Page 18 of Cruel Love

I took my sketchbook back from him and stuffed it into my crossbody bag. Phoenix took my hand when I stood, and I went into the house with him.

A tall man that vaguely resembled Shane in coloring stood by the kitchen island, placing a white bag on the counter that smelled like fried chicken or something equally good. I smiled, but that died quickly when his faded blue eyes shot daggers in my direction. I’d never met the man in my life, but he seemed already to know about me and made an unfavorable judgment.

“Hi, Grandad. I wasn’t expecting you, but it’s good to see you.” Phoenix waved a hand toward me, his smile wide. “This is Aspen.”

I automatically moved forward and extended my hand. He shook it but released me immediately. He seemed agitated.

That was my cue to leave. I turned to Phoenix. “I should get going.”

“Please stay.” He took a step toward me.

“Thanks, but I need to go.” I evaded his outstretched hand. “I have a lot of homework, and there’s the drive back…” I needed keys and a car. Either one would be fine—just something to make my escape. Luckily, Phoenix understood.

“I’ll be back, Grandad.” He shot Shane a confused look before walking with me toward the door that led to the garage. There was a side table with a bowl with a couple of sets of keys. He handed me one. “The card is in the glove box. Let me know when you get back to school.”

“Of course.” I hugged him very carefully so he wouldn’t feel the small round bulge.

Then I escaped, reminding myself that he had no memory of me or the last five years. I’ve got to keep how I feel about him separate from who he was and who he is now.

CHAPTER NINE

PHOENIX

Even though I hated being a human pincushion during acupuncture sessions, I did whatever the docs thought was best. They were my key to recovery, and I was determined to reach my end goal much earlier than expected.

After acupuncture, I downed water and a protein shake then went to physio and the sadist who headed up that department.

“Hi, Sarah.”

“Phoenix.” She didn’t bother turning from the notes she was making on the computer.

Instead, I talked to her back, marveling how her short dirty-blond ponytail remained intact. She must have run her fingers through her hair before remembering she’d worn it up. She did that on occasion. The band was barely holding her thick hair in place. “Did you talk to the doc?”

She didn’t answer immediately, so I got comfortable on her torture bed. It was just a massage table, but the deep tissue manipulation and stretches she put me through could be excruciating.

I wanted to get PRP injections—platelet rich plasma—and had brought it up to the neurologist and the rest of the team of doctors and physical therapists. The time I’d spent in the induced coma had done what they’d intended and reduced the swelling around my brain, but I wanted a faster and better recovery, and that meant PRP injections in addition to all the PT I was doing. I knew it would work. It was often used with elite athletes as an advanced treatment to assist recovery.

As a college student, it wasn’t an option. Or maybe it was this hospital that didn’t incorporate the practice. Whatever the case was, I hadn’t been given the shots.

Sarah finished whatever she was doing on the computer and swiveled on her stool until we faced one another. “I got another no. I’m sorry, Phoenix, but it’s not looking like it’ll be an option. They don’t feel you need it with how well you’re doing, and it’s a considerable expense.”

I clenched my jaw, tired of hitting that wall. She motioned for me to stand. We went through her usual checklist, checking joint integrity and mobilization, motor control, function, postural stability, gait, sensory awareness, cognitive functioning, and perception.

Today wasn’t a day for deep tissue manipulation, for which I was grateful. Sarah had the hand strength of a defensive guard. By the time I was on the treadmill, hooked up to electrodes she could monitor, my mind wandered. The docs thought my brain was in a good place. I disagreed. If it had been, I wouldn’t have had all those voids where memories should have been or the incessant headaches. The neurologist assured me it was part of the healing process. I wanted to call bullshit but knew I needed to trust my docs.

My muscles flexed and bunched, and the miles faded under my feet. I lengthened my stride, pleased with how my body felt. I still couldn’t drive myself to the sessions, but Mom, Shane, or one of my cousins took me a few times a week. Coach had finally agreed to download film to a tablet and sent it to me through Cole. The last thing I wanted was to return without being up-to-date on how the team played in my absence.

It was another hour before I finished and was released to return home. Exhaustion showed in the deep circles under Mom’s eyes when she picked me up after her shift. I made my appointments as early as possible to accommodate her schedule, getting a ride from Raelyn when Mom was still working.

I was similarly beat, and we rode home in silence. After a few words and a hug, she went to her room and no doubt fell into a comatose state—she could barely keep her eyes open. My body was tired but in a good way. The PT and physio sessions weren’t as strenuous as they’d been at the onset. I assumed I was stronger, closer to what I’d been before the accident.

With a large glass of water, I got situated on the couch and pulled the tablet over. As I watched the games, I made notes on what I saw that could be improved, partly for me, but I also sent them to Coach. I craved being a part of the team, and this kept me in the loop. It didn’t hurt for him to know how serious I was about coming back. I was lucky my scholarship hadn’t been revoked, and I knew I had him to thank for that.

Going back to the hospital for PT and the rest was weird. They pushed me, but I knew I was capable of more. That was where pool workouts came into play. After I got through a couple of hours of watching what Coach sent, I would log an hour in the pool.

I forced myself to down the water and then lost time going over film. Nothing would stop me from achieving my goals.

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