* CURRENTLY EDITING.*
Luke Madden is a NHL superstar. But when an injury sidelines him, he's required to undergo physical therapy. With a stable family and girlfriend, Luke has all the resources he needs. Or so he thinks. As it turns out, there are...
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Luke
At lunch, Rosa and I separate. She has another patient to attend to, and I need to eat. Jealousy eats at me while I'm standing in line at the buffet. As much as my stomach is craving protein and carbs, my heart and mind are infatuated with Rosa Walker. Whenever I think back to the kiss we shared, my body craves her. I want to taste her lips again. Drown in her scent. Devour every fucking inch of her.
After loading my tray with a massive plate of spaghetti, a slice of garlic bread, and a side of garden salad, I survey the seating area. I'm standing on the edge amidst the infinite white noise caused by chatter and laughter. Anxiety tries to poke its way through, succeeding a little. Ever since arriving, I've been so disconnected from the community, I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Do people have their regular seats? I don't want to be an asshole and steal one. Do they have groups?
I gnaw on my bottom lip, noting the difference in ages. Teenager to senior. Men, women, boys, girls, non-binary. There are people of different ethnic backgrounds, shapes and sizes, hair colours. My lips pinch to the side. Seeing this kind of diversity is amazing. It's something we've been trying to implement more in hockey, which is predominantly white, and I feel guilty for not embracing this community more. I run a program, for fuck's sake, yet I've been hiding in the shadows.
On the far side of the room, I notice a boy sitting next to the large, floor-to-ceiling windows. His skin is medium-brown with natural lowlights. There is a ghost of facial hair present on his face, reminding me of when I was a teenager. During Movember, I would try to grow facial hair—and it did not look good. I smile to myself, watching as he picks through a plate of pasta. There's a cup of Jell-O on the side, untouched, and with a plastic spoon beside it.
Conscious of my brace, I walk over to the boy. I stop at the end of the table and clear my throat. He looks up, and his posture becomes ramrod straight. His brown eyes are as wide as saucers.
"Hey," I say, gesturing to an empty chair. "Mind if I sit here?"
Speechless, he shakes his head. I set my tray down, then provide a dinner show for the kid. Although my knee feels good, I promised Rosa I would continue to wear it in shifts. Even if it destroys my range of motion. About ten seconds later, I'm sitting in the chair.
The kid is still staring at me when I'm able to catch my breath. I shoot him a sardonic smile. "Knee braces. Wouldn't recommend them." I hold out my hand. "Luke Madden."
Without any hesitation, he takes my hand. His grip is firm. "José Sánchez. B-but my friends call me Sanchez."
"It's nice to meet you, Sanchez," I say, releasing his hand. "How's your program going?"
This is all new to me. How to create a casual conversation in a rehab centre. I don't want to push for too much information or make him uncomfortable. But using our injuries as common ground seems like a good idea.
