Page 5 of Trouble in Love
“Really?” Tears blurred my vision as I huffed, “Honestly, Clara, how much worse can it get?”
She paused, worrying her lip between her teeth before slipping from the bed. “When you come home from the hospital, I’ll be gone. I’m moving out.”
“There’s no point, Clara. Not straight away, at least.”
“Luca, it’s your house. I can’t—.”
“I know it is, and you can. I have weeks of rehab to go through and to be honest, the thought of rattling around in that concrete box alone is depressing.” Little did she know, I would never be returning. Not without her.
“What are you going to do then? Where will you stay?”
“Someplace equally depressing … I’m going to stay with Ma.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know. Trust me. If I had another choice, I would take it so fast my ass would catch fire. But I can’t bear any weight for at least four weeks, and the thought of ma constantly nagging, calling to check if I’m being a good boy and eating meat every five minutes is worse. If I’m there, she can keep an eye on me. Feed me. It also gives you time to sort out what you want to do.”
“Luca—–. ”
“No. I meant it, Clara. Don’t rush into making any decisions. Take the time and use it wisely. Consider it my un-wedding gift.”
Clara leaned in and place a sweet kiss on my dry, cracked lips. One, despite everything, I desperately wanted to deepen. “You’ve always been too good to me, Luca.”
Anabela’s massive head popped back through the partially open door. “Ha. That’s what I told him. Now fuck off.”
Three hours later, I’d napped, sulked, and napped some more. My mood, sour and grumpy after days of pain and idleness, was made worse by the almost constant chirping of my phone. The boys–my team–had been trying to contact me for days. Apart from one call with Rory, I’d ignored them each time. Condemnation, pity or further judgment was not required. My broken brain could so that all by itself. Instead, I patted the post-nap- boner tenting my sheets.
At least that still works.
“Oh, my.” Purred a female voice, thick with appreciation. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
Opening one eye at a time, I found a veritable who’s who of people I didn’t want to see. My agent, Chris, and PR queen, Doreen, sat beside me while coach Brown was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, one foot crossed behind the other, his face unreadable. “What the hell?” I clutched at my sheet, tucking it beneath my chin in hopes of covering my shame, and dislodging a stack of newspapers someone had left on my bed.
Before anyone could comment, one of my doctors entered the room, fidgeting with the stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck as he walked. “He’s clean,” he said, dripping with a smug confidence he lacked when begging for my autograph an hour after surgery. “We reran the tests, and there was no trace of any drugs … other than what we’ve given, of course. ”
Drugs?
Doreen, a crisis expert in her thirties who never left home without mittens pinned to her sweater, slumped forward and wiped her forehead free of non-existent sweat. “Thank heavensto Betsy. A mental health episode is so much easier to clean up than addiction.”
“Addiction?” My eyes shot to coach, stagnant against the wall, as perplexed as me. “What the fuck is happening?”
“Read. Find out,” Chris replied for him, nodding towards the crumpled papers. Dropping the sheet, I snatched the closest, a copy of that morning’s NY Post.
Out loud, not proud. Disgraced D-Man plugs two holes with one stick, and we have the photos.
The throbbing pain dogging me for days became an afterthought. A knot of doom swelling inside me. “Fuck. She … the editor published the photos? But we had an agreement.”
Chris pressed his hands into his thighs and stood. “One that became null and void the second you failed to seal the deal with the little missus.” Another paper was tossed my way, photos of me taking almost the entire first page. “The suck and fuck shots, the doomed wedding photos, a ten-match suspension for beating the shit out of your teammate on national television. Luca, you’ve singlehandedly funded a two-bit hockey gossip columnists Floridian retirement.”
“But don’t fear Luca,” Doreen added, her tone sprightly as she tapped a document resting on her knees. “We’re here for you every step of the way.” Unfortunately for Doreen, her bullshit overpowered her lavender perfume, and my 20/20 vision could spot her posturing.
“Oh? Why do you have my management termination papers with you then?”
“Because she’s a smart businesswoman protecting her brand,” Chris said, apparently speaking for everyone. He snatched the contracts from her hand and rolled them between his fingers.
“Her brand?” I snapped. “Her job, and yours, for that matter, is to protect mine.”
“It is, but in our game, we have to know when to cut our losses. You, my friend,” he said with an accusatory point, “are skating on thin ice. Pardon the pun.” Waltzing over to Coach Brown, he shook his hand, then buttoned his Armani jacket. “This is the last time we’ll clean up your messes, Luca. You’re damn lucky Coach and the team has such faith in you. Most would have you shucking corn in Kansas and playing on their farm team… if you were lucky.” He motioned to Doreen, who gave me a sympathetic wince before jumping to Chris’s side. “Drugs or no drugs, you’re going to rehab and getting your shit together. By the time that foot is healed, I want you as pure as a nun’s cun—” He paused, seeming to reconsider his words. “Healthy. I want you healthy.”
