address and I plug it in, turning out of the parking lot and heading for his apartment. Neither of us says anything, and I don’t want to push him to make conversation. The last thing I want to do is build a divide between us before we even start working together.

“How’s your summer been?” he finally mumbles five minutes into our drive.

“Busy, but good. I teach Pilates every morning during the week then head to the arena for strategy meetings where we talk about what we’re going to focus on for injury prevention this season.”

“Those reformers are torture devices. How do people like doing that for exercise?”

“Same could be said about skating.”

“You don’t like to skate?” Riley turns to face me, looking horrified. “Who doesn’t like to skate?”

“Women from Florida who think the idea of balancing on a single blade sounds like hell.”

“But you think Pilates is fun? That’s not right.”

“No one asked for your opinion, Mitchy.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him start to smile. But then he hangs his head and frowns, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be happy.

“I haven’t talked to the guys since the accident,” he tells me.

“Why not?” I ask, hoping it doesn’t come off accusatory.

“I don’t know. I don’t want them to feel like they have to do something for me. There’s nothing they can do.”

“They’re your friends, Riley. There are plenty of things they can do.”

“The last thing I want is for them to start pitying me.”

“Maybe if you told them that, they’d understand why you haven’t been around lately.”

“Too logical.”

That makes me laugh, and Riley gives me another small smile.

Progress.

“I’ve been doing research on exercises tailored to your new body, but I want to make sure we’re going down the right path,” I tell him. “I’ve consulted some of the athletic trainers who work with Paralympic athletes, and I think we’re going to get a good routine down.”

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