Page 41 of The Cutting Edge
“I really need you to go.”
He looks so confused, and somewhat…I don’t know… hurt?
“I’m sorry, what just happened? Did I say something that offended you? Do you not like the Twinkie bouquet? Would you prefer something else?"
”Look,” I say tensely, “thanks for the effort, but US Figure Skating called this morning and they’re not letting me teach, or train, or get back on the ice at all, until I’ve been cleared through the concussion protocol by a team doctor. I’m probably looking at least a couple of weeks, maybe longer, that I can’t work. Except Ineedto work. I pay for all my living and training expenses myself. Oh, and speaking of doctors, mine finally had the courtesy to show up this morning and let me know that my CT scan showed I have a hairline skull fracture, which means I have to stay in the hospital for observation for the rest of the week,at least. Maybe more. So I’m just sitting here in my hospital bed, worrying about adding another mountain of debt onto what I already owe…while the mountain gets higher by the minute.”
My blood pressure pounds in my head as the totality of it all starts to hit me. You know how sometimes saying something out loud makes it suddenly feel more real? I start to feel woozy again, willing it to stop with every bone in my body. This is all so overwhelming and I really just want to be at home, alone on my own couch, so I can cry my eyes out.“Oh!” I add testily, “and the rink is apparently not planning to cover my hospital stay for workman’s comp because they say I was in an unauthorized area after my work hours. Which sucks because I wouldn’t have even been there if it weren’t…” I trail off, not wanting to say it.
“Because of me. Because I was late.” Logan says, his head dropping low.
“You said it,” I respond flatly. “Yeah. So while I appreciate your apology and the very creative bouquet of Twinkies and all that, I really just want you to go away and leave me alone so I can figure out whether or not your slap shot ends up being the straw that breaks my freaking back.”
“Please let me make this up to you,” he says. “I really want to. I was already planning on covering your hospital expenses. I can pay your skating instructor salary until you're back on your feet. What else can I do to help?”
I shake my head; he’s clearly delusional. I know it was an accident but his slacker parenting and his big-time NHL slap shot have effectively ruined my life. And there's no freaking way I'm taking his charity. “You can’t.”
“I’m so sorry Coco, I never meant…”
He eyes the recliner where he spent so much time over the last few days, and then slowly turns inside the doorway, still holding the bouquet of Twinkies. “I respect your feelings. You have every reason to be angry with me. I’m so, so sorry” He takes a single stride backward and then disappears down the hallway.
Sorry doesn’t cut it, mister.
For a split second after he disappears, there’s part of me that wants to call out to him and take it all back. And then I remember that he effectively ruined my life. Whether he meant to or not. I’m overwhelmed with the magnitude of this disaster: Logan Rivers is the category 5 hurricane that just swept through on a random Thursday and left my life splintered, decimated, and beyond recognition. I’m screwed.
Chapter sixteen
Logan
Ishouldhaveofferedto pay Coco’s hospital bills before today. It was always my intention, but I didn’t realize how challenging her financial situation was, and as someone who has every injury tended to by a team of experts, I’m embarrassed that I’m so fucking out of touch after just a few years in the NHL that it was such a surprise that the rink or the team wouldn’t step up.
Coco is in the hospital for a reason, and that reason is me. Of course, it’s my responsibility to take care of her hospital bills. She wouldn’t be in the situation at all if it wasn’t for my bullshit.
I leave the Twinkie bouquet and a drawing that Poppy made for Coco at the nurses’ station.
I didn’t have a chance to give Poppy’s latest artwork to Coco, and while I’m not sure that she would want it, I’m also not so sure she wouldn’t. The blame for this mess falls squarely on my shoulders, not Poppy’s or Coco’s. The drawing depicts the two of them spinning on the ice, side by side. The skating rink in Poppy’s drawing also features an indoor sun and a fully stocked cotton candy stand. Obviously.
“Isn’t that clever?” says Steven, the male nurse I recognize from yesterday. “A whole bouquet made out of Twinkies. What a lucky girl!”
“Would you mind please taking these to room 428 a bit later?
The nurse has a quizzical look on his face, but he doesn’t press the matter further. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to leave the Twinkie bouquet or not. She might wake up and realize she’s pissed at me, not the Twinkies, and wish that she had them. On the other hand, it might piss her off even further if I don’t respect her wishes. I decide to leave them anyway. That way. If she doesn’t want them, the nurses can have them. Maybe they’ll give her a little extra attention. She certainly deserves it.
I really wish I’d mentioned to Coco that I was planning to pay for her hospital bills. At this point, it will seem like I was just tryingnotto look like an asshole. Which isn’t true. I’m actually trying not tobean asshole.
As I walk back to my car, I can’t stop myself from thinking about what Coach Michaels asked me last night – how I got my game back. I just grinned at him, and shrugged my shoulders, but the truth is I know exactly why I played so great last night.
Well, maybe not exactly.
But I have a good idea.
I hit it off with Coco in a way I haven’t experienced before. The conversation was easy and comfortable. I love the way she likes to yank my chain, and that she doesn’t seem to be obsessed with the fact that I play for the NHL. Which is, if I’m being honest, a nice change of pace.?
I’m in the middle of the parking lot, deep in my own thoughts when I hear the yelling.
“Hey, you’re Logan Rivers!” says a guy wearing a ball cap pulled over his ? feathery brown hair that pops out from underneath the cap in every direction. He’s about 30, I guess, wearing a St. Pete Slashers jersey and baggy faded jeans. “Number 17! I knew it was you!”
I put on my fan face and turn to him and smile, “Hey man, it’s great to meet you! Thanks for supporting the team!” I love the fans, truly, I do, but there are times the constant attention and love from strangers can be a bit overwhelming. I’m grateful, and I’m sure that when all of this goes away, I’ll miss it like crazy. Actually, that’s probably not true if I’m being honest with myself. I’m an introvert, and there are a lot of days when the fans completely wipe me out. When I was a kid, the idea of screaming fans and people recognizing me on the street seemed so cool. Now I’m an adult and I know that being around too many strangers drains my energy like some kind of enthusiastic, well-meaning vampire. I need to be alone to recharge, and between being a single dad and a very public job, I sometimes don’t get the alone time I need for weeks.
