“My father, as CEO of the Carolina Cold Fury, is calling on owners league-wide to join us in adopting a resolution to put in place a points freeze, retroactive to the date of the Titans’ plane disaster. This will continue up through the end of next week when points earnings will resume. This is the only way to ensure the integrity of the points standings and give Pittsburgh a fair chance to compete.”
Chuck Holderness comes back on, and I look at Baden. He’s staring at the TV in shock, which means this is news to him as well. “How about that,” he murmurs in awe.
“Will it pass?” I ask curiously. “The resolution?”
His eyes meet mine, and I’m struck by how hypnotizing they are. They’re almost golden, and they convey so much warmth. I don’t remember that from when I visited him at the hospital. He wears his dark hair longish on top, shorter on the sides but swept back. His beard, trimmed to the contours of his face, accentuates his full lips. I don’t remember any of this.
Then again, that day I wasn’t really paying attention to his looks. I’d stared instead at his lifeless legs under the hospital sheets.
Baden shrugs. “I have no clue, but it’s awesome that Gray Brannon is calling for it. She’s a pioneer and a rule breaker if there ever was one.”
And all of a sudden, it seems weird to be standing here talking about hockey. I feel like we missed something monumental—namely, how is he walking again? When did this miracle occur?
In my mind, he was a broken man, huddled in a wheelchair and maybe drinking himself into a depression. I purposely avoided reading anything about him because my heart couldn’t take the worst-case scenario, and I could only fathom the worst case given how brutally he was injured.
My brain wouldn’t let me consider the best case, though, so it’s bewildering to see him looking so healthy.
“Can we sit?” he asks hesitantly, nodding toward the living room furniture.
Shit. So freaking rude of me. “Yes, of course, you’ll need to sit down.”
“No,” he says, and it’s not exactly harsh but it causes my eyes to flare in surprise. His expression gentles. “I don’t need to sit. I’d just like to.”
“I’m so sorry.” It comes out as more of a piteous moan than actual words, and I realize I’m making all kinds of assumptions about him. “I’m just… it’s just…”
“Overwhelming?” he guesses.
Tears well in my eyes. “I didn’t know you could walk. I’d assumed your paralysis was permanent.”
Baden frowns but makes no comment. He’s probably thinking I’m the biggest asshole for not checking up on him and knowing more than I do.
I’m frozen, caught in a hell of self-imposed guilt and a general inability to say the right thing.
Perhaps it’s the deer-in-the-headlights look I know I’m wearing, or maybe the slight sheen of tears, but Baden becomes gallant—although I suspect that’s inherent in his nature. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this. I called Detective Gilmore and got your address, and please, don’t be mad at him. I bribed him with Vengeance tickets, and I know your information is private, but I really wanted to see you.”
“Of course, I’m not mad,” I reassure him. “I showed up at your hospital unannounced, and that was totally awkward. I guess I deserve this.”
Baden chuckles and nods at the furniture again. “May I?”
“Damn it,” I curse at myself for my continued rudeness. I walk around the opposite end of the couch and gesture toward a chair. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I’m so discombobulated.”
Moving with what appears to be relative ease, although I can clearly see now that his steps are a bit cautious and calculated, Baden settles into one of the chairs.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
“Oh, okay.”
Baden stares at me and finally asks, “Will you sit down too?”
Shit. I’m totally losing it.
I scramble for the end of the couch farthest away from his chair. I grab the remote, mute the TV, and flop down awkwardly.
Baden graces me with an understanding smile. “Would you like to hear how my last seven months have gone?”
I nod.
“Good. Because I want to hear the same from you.”
CHAPTER 6
Baden
I don’t remember a lot about Sophie Winters, and what I do remember is wrapped in negativity, so I try not to think about it. The first time I saw her came after I heard her scream, and it was so bloodcurdling, I knew something major was wrong. She was at the far end of a dark parking lot, on the ground between a curb edge and a large pickup truck. Two of three men then hauled her up while the third went through her purse.
Sophie came to visit me at the hospital not long after my attack, and while the visit was short, she stood right beside my bed. But it wasn’t until she opened the door just moments ago that I realized she had blond hair, a detail that hadn’t stuck with me.
I don’t remember it being that color of butterscotch, or being long and curly. I don’t remember her green eyes or the freckles over the bridge of her nose.
I certainly have no recollection that Sophie Winters is gorgeous. It wasn’t important back then, and truly… it shouldn’t be important now, just merely an observation.
No matter what, though, I’m absolutely not surprised to find her a hot mess. Detective Gilmore told me she was suffering from PTSD, although he didn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t need to. I remember the look on her face that night. As I was taking in the scene, I knew those men wanted more than her purse. What I didn’t know was if they were contemplating rape, or would their evening have ended with her murder?
Not knowing is what prompted me to act. I caught the men by surprise by jumping into the fray, elbowing one of the dudes and somehow pulling Sophie free. I actually flung her away, and I remember her stumbling across the parking lot a few feet before righting herself.
Her eyes met mine, and they were so inundated with fear, my stomach rolled violently.
I yelled at her to run, and she did.
Thank God.
I once admitted to Riggs that sometimes I regret my actions, but the feeling never stays long. Now that I’m looking at this woman, and I can see she’s still deeply affected, I no longer have a single regret. Better her to be alive and traumatized than very, very dead.
Also better for her to be alive and me paralyzed than very, very dead.
“You’re surprised to see me walking,” I say, initiating the conversation on a light note.
It doesn’t work, and her eyes cloud over with pain and guilt.
Scooting forward to the edge of the chair, I lean slightly forward, fixing my eyes on her. “I’m fine, Sophie.”
Her eyes drop to my legs and then move back up slowly. “How fine?”
I grin and settle back in the chair, lifting my ankle and propping it on my knee, a deliberate attempt to show her a normal move. “My doctors call me a fucking miracle. But honestly, they’re the miracle workers. I just busted my ass to get strong again.”
“How strong?” she asks in a low whisper.