“I don’t know how she did it, but . . .” He turns to meet my eyes with such intensity, I feel a furious blush burn my cheeks. I drop my focus to my hands. “I owe Catherine my life.”
A deafening silence lingers in the air. An intentional pause from Kate, I suspect, before she goes on. “So, by all accounts, you shouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
His leg presses against mine in a discreet—to everyone but me—move. “No. I should never have made it out of that car alive.”
“And what does it feel like to know that? Has it changed your perspective?”
He uses the trick he taught me and inhales deeply. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve come to terms with it yet. I was so used to rolling out of bed in the morning with nothing but an upcoming game or practice to focus on. That’s where I put all my energy. The game was everything to me. Now I open my eyes and I replay that one night in my head, and I tell myself that the pain in my leg is nothing, that I should be six feet in the ground, so I don’t have a right to be upset if . . .” His voice drifts and he swallows. “I’ve been given a second chance to live that one of my best friends didn’t get. I need to make the most of it.”
Kate Wethers’s face fills with sympathy, and I can’t tell if it’s staged or sincere. “So, you and Seth Grabner were quite close off the ice, too, then.”
Another hard swallow. “I’ve made a lot of good friends over the years. But Seth was one of those guys I instantly knew would be around long after we retired. Losing him . . . there’s a giant hole in my life.” Brett’s voice has turned husky. It’s all I can do not to reach out and take his hand, to try to offer him some sort of comfort. I settle on pressing my thigh against his, a returned sign of affection.
“I think your team would say there are two giant holes on the ice, not having you and Seth Grabner on there with them. By the time we air this interview, the Flyers will have played game four of the Eastern Conference Finals and may be out of the play-offs. What has it been like, sitting on the sidelines and watching them struggle?”
“A hundred times more painful than this.” He haphazardly waves toward his casted leg. “I want to be out there, helping them. They’ve all worked hard and they deserve to win.”
Kate’s brow pinches just a touch. “While alcohol wasn’t a factor in the accident, the police report says that speed was. This has caused quite a stir with sports fans and the media who feel that the accident was preventable and that the nearly one hundred and twenty-five million dollars tied up in contracts to you two should have guaranteed more responsibility on your part. How do you feel about that?”
Brett dips his head forward, pausing a moment. He must have expected that question to come up, as difficult as it is. “There are many things I wish I could go back and change about that night, but I can’t. I’m truly sorry if we let people down.”
Anger flares inside me. He almost died. One of his best friends did die, and all people seem to care about is winning a stupid trophy.
And he’s actually apologizing for not being able to give it to them.
I feel the overwhelming urge to defend him, my mouth going so far as to open, ready to blast fans.
And then Kate turns to the camera. “We’ll be right back in a few minutes to talk more with Brett Madden and Catherine Wright about this incredible story.” There’s a pause, and then Kate calls out, “I could really use a water, please, Margaret?” Her assistant scurries over with a bottle of Evian.
I force myself to take a few breaths and calm down. “Are you okay?” I ask, sensing his mood shifting.
“Yeah.” The couch sinks under Brett’s weight as he leans closer to me. “You’re doing great.”
“Oh, right.”
“He’s right. You are,” Kate interrupts through sips. “And we’re halfway through. When we jump back on, we’re going to talk more about you, Cath. About your current life, about your daughter. I know”—she holds up her hand before I have a chance to object—“we’ll keep it brief and vague.” Her knowing eyes meet mine. “And we’ll talk a bit about your past, too.”
I nod wordlessly.
She waves to Rodney, and he begins the countdown again.
“And five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .”
Kate does her little opening spiel again, and then turns to me. “Catherine, you didn’t exactly walk away from the accident unscathed, did you?”
“No.” I hold up my wrist, the bruising more pronounced under the lighting. “When Brett and I fell into the ditch, I must have sprained my wrist. It’s a lot better, though. Another week and I should be back to normal.”
“But your car wasn’t so fortunate.”
I smile sheepishly. “No. Because of the fog, I pulled up right behind the Corvette, hoping that my headlights would help me see. And then it caught fire and spread to mine before the fire department could put it out.”
“So you’ve lost your car.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but my parents lent me the money to buy a new one, so I can get to and from work. I really appreciate it.” I add that last piece more for them than anyone else.
“You’re a waitress at a local diner, is that right?” Kate makes it sound like she’s not entirely sure, which I know is not the case. I’d bet that her research team handed her a full dossier on me for the drive over.
“Yes.”
She frowns. “Hard to work as a waitress with a sprained wrist, isn’t it?”
I nod. “I’ve had to take some time off.”
“Do you have any concerns about losing your job because of this?”
I smile. “No. Luckily, I have an amazing boss, so I think I’ll be okay.”
“When you can actually work again. But what are you going to do until then? I mean, you’re a single parent to a little girl. You have bills to pay.”
“Money is the last thing Cath needs to worry about,” Brett cuts in, adding, “as stubborn as she’s being about accepting help from me.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself.
Kate’s soft chuckle fills my little house. “Brett is one of the highest paid NHL players and a son of Hollywood royalty. Surely you’ll let him at least buy you a new car, Catherine.”
I turn to shoot a questioning frown his way, whispering, “Did you put her up to that?”
Forgetting that I’m wearing a microphone, so they likely caught that.
Brett’s hands go up in surrender. “See? I’m not the only one who thinks it’s completely ridiculous that you wouldn’t let me help.”
“Tell me, Catherine, is there a specific reason you won’t accept Brett’s offer?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right. It’d be like me profiting from the accident.”
“So, if he replaced your old car with an identical—”
“Loud, rusty, falling-apart Grand Prix with no horn and two hundred thousand miles on it, then yes, I suppose that would be fine.” I smile, realizing how absurd that sounds. “I’m happy I was there and able to get him out.” My throat begins to swell with the very thought of not sitting here next to him, his leg pressed against mine, feeling his warmth. Of how tragic it would have been for the world to lose a person like him.