“It’s okay,” I assure him, but I edge over to close the bedroom door all the way.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a beer or anything, would you?”
“As a matter of fact, I have the perfect thing for you.” I head to the kitchen to grab a tall glass of water. I do have that last can of Keith’s beer in the fridge, but I’m not about to hand it to Brett right now.
“Here.”
He smiles as he reaches for the glass, his hand grasping my fingers in the process.
“I’m just going to change into—”
“No. Don’t.” His gaze skates over my bare legs as he releases a soft exhale, tugging on the blanket to guide me down.
I settle onto the couch next to him, squeezing myself in next to his splayed legs, and quietly watch him drink, the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The tension radiating off him.
“What happened today?”
He doesn’t answer, but the sheen coating his eyes, the way he blinks several times, answers me.
“You know you can tell me anything, right? I would never say a word to anyone.”
His muscular chest lifts and drops with a deep breath. “My career could be over.”
“But . . .” I frown as the shock of his admission settles over me, as I study the cast on his leg. “Hockey players break bones all the time. Isn’t there that one guy who broke his back?” I’m racking my brain to remember what Jack and my dad were arguing about the other night. “I can’t remember his name, but he played again.”
“The official statement is that they are remaining hopeful but my doctor isn’t happy with how it’s healing so far.”
“What does that even mean? It’s only been a month.”
“It was a bad break. Several breaks, actually.” Brett stares ahead vacantly. “He said that I should prepare myself for the possibility that I won’t be able to play like I used to. Maybe not at all. I could be walking with a limp for the rest of my life.” His voice is full of raw emotion. “I figured I’d be playing for another ten years, but here I am, twenty-six and fucking finished. If I can’t play hockey, I don’t know what the hell else I’m going to do with my life.” His hand lies limp in his lap. “I keep telling people how I’m thankful to be alive and there’s more to life than just this game, but right now . . . I feel like my life is over.”
My heart throbs for him.
He sounds so lost.
“Does anyone else know?”
“My parents. And now you.”
I struggle to find the right thing to say. I don’t want to simply dismiss the doctor’s words as premature because that won’t ease his worry. Sure, I could point out that he’s in a good place financially. But I don’t think this is about money at all. It’s that his entire reality, everything that he has worked so hard for, could be taken from him.
I finally settle on “We’re not going to give up hope just yet.”
He grunts softly but says nothing, and I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing. But what do you say to a world-class athlete who has worked his entire life to get to where he is, only to have it all end so abruptly? I guess the same thing you say to a doctor who loses use of his hands, or an artist who loses her eyesight.
“I’m so sorry, Brett. If I could fix it for you, I would.”
I get a solemn nod in return.
I take the glass from him and settle it on the coffee table, and then I pull his hand into mine, flipping it over so I can draw my finger along the creases. I used to do this same thing with Scott’s hands. I remember Scott’s hands being smooth and delicate, marred only by the occasional leftover oil paint.
Brett’s hands are rough and calloused. His left index finger is slightly bent, as if he broke it and it didn’t set properly. They look like hands that have worked hard to help him get to where he is today.
Suddenly, he grasps my hand, turning it to study the lead smeared over my fingers with a frown.
“It’s pencil.”
“From what?” His gaze drifts to my sketchbook, sitting open on the coffee table. “What is that?”
“Nothing. Just . . . something for Brenna.” I lift the cover with my toe, shutting it.
When I turn back, I find Brett staring hard at me. “What?”
“You look incredible tonight.”
I can’t help the unattractive snort or the grin that follows. “You must be incredibly drunk then.”
Finally, he smiles. The first real smile that I’ve seen since he arrived, a dazzling smile that has the power to turn me into a giggling teenager if I allow it to.
A long moment of silence hangs in my little house, as he studies me, as I sense thoughts racing through his mind that he doesn’t give voice to.
Finally, he points toward the coffee table. “Tell me about that.”
“It’s nothing, really. Just a sketchbook.”
Leaning forward, he collects the book in his lap and begins flipping through the pages. “The Gingerbread House . . . ?” He studies the old sales listing I kept and tucked into the inside cover. “Seriously, what is this?”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Just a daydream that Brenna and I have had for a while.” I tell him about the house down on Jasper Lane with the twinkling Christmas lights. “It’s kind of silly, but it got me drawing again after so many years, so that’s something.”
“That’s what you want to do? Own an inn?”
I’m struggling to focus on anything besides his left hand, settled on my thigh, his palm hot against my bare skin, his fingertips splayed, his reach wide. I silently thank God for small miracles—namely, the miracle that I shaved my legs tonight. “It wasn’t even about an inn when I first started this. It was a way for me to bring it to life for Brenna. I wanted to show her how to dream. But then the idea grew on me. I think it’d make an amazing little place for tourists to stay.” Despite my complicated history with Balsam, my adoration for Jasper Lane has remained unblemished. If I lived there, I feel like I could have an entirely different life.
“Tourism’s big around here in the summer, isn’t it?” I’m waiting for a hint of mockery in his tone, but there’s nothing so far.
“Not just the summer. The local wineries and the festivals draw a good crowd in the fall. And then there’s the winter, with the ski hills. I’ve overheard customers at Diamonds complaining that rooms can be hard to come by, even when you call a year in advance, especially over Christmas. Balsam is really pretty at the holidays.”
He pauses on the full sketch I did from memory of what the house looks like in December, the windows trimmed with big wreaths and crimson bows and tiny white lights. I even used vibrant emerald and ruby-red pencil crayons to add a dash of color. “This is amazing. You’re really talented.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you ever think of going to school for this?”