Page 14 of Silver-Tongued Devil
“I don’t drink.”
Blake shot a quick glance at him, but Russell’s craggy, lined face was expressionless under the same white cap he’d had on when they’d met, daubed with what looked like years’ worth of splatters. Blake accepted his cup of spiked coffee, watched Russell pour his, which was black and smelled strong enough to dissolve paint, and said, “I guess that’s why you stay away from the painkillers, too. Good move if you can handle it, but it takes some doing. I went a few rounds with the Vikes myself, and they had me on the ropes for a while before I beat ’em. More than one way to drown your sorrows, but all of them turn out about the same, I guess.”
“What was that?” Russell asked. “Ankle?”
“Knee. I’ve more or less got a peg leg there now. That thing’s pretty much destroyed.”
“Devils aren’t my team,” Russell said. “I didn’t follow all of it. Hard on a man to retire before he’s ready, though.”
“You got that right. That what happened to you?”
A long pause, then Russell said, “Guess there’s no reason you’d remember. You’ll want to head on over to shore now.” He pointed to a deep indentation in the shoreline. Not many houses out here on the far side of the lake, halfway to Montana and miles of winding lakeside road from the highway. Not developed, which gave Blake a curious divided feeling, the outdoorsman in him enjoying the hell out of that, and the businessman in him seeing the opportunity.
He turned the wheel, eased up on the throttle, and said, “No reason I’d remember what?”
“Broke my back. On a job about six months ago.”
“I’m guessing there’s more to it,” Blake said slowly when Russell didn’t go on. “What job?”
“Coeur d’Alene. That Sundays you built out there.”
It was a shower of cold water right down Blake’s own back. That had happened on his watch? He tried to remember if he’d heard anything about it, but he couldn’t. Six months ago, he’d been thinking about other things. Like a knee destroyed in the final minutes of an otherwise uneventful win on Thanksgiving weekend, and another quarterback taking the Devils to the Super Bowl. Like the team losing that game, one they should have won. Like a ring Blake should have been adding to the one sitting in a box in his dresser drawer. The only one he’d ever win. As much as he’d thought about anything through the haze of a dozen Vicodin a day.
Suck it up,he told himself.You blew out a knee. He broke his back. And you’re the one with all the consolation prizes.He cut the engine at a muttered word from Russell and said, “I’m sorry,” knowing how lame it sounded. “I didn’t remember. Tell me now.”
“No point,” Russell said. “It’s over and gone.” He’d said that to the tackle shop owner, too.Over and gone.He went on, “Everybody’s got his own stuff to think about. Tends to drown out the other guy’s. That’s life. Let’s fish.”
Check it out,Blake thought.See if there’s something you should’ve known about, that you need to know now.
It took a while for the constraint to lessen, but it did. Being out on the water helped, and so did the kind of male companionship Blake missed most, the brotherhood of doing a thing together. One person wasn’t a team, but it helped. And so did Bella, oddly enough. Sitting still and absolutely attentive, her gaze fixed on Russell no matter what, until they put the rods away and he told her, “Go on, then. Go for a swim,” and she sailed into the lake with a mighty leap. She paddled all the way around the boat, then did it again, the happiest dog in the world, before she came back on board and shook joyously all over that pristine Hatteras deck.
He should get one of those, Blake thought, and knew he wouldn’t. A dog was ridiculous for somebody who spent his life flying from one place to another and one house to another, and his days in boardrooms, in restaurants, and on jobsites. He’d turn into one of those Hollywood stars who had a personal assistant to fetch his lattes and walk his dog. Ridiculous.
But a dog would sure be nice.
By the time they were motoring back again, past two in the afternoon, Russell had a twenty-pound salmon in the fish locker. Blake had nothing, but that was how it went. You didn’t get your way in fishing. You gave it your best shot, and you got what you got. Kind of like football.
When they pulled up again outside the little frame house in a part of town that would never get fashionable, Blake peeled off ten twenties, and Russell stuck them into a battered leather wallet with a nod and said, “Come on in and have an iced tea. Stick around for supper if you want. I’m going to be firing up the barbecue, and that’s way too much salmon for two.”
“I don’t mind if I do.” Blake had no place to go, he was tired of his own company, and anyway—he liked Russell. “You married, then?”
“Nope. Never did get married. I’m dumb, but I’m not stupid. Got my stepdaughter living with me, though.”
He swung on down from the SUV, another painful affair, and Bella jumped down after him. Blake hauled out the cooler with the fish, already cleaned at the marina’s station, and said, “Wait, though. If you weren’t married, how do you have a stepdaughter? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Ex-girlfriend’s daughter,” Russell said. “My son’s sister. Half-sister. Same mom, different dads.”
“Oh. Gotcha.” Blake followed Russell and Bella up the concrete walk and said, “Your boy’s not around here, I guess, or he’d be fishing with you.”
“He’s gone,” Russell said. “Iraq. Eight years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Blake said, because what else did you say?
It was like his mom was right there in his ear.Of course it’s hard on you, sweetie. Of course it is, losing football, losing your knee, and both of them so sudden. You need to let yourself feel it. There’s no weakness in that. Go on and grieve it. Go on and let go. Just remember not to lose sight of where you are in the scheme of things. Other people have it hard, too. Everybody you’ll ever meet is fighting a battle you can’t see.
And some of them were a whole lot worse than a busted knee, a vanished girlfriend, and a career change.
Dakota held the curved segment of pink glass against the wheel of the grinder, working patiently until the piece she’d cut matched the overlaid paper template perfectly. Then she turned to set the finished piece on her worktable, and a muscle spasmed in her neck. She stifled an exclamation, set the glass down—slicing her finger in the process— and rubbed her neck and shoulder with one hand while she sucked on her sore finger until that got boring.
