The meeting ended shortly after. As she walked back to her car, Tracy couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another, less pleasant reason behind Hardshaw’s questions. She wasn’t naive; relocation was a competitive market and there were a number of good companies who could provide the same services she did. That was why she and Maggie worked hard to ensure Making Your Move provided added value with every project. And why it was vital that Helping Hands was successful.
Losing the Cats’ business would be a major setback. Not just financially, but for her longer-term goals. Without the turnover from the Cats, she’d drop way down the market rankings. She wouldn’t let that happen. Not when she was so close to cracking the top three, at last.
Even though she’d had no specific indication that the contract was under threat, it never hurt to be prepared. That, after all, was how she’d made her company a success. Time for a contingency plan of her own.
GAME DAY. THE RANGERS. In our barn. Bring it on.
For a few seconds, when Ike awoke, his heart pumped fast as adrenaline shot through his body. Then reality sank in. He wouldn’t be strapping on his pads or lacing up his skates. He was stuck in this freaking bed, just as he had been for the past couple of days, unable to do anything—not even take a piss—without supervision and assistance. Hell, the only thing similar to a normal game day was that he’d taken a nap this afternoon.
This sucked. It didn’t help that the wall clock was opposite his bed, so he couldn’t avoid seeing the time. Four o’clock. His teammates would be arriving at the arena for their pre-game preparations. He could visualize the locker room: equipment laid out in each player’s stall; crisp, clean sweaters hanging on pegs. He could practically hear the grinding of skate blades being sharpened and smell the acrid aroma of heated sticks.
Ike’s chest squeezed as he imagined Kenny and JB cracking terrible jokes, Mad Dog and Blake arguing over what music to play to pump up the team, and Jake and Scotty swapping stories about their kids. Coach Macarty would be scrawling key points for the game on the large whiteboard at the front of the room, while Patrick “Beefy” DuBoeuf, the goaltending coach, would be going through last-minute notes with the Cats’ number-two net-minder—Chaz “Monty” Montgomery.
Ike had to restrain himself from reaching for his phone to call and add his own advice. Not that Beefy would forget anything, but this was an important game and Ike had more experience than anyone at facing their cross-river rivals. He hadn’t missed a game against the Rangers in more than a decade and his record against them was strong.
Monty could handle it—he was a solid goaltender—but he didn’t know the opposition as well as Ike. Although they trained together, reviewed video and discussed players and tactics, being theoretically well versed wasn’t the same as having hands-on experience.
Truth was, the only person Ike wanted between the pipes for the Cats was himself.
Get over yourself! The guys would cope without him.
Doesn’t matter if they can’t. They have no choice.
Just as Ike had no choice.
Like it or not—and he sure as hell didn’t—he wouldn’t be minding the net for months.
He tried to cross his arms across his chest, but only succeeded in bashing himself with his cast. Pain shot through his arm, setting his teeth on edge.
Why hadn’t he listened to the trainer’s advice about his protector? Ellis had warned that Ike was taking a big risk every time he went out onto the ice. The padding was wearing thin, so Ike had felt every puck that bounced off the snow leopard’s head on his sweater. With the speed that some of those guys fired shots these days, it had stung. More often than not he’d had the bruises to prove it.
But Ike had kept putting off replacing his protector. Finding new gear, then wearing it in was a pain in the ass. Plus he felt uncomfortable changing something that worked for him. Not because of superstition, really, but to be practical. He’d figured one more season wouldn’t hurt. How’s that working out for you, dumbass?
“A positive mental attitude is half the battle when it comes to healing.” Dr. Gibson strode into the room. “I’m not seeing much of that in here.”
Ike’s smile felt like a grimace. “Yeah, yeah. Happy, happy. When can I get out of here?”
“The answer won’t change just because you keep asking me.” The doc examined Ike’s arm, pressing gently in various places. “When I’m sure you’ve healed enough for you to be able to move around without doing any damage. A couple more days. Enjoy the rest and the great food.”
Dr. Gibson’s cheery tone bugged the hell out of Ike. “Can I at least get out of bed?”
The surgeon made some notes on Ike’s chart. “Assuming you don’t develop any problems, you can get up tomorrow. But I want you to take it very easy.”
As if he were going to start a street hockey game in the hallway. “About time. I’m sick of staring at these damn four walls.”
“From what the nurses tell me, you’ve had plenty of visitors.”
Ike knew he was lucky so many people had stopped by—his family, his teammates, the back-room staff. The problem was that after asking him how he was, nobody knew what to say. The guys hovered uncertainly, looking guilty every time they mentioned hockey. “I hate lying here doing nothing.”
“I know it’s frustrating but it’ll be worth it. The more care we take at this stage of the process, the quicker you’ll be able to get back to normal activity.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“Then maybe today you’ll listen.” Dr. Gibson clicked his pen and shoved it into his shirt pocket. “Have you figured out what you’re going to do when you go home? You know you won’t be allowed to drive or do anything with that arm for at least a month. No lifting, no carrying, no holding, no exercise—nothing that might risk reinjuring your arm.”
Ike shrugged. “I’ll work something out.”
“You can’t take this lightly. I’ll want to be sure you can cope before I discharge you, so I’ll expect to see what arrangements you have in place. I don’t want to have to get the Ice Cats management involved, but I will if I think you’re not taking me seriously.”
“I won’t do anything to jeopardize my recovery, Doc. Trust me. The occupational therapist has already been to see me and I have a list a mile long of what I need to do before I go home.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Nothing warms my heart like a model patient.”
Once the surgeon had gone, Ike puffed out a frustrated breath. Now what did he do? There was nothing worth watching on TV and he was tired of reading and playing games on his iPad. A few more days of this and he’d be certifiable. The evening stretched out ahead of him like a desert. There wouldn’t be any visitors tonight since everyone would be at the arena. He hadn’t made up his mind whether or not to watch the game. He wanted to support the guys, but it might be too painful.
“You’re looking better today.” Ike’s mom bustled into the room, followed by Rory.
She rushed forward, then halted abruptly by his bed, as if unsure how to hug him without doing any damage. Ike sighed inwardly. She’d done the same thing each time she’d visited.
“I won’t break, Ma,” he said gently.
Karina looked anxiously at her husband, waiting for his encouraging nod before wrapping Ike in her arms. Her familiar scent—a combination of sugar and spice from baking and apple from her