Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Slowly, though—and especially since his most recent surgery in October after which he regained partial feeling in his legs—he’s been absolutely fucking blossoming.
Baden has also become more involved with the team. A month ago, he started learning to walk again with the help of dedicated physical therapists. He’s since moved into a handicapped-accessible home that Dominik arranged for him and can now walk independently with braces and crutches, but not for very long and certainly not in crowded places like this. Baden attends all our games, home and away, and for the most part, he’s in the wheelchair for safety measures. Outside of his attending the games and continuing outpatient rehab, the man is in the gym sometimes for hours working to make his body as strong as possible.
I respect the shit out of that because his future is unknown. It’s a dark, murky slate, and he has the biggest uphill battle of anyone I’ve ever known if he ever wants to play sports again. And yet, he remains undeterred.
I wait for Baden to reach me. He comes to a skidding halt, popping a half wheelie with a grin. He’s sometimes a menace with that wheelchair, and I’ve more than once gotten dinged on my shinbone with the footrest as he does that patented move, causing curses to pour forth.
He’s completely unapologetic. “You’re a hockey player. Suck it up.”
More players head out of the lobby onto the street, and I move my eyes down to Baden in his chair.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
If it were anyone else, I would lie and say I was going to my room, but instead I nod toward the hotel bar. “Going to grab a beer.”
Baden looks over his shoulder at the lobby doors before bringing his gaze comes back to me. “You’re not going out with the guys?”
I cock my eyebrow. “Are you?”
Baden smirks. “I’m in a wheelchair. What’s your excuse?”
I smirk back at him. “Your wheelchair isn’t a fucking excuse, and you know it. If you wanted to go out with them, you would. You’re a hockey player… suck it up.”
That felt good. I’ve been wanting to throw that back at him for a long time.
Baden laughs and nods toward the bar again. “Mind if I join you?”
I shrug and pivot away from him as I say, “Suit yourself. But I’m shit company after that game.”
Baden doesn’t respond but quietly wheels along behind me. There’s no hostess, and it’s open seating. I immediately spy a table where I can pull a chair away for Baden to park. Once we’re settled, the waitress comes over. We both ask for a beer, and Baden orders a huge plate of chicken nachos.
When the waitress leaves, I give him a pointed look. “I’d say you better quit eating that shit or you’re going to get fat, but you must be burning twenty thousand calories a day with the way you work out.”
Baden tips his head back and laughs, the corded muscles in his neck tightening. The work he’s been doing on his chest and arms has him packed full of solid muscle. I bet the dude could bench press a tank.
We make small talk about his current workout regimen. He’s hoping within the next few weeks to graduate to forearm crutches, and from there a cane. Then he’ll ditch the leg braces, and hopefully, it’s just a matter of time before he puts the skates back on.
I honestly hope to God the guy achieves it, and I hope I’m there when he steps onto the ice for the first time. I bet there won’t be a dry eye in the house.
The waitress returns with our beers, promises Baden his nachos will be up soon, and leaves. He lifts his pint glass, takes a long pull, and sets it down before him. “I can only drink one of these or my driving gets dangerous.”
I snort as I lift my glass. “You’re already a menace in that thing.”
He spares a laugh while setting his beer down on the table, but when his eyes lift to mine, he says, “You played like shit tonight.”
My chin jerks inward, surprised at how bluntly he’s called me out. I don’t disagree with him, but he’s never criticized my play before. It’s not how our relationship has worked up until now, away from the ice and the game politics.
“I have a lot going on personally,” I mutter, taking a sip.
“Want to talk about it?” Baden asks.
Grimacing, I give him my most honest answer. “No fucking way.”
Baden slams his palm on the table, causing me to jump, and yells, “Aha!” He points an accusing finger at me. “That’s your problem. You don’t talk. You don’t have relationships with people. You don’t go out with the guys for drinks. You don’t know how to be part of this team.”