Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Hello?”
“Hi. May I speak to Mr. Fitzgerald, please?”
“Umm… He’s not available at the moment. This is his wife, Meredith. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Maybe. This is Elite Physical Therapy. Mr. Fitzgerald has an appointment tomorrow at nine. We were hoping we could push that back to eleven. One of our therapists had an emergency and is going to be out for a few days, so we’re trying juggle all of our appointments.”
I looked over at the door to the clinic. No sign of Connor yet. “Can you hang on for two minutes? I want to double-check with him. He also has practice, and I know he doesn’t like to miss. It’ll just be a moment or two.”
“Of course. No problem.”
I got out of the car and went inside the clinic. Connor wasn’t in the lobby, so I walked up to the front desk. The woman was on the phone but covered the receiver. “I’m on hold. Can I help you?”
“Yes. My husband is somewhere in here, Connor Fitzgerald. He just walked in.” I held up his cell phone. “He has a phone call that’s important. Can you possibly let him know?”
“Can I see some identification, please?”
“Sure.”
I dug into my purse and showed the woman my driver’s license.
“Sorry,” she said. “He’s a pretty big deal, so I wanted to make sure you weren’t a fan.”
I smiled. “I am a fan. His biggest one.”
The woman thumbed toward the door behind her. “I’m on hold with an insurance company that’s impossible to reach. Mr. Fitzgerald went in the back to speak to the PA. It’s the last door on the right, if you don’t mind going back yourself. We were just closing up, so there’s no one else back there.”
“Thank you.”
The long hallway had a half-dozen doors, all closed. Light streamed onto the floor from the last room at the end. As I approached, Connor’s voice came through a doorway, loud and angry.
“Give me a break. I’m six foot four and two hundred and forty-five pounds. I don’t take the same dose as most of your patients.”
“It’s not the dose I’m concerned with,” a man replied. “It’s how long you’ve been on them. You should be weaned off by now, or at least tapering. You shouldn’t have as much pain after four weeks of healing. And if you do, we need to consider that something else might be wrong.”
I stopped a few feet from the door, holding my breath to listen in.
“Well, I do. So give me the fucking script. I have PT starting tomorrow, and I need to be able to work my knee.”
A loud sigh. “This is the last time, Connor. I mean it.”
My heart quickened. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one concerned my husband was eating oxycodone like they were Tic Tacs.
I waited a minute before approaching the door. When I popped my head in, Connor scowled. “Why are you in here?”
“You have a call from the physical therapy place. It sounded important.” I handed him his phone.
Back at home, he disappeared into the shower while I made dinner. When he came out, the chicken was in the oven cooking, and I was in the living room straightening up.
Connor looked around, eyes narrowed. “Where’s my bag?”
Unlike most players, my husband didn’t leave his hockey equipment in the locker room after practices. He schlepped a big bag back and forth every day. During the season, it pretty much sat next to our front door whenever he was home. But when we’d walked in earlier, his crutch had caught on the bag’s shoulder strap and almost caused him to trip.
“I put it in the closet.”
“Why?”
“It got tangled in your crutches when we came in. I figured you wouldn’t be using it for a while, so why not put it away?”
He hobbled over to the closet on his crutches and ripped the door open. Pulling the bag out, he flung it at the front door. It hit with a loud bang.
“It belongs there.”
I held up my hands. “Fine. I was only trying to help.”
“I don’t need any fucking help,” he grumbled and turned, disappearing into our bedroom, slamming the door hard enough that our walls shook.
Once again, I did my best to ignore it, despite the pang of frustration in my gut. Deep down I knew he wasn’t really angry at me, though I was getting tired of it being directed my way. When dinner was ready, I set the table and put food out. Connor appeared after I was already seated and eating by myself.
He held on to the back of the chair across from me and hung his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat.”
I ripped off a piece of bread and swirled it in the sauce on my plate. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately, Connor.”