Page 78 of Hot for the Hockey Player
“Pivot.”I nodded and carefully shaved thin pieces off the other side to even them out, and I tapered the handle so it was thinner.
“Good,” he murmured, continuing to whittle his own spoon, even though his eyes were on what I was doing.
I kept having to watch Man, then focus on what I was doing.It was an exhausting juggling act of the eyes.I didn’t want to miss his demonstration, but I also needed to watch my own hands.
“Good,” he said after ten minutes had passed and it started to resemble a real spoon, just with no concave scoop yet.“Now we get the hooked knife and mark out our scoop.”
He handed me the curved knife with the rounded top and showed me what he meant by marking out our scoop size.
“Now scoop out like it’s ice cream.”He showed me what he meant, and using my left thumb again against the back of the blade to push it into the wood, I imitated him, continuing to use the hooked knife to carve out the inside of my spoon.Then, once we had our desired depth, we used the same knife to smooth and even things out.I went to try to smooth it out more, but my hooked knife went into the wood too deep and another big chunk flew off.
My jaw went slack.“Shit.”
“Let me see.”He took it from me without asking, studying my mishap.While I was fine making a mistake, since this was my first time ever whittling, it still kind of sucked.I didn’t want to have to start over.Man ran his gnarled and weathered old index finger over the spot I botched.“Just make it shallower.Even out all the way around.”He picked up the knife I used before—the sloyd knife, I think he called it.“Use this.”
I did as I was told—again—and while it wasn’t as deep as I initially intended it to be, I managed to salvage the spoon.“Thanks.”
He grunted.
My back screamed at me for relief as I sat there, hunched over on the unforgiving stool.I shifted a few times, then set down my spoon and knife and stretched my arms overhead, giving an involuntary moan.
Man glanced at me.“You hurt?”
“Just stiff.”
He nodded, still whittling, still watching me.“You’re hurt.”This time, it wasn’t a question.
“Ah,” I toddled my head side to side, “I sustained a back injury at work a month ago.Still on leave.Still recovering.I’m seeing Maz at Unger Wellness and he’s helping.”
“How’d you hurt your back?”
Picking up my wood and knife again, I resumed my whittling.“I’m, uh … I’m a hockey player.I play … professionally.”I glanced up at him for some kind of recognition in his eyes, but he fixed me with a blank stare in return.
Okay, then.
“Anyway, I got body checked from behind, went down—hard—and crushed two vertebrae.Also got a concussion.”
His bushy, dark brows with the flecks of silver shot up his wrinkly forehead.“Which vertebrae?”
I wasn’t expecting that question.“Uh, L3 and L4.”
He nodded, still whittling, still watching me.“Did you have prior trauma to that area?”
“I’ve been having back pain on and off for about a year, yeah.”
More nodding.“Did they do a kyphoplasty or a vertebroplasty?I don’t think they would have done a spinal fusion.”
I paused and met his gaze.“Uh, kyphoplasty.Wait … are you … were you …”
“I was an interventional radiologist in India before we moved our family here.Then I worked as one in Santa Barbara until I retired twelve years ago.”
“Whoa, I—”
“You thought I bought this house and land with money from selling spoons?”His giggle was surprisingly high pitched, and his entire body shook as he laughed.
“No … I … I’m just surprised.I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Crap.Way to stick your skate in your mouth, Mav.
