trained on Zack and she knew there was no chance of catching another glimpse of him, she turned to her friend. There was nothing but concern and compassion in Ronnie’s eyes, and she knew that if she said the word, they’d be in the car, headed for the hospital in a flash.
But was that what she wanted? Did she want to sit in a crowded emergency room waiting area, pacing and worrying about a man she wasn’t supposed to care for anymore?
All of her friends—save the two who were currently honeymooning in St. Thomas and didn’t even know about Zack’s accident—would be there. All of Zack’s teammates, the Rockets coach, the team doctor, and other assorted team associates would be there.
The press would be there. Reporters from all of the media outlets, both large and small. Newspaper, magazine, television…Cameras everywhere, snapping her picture, speculating on whether she and Zack were back together. Whether she was grief-stricken over his accident or secretly pleased that the man who’d two-timed her was finally getting his just deserts.
Could she deal with that? And when Zack woke up—because he would wake up—did she want him to know she’d been there the entire time, waiting for a report on his condition?
The former lover, fiancée, and almost-wife in her screamed Yes! , wanting to jump up and race to the hospital in her pajamas and bare feet.
But the woman-done-wrong and public personality behind that persona definitely didn’t want the attention or the gossip that would follow. Or for Zack to think he meant more to her than he should after what he’d done to her.
Ronnie’s gaze bored into her, waiting for her to make a decision. But even though it felt as though her insides were being sliced to bits by a thousand tiny razor blades, she didn’t have an answer.
Stay or go?
Remain strong or admit her vulnerability to Zack and to the world?
She didn’t know what to do.
She just didn’t know …
Row 4
One month later…
Zack—formerly “Hot Legs”—Hoolihan sat in his wheelchair, left leg propped straight out in front of him, staring at the fifty-two-inch screen of the state-of-the-art plasma television taking up nearly every square inch of the far living room wall.
His friends had been so damn impressed when he’d bought the thing and invited them over to christen it with a weekend of chips, beer, pizza, and the NBA finals. Little did they know his main reason for replacing his perfectly good thirty-two-inch flat screen was because he’d needed something to hide the hole Grace had left when she’d rammed one of his hockey trophies straight through the drywall. He’d come home to find the ass end hanging in the air like the minuscule hockey player had gotten stuck during some botched escape attempt.
The trophy he could live without.
The hole he couldn’t live with. Not staring at him every day, reminding him of the woman who’d put it there and what had driven her to such violence in the first place.
Not that she had a reason to be so pissed off. He should have slapped her with a lawsuit to get his apartment repaired, his belongings replaced, and his dog returned. It was no less than she deserved.
And he missed Bruiser, dammit!
The apartment was too quiet without his heavy, padded footsteps. His rattling snores. And Zack hadn’t sat down in a puddle of drool in months.
Who knew a man could come to miss having a wet ass?
Zack stabbed the tip of one needle through a stitch on the other, looped his yarn, and kept knitting. The past month while he’d been “recovering,” he’d gone through enough yarn to cover all of Cleveland and made just about everything he could think of that he could actually put to use. A scarf, a hat, a couple pairs of slipper socks. He’d thought about trying his hand at a sweater, but though he had the time, he wasn’t sure he had the talent or patience.
So instead, he’d begun knitting thick, warm squares that could then be stitched together
But was that what she wanted? Did she want to sit in a crowded emergency room waiting area, pacing and worrying about a man she wasn’t supposed to care for anymore?
All of her friends—save the two who were currently honeymooning in St. Thomas and didn’t even know about Zack’s accident—would be there. All of Zack’s teammates, the Rockets coach, the team doctor, and other assorted team associates would be there.
The press would be there. Reporters from all of the media outlets, both large and small. Newspaper, magazine, television…Cameras everywhere, snapping her picture, speculating on whether she and Zack were back together. Whether she was grief-stricken over his accident or secretly pleased that the man who’d two-timed her was finally getting his just deserts.
Could she deal with that? And when Zack woke up—because he would wake up—did she want him to know she’d been there the entire time, waiting for a report on his condition?
The former lover, fiancée, and almost-wife in her screamed Yes! , wanting to jump up and race to the hospital in her pajamas and bare feet.
But the woman-done-wrong and public personality behind that persona definitely didn’t want the attention or the gossip that would follow. Or for Zack to think he meant more to her than he should after what he’d done to her.
Ronnie’s gaze bored into her, waiting for her to make a decision. But even though it felt as though her insides were being sliced to bits by a thousand tiny razor blades, she didn’t have an answer.
Stay or go?
Remain strong or admit her vulnerability to Zack and to the world?
She didn’t know what to do.
She just didn’t know …
Row 4
One month later…
Zack—formerly “Hot Legs”—Hoolihan sat in his wheelchair, left leg propped straight out in front of him, staring at the fifty-two-inch screen of the state-of-the-art plasma television taking up nearly every square inch of the far living room wall.
His friends had been so damn impressed when he’d bought the thing and invited them over to christen it with a weekend of chips, beer, pizza, and the NBA finals. Little did they know his main reason for replacing his perfectly good thirty-two-inch flat screen was because he’d needed something to hide the hole Grace had left when she’d rammed one of his hockey trophies straight through the drywall. He’d come home to find the ass end hanging in the air like the minuscule hockey player had gotten stuck during some botched escape attempt.
The trophy he could live without.
The hole he couldn’t live with. Not staring at him every day, reminding him of the woman who’d put it there and what had driven her to such violence in the first place.
Not that she had a reason to be so pissed off. He should have slapped her with a lawsuit to get his apartment repaired, his belongings replaced, and his dog returned. It was no less than she deserved.
And he missed Bruiser, dammit!
The apartment was too quiet without his heavy, padded footsteps. His rattling snores. And Zack hadn’t sat down in a puddle of drool in months.
Who knew a man could come to miss having a wet ass?
Zack stabbed the tip of one needle through a stitch on the other, looped his yarn, and kept knitting. The past month while he’d been “recovering,” he’d gone through enough yarn to cover all of Cleveland and made just about everything he could think of that he could actually put to use. A scarf, a hat, a couple pairs of slipper socks. He’d thought about trying his hand at a sweater, but though he had the time, he wasn’t sure he had the talent or patience.
So instead, he’d begun knitting thick, warm squares that could then be stitched together
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