Page 2 of Josh’s Play

I nodded, trying to focus on what was going on around me and not on my pain. AJ kept staring at me, and I realized that wasn’t answer enough. “Black backpack.” I jutted my head, and even that small movement caused a pulsing surge through my hand and up my arm.

Vance shoved shirts in AJ’s face, and as Caid put his on, he asked our mother, “Can you gently help him into his?” His head popped out of his collar, and he looked at me. “Place it right back on your shoulder and get the ice right back on it, okay?” He mimicked the move, tapping his own shoulder with the opposite hand as he nodded at me.

Mom tried, but my finger throbbed no matter how slowly or gently we proceeded. Eventually, we succeeded, and I was back with my hand on my shoulder, a towel padding it, holding the ice pack in place.

“Uncle Joshy?” Vera asked from her father’s lap, concern clouding her high-pitched, about-to-be-seven-year-old voice.

“No worries, little one, it’s just a boo-boo. Uncle AJ and Uncle Caid will take care of me until the doctors can fix me up, okay?”

She wiggled until Jamie put her down, but he took her by the hand as they approached me.

Vance followed behind them. “No hugs, little one, just a gentle kiss on the cheek.” He advised.

“Okay, Uncle Vance.” She slowly came to my good side and did just that. “Feel better, Uncle Joshy. I’m sorry our surfing got you hurt.”

“I’ll drive,” AJ said. Caid just nodded as the two of them helped me stand. Mom was scurrying to throw on her beach cover-up while simultaneously stepping into her sandals.

“I’m coming,” she insisted. Leave it to the Marchetti-Gordon family to show up at the emergency room with a carful of people.

The small emergency department in the little beach town was not busy, so I was seen right away. I tried to focus, but the pain was so intense I was glad I had three other people there to pay attention to everything the staff said and did. The word “broken” was bandied about as well as the phrase “multiple places.” I may have heard “surgery” and “physical therapy” as well, and I looked at Mom to confirm that she was paying attention and taking it all in in a way I couldn’t.

As it turned out, my finger was broken in three places, and I found myself, a few days later, with pins in my finger, a pill bottle full of the good stuff in hand, and instructions to find an orthopedic surgeon and a physical therapist as soon as we got home from our beach vacation and back to our hometown of Hampstead Valley, New York.

Mom didn’t wait, calling the campus health center at Hampstead University, where I was a student and where both of my parents were employed, that very day. “Good thing I did. With school gearing up and all the athletes already on campus, they said slots for physical therapy are filling up fast. She’s got you scheduled, though, twice a week around your class schedule, so you’re good to go!”

“Thanks, Ma.” We packed up that same evening, or rather, my family did, not allowing me to help. The next morning, we said goodbye to our beach home in Delaware, to AJ, Jamie, and Vera, who all lived in New York City, and to Caid and our sister Hillary, who were off to their respective colleges in Maryland and Illinois.

The rest of us headed back to Hampstead Valley, where my brother Vance and I, as well as my parents, would be starting the school year shortly. I was set to begin my senior year, Vance was working on an advanced degree, my dad taught literature, and my mother was dean of the Literature Department.

We drove the seven or so hours it took to get from the beach house to Hampstead Valley, and the very next day, I found myself in a section of the sports complex I’d never been to before: a roomful of athletes all sitting around, most of whom had some part of their body wrapped in a brace or bandage, waiting, just like me, for a turn with the physical therapist.

Struggling with my one good hand, I texted with my best friend, Devon, about his travel plans for returning to school for our senior year. Devon and I had roomed together throughout our college careers, and I was looking forward to one more year in the dorms with my best friend.

The waiting-room door opened, and another muscle-clad student walked in, sporting a T-shirt and a pair of sports shorts with the HU Hockey logo on them. He was obviously taller than me, but then most men were. This one also had broad shoulders and muscular legs. His chestnut brown hair was cropped in the back but long in the front and flopping in his face. He ran his fingers through it as he walked in, a slight limp barely perceptible as he approached me.

He waved at the receptionist, then dropped down in the seat next to me, and our entire row of connected chairs jolted.

“What are you in for?” He smiled.

Chapter Two

Campbell

I was sick of the place. I’d been back at HU for weeks, but Coach and the trainers he had whispering in his ears were barely letting me out on the ice. So, I’d had a little slip, goofing off back home with my younger brothers. Yeah, maybe I hadn’t laced up properly, just to fuck around on the ice with a couple of kids, but it was only a slight twist of my ankle, a minor sprain. I could hardly feel it, and they were acting like if I didn’t spend three days a week with someone fondling my foot, my career would be over before it started.

So here I was again, days before classes were set to begin, preparing to do stretches and exercises that an experienced college athlete could have easily completed on his own.

I walked into the clinic and toward the counter to check in.

“Hey, Cam. You’re all set. You're with Diane today. She’ll be out for you soon.”

“Thanks, Alecia,” I replied. That was how often I’d been to the physical therapy department. Frequently enough that I didn’t even have to check in and was on a first-name basis with the receptionist. I was a fucking regular.

And okay, maybe I understood the importance of protecting my health. If your goal is to end up in the National Hockey League, you’ve got to keep your body in tip-top shape, but that didn’t mean I had to like the amount of time I was spending in physical therapy.

And maybe, just maybe, it didn’t help matters that sometimes there was a petite and very pretty woman around my age, the aforementioned Diane, who stretched and flexed my ankle and then watched me putter on a treadmill like some leading man in a slow-motion action scene, and that other times, my therapist was a guy. A skinny guy, with shoulder-length pink hair and a take-no-prisoners attitude. A guy with the gentlest touch and the softest hands as he stretched and rolled my ankle and pushed my leg above my head.

I hated having both of them running their hands all over me and hated myself for the reasons why.