Page 40 of The Cutting Edge
"What do you mean? I was at work!"
"The facility's position is that you were in an unauthorized area after hours."
I'm outraged and devastated simultaneously. "I had a student I was returning to her father who did not show up on time."
"I understand. And this is by no means final. But I wanted you to be aware."
No workman's comp from the rink because I was in a restricted area. I’m responsible for my own medical expenses.
I'm screwed. I can't work. I can't practice. I'm going to be stuck in the hospital for a week and even with health insurance, I'll probably end up owing this place a million bucks by the time I get out of here. If I can’t work, I can’t pay for training. and if I can’t train, I have no shot at competing at Nationals this year or returning to the Olympics. Ever.
All that work, everything I sacrificed, over. Done. I gave up my entire childhood and teen years for a lousy 4th place showing at the Olympics. I can’t bear it.
There's no holding back the tears now. I start sobbing uncontrollably as Beverly from the home office sits on the line in silence.
"I need to go," I say, desperate to hang up. "I really need to go."
"I understand," she says, "And I’m sorry…okay, have a nice day."
As if that were possible now. Everything is ruined. Even if, best case scenario, I get out of the hospital in a few days. And even if the doctor cleared me in a week, I’d still be racking up a ton of debt with no money coming in. I’m barely surviving as it is. Plus if I can’t work for who knows how long, I’ll just go deeper and deeper into debt while my coaching bills and training fees bury me in a financial hole so deep I’ll never be able to climb out.
I grab a pencil and write on the back of the concussion instructions the doc gave me earlier today. Rent, car expenses, utilities, groceries, the payment on my training loan, coaching fees, rink fees, entrance fees for Nationals coming up, the last payment I owe for my costume… I know I’m forgetting something. Probably several somethings.
Then, I add up what I’ll make this month if I’m stuck in the hospital or unable to work for a week. Two weeks. Three weeks.
It’s devastating in black and white. Well, graphite and white.
I’m broke. And, if my current luck holds, I’m about to get a whole lot broker.
How am I ever going to get through this?
Because right now, I don’t see any way out except the one I don’t want to face:
I could stop the bleeding if I stopped competing.My heart breaks at the thought.
Around 6 pm, Logan shows up at the door to my hospital room grinning like a well, sports star, and carrying a spectacular bouquet of…Twinkies.
It’s decadent and gorgeous, wrapped in pink tissue paper and laden with ribbons. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.
The arrangement is stunning, sort of like those edible fruit bouquets, except made with delicious snack cakes instead.
I can feel myself smiling at the sight of them both, and then I suddenly remember I hatehim.
"Please get out."
His face falls, and it’s clear he was not expecting this response. And he shouldn’t. What sane woman turns away a hunky professional athlete bearing Twinkies?
“You don’t like the Twinkies?” he asks, stepping gingerly inside the doorway.
“Actually I love them. I never get to eat them when I’m training, and they have no nutritional value whatsoever – but if I were ever on death row, I’d definitely want a big ‘ol plate of Twinkies for my last meal. They’re my secret shame. Well, not that secret I guess… you obviously figured it out.”
“Okay, great… So why are you kicking me out?”
“How did you find out, anyway? Did one of my teammates rat on me?”
“You may be surprised to learn that I did not call Bradie Tennell or Isabeau Levito to inquire as to your comfort food preferences. You mentioned them the other night after you passed out, and I wanted to do something special for you since you’re supposed to be getting out today.” He looks around the room, hovering inside the doorway, and I realize he’s searching for a place to set down the bouquet. The bedside table is covered with papers where I’ve detailed all of my bills and training expenses, and my stunning lack of options with which to pay them.
Still, that’s a pretty great answer. Most of my exes wouldn’t have noticed if I got a tattoo of a broccoli stalk on my left boob, or cut off all my hair and dyed my scalp turquoise. Plus, I’m sure he feels guilty for smacking me in the head with a puck. He should. I don’t offer any suggestions for the Twinkie bouquet. Although maybe I should. I can’t work or train, so this may be my last chance at a meal that isn’t hospital food.
