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His knuckles were white again.
Gripping a chair. Gripping the refrigerator door. Gripping his crutches. It didn’t matter. For the last four weeks, ever since his injury, Connor had held everything in a tight fist. I’d mentioned it once, but it only upset him. He’d yelled that cripples had to hold on tight, so they didn’t fall. But he wasn’t even standing now. He was sitting in the penalty box, behind the Plexiglas barrier, watching his team practice while white-knuckling the hockey stick lying across his lap.
He was angry and tense, scared he would never get back on the ice. I understood that. But the constant state of stress wasn’t healthy for his recovery. So I tried to ease the pressure without calling attention to the fact that it existed at all.
“Hey.” I took the seat next to him and pried his fingers from the hockey stick. Bringing his hand to my mouth, I forced it open and kissed his palm. “How has your day been?”
Connor frowned and motioned to the ice. “Franklin is getting better and better. The kid is faster than me and more agile, too.”
Brimley Franklin was filling in as center, the position my husband played. At twenty-three, he was hungry for playing time and eager to make a name for himself. I weaved my fingers with Connor’s. “He doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Don’t patronize me.” He wrenched his hand from mine and pushed to his feet. “Let’s get out of here. I need to get my bag from the locker room and then stop at the pain management clinic before we go home. I forgot something there yesterday.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He stormed off before I’d even finished speaking. The team doctor walked over while I stood outside the locker room, waiting for Connor.
“Hey, Meredith. How are you doing?”
“I’m good. How are you, Dr. Gallo?”
“Tomorrow’s the big day, right? Fitz starts PT?”
I nodded. “It is. I’m really excited. It’s been a tough month. Connor isn’t so great at sitting around. He can’t see the progress happening with internal healing. I’m hoping the physical therapy shows him there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”
He patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. He’ll get there. Anxious is normal. He wouldn’t be the player he was if he wasn’t chomping at the bit.”
I nodded. But it wasn’t the anxiousness I was worried about. It was the anger. Last night Connor had thrown a glass at the wall when I’d questioned whether he needed to attend every practice and every away game. The question had been innocent. I wasn’t sure of the rules or what he was contractually obligated to do. Yet he had turned red and the veins in his neck bulged.
My husband and I had been together for a long time. I’d witnessed his every shade of pissed off over the years, but it had never been directed at me. Something about his anger lately was different. Though I didn’t dare mention that to Dr. Gallo. I didn’t mention it to anyone.
During the car ride to the pain management clinic, Connor and I made small talk. I told him I’d gotten two new patients today, referrals from others I’d treated. But that seemed to upset him, too.
“What are you going to do with all these patients when you have a baby?”
Considering you had to actually have sex to get pregnant, something my husband had lost interest in since his injury, I didn’t think it was a pressing issue.
“We spoke about this. I’ll hire someone.”
“I don’t want a nanny watching our kid all the time.”
I glanced at him and back to the road. “I meant I would hire someone at my practice. Another psychiatrist. A part-timer, maybe.”
Connor’s jaw flexed. “Must be nice to have the future look so bright.”
I wasn’t taking the bait. He could find something to fight about in anything I said or did lately. Instead, I reached over and rested my hand over the balled fist that sat on his lap. “My future looks bright because it’s with you.”
He ignored my comment and pointed up ahead to the clinic. “There isn’t an open spot. Just double-park and put the flashers on. I’ll run in.”
Once I’d stopped, I opened my car door so I could go around and help Connor out.
He shook his head and motioned to the door. “Close it. I don’t need help. I won’t be long.”
As soon as he went inside, the spot directly in front of the building opened up. So I parallel parked at the curb to make it easier for traffic to pass. When I’d finished, a cell started to ring, but it wasn’t mine. Connor had left his phone in the cupholder. Elite Physical Therapy flashed on the screen, so I answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi. May I speak to Mr. Fitzgerald, please?”
