Page 29 of Tangled with the Tight End

“I’m sorry, Patrick. This isn’t … I’m not very good at this.”

“At being injured?”

“At dealing with limitations.”

“I can imagine,” he says. “You get a pass to be moody.”

“I don’t want to be moody.”

I sound slightly petulant, even to my own ears.

“Well then, what am I going to do with the pass?” he teases. “Give it to Dad?”

“Please, no.”

We both laugh. Our father would never be classified as moody. Overbearing? Yes. But his emotions run in one straight line. Always in check. He never loses control—of himself or the world around him.

Patrick crosses his arms, waiting for my answer as to whether I’m relocating into the front room.

I consider staying in bed. Then I picture Winona coming into my bedroom, having to help me transfer to the scooter so I can spend the day on the couch.

“I think I’ll move while you’re here,” I tell him.

“Now or later? I was just making coffee and hunting through the fridge to see what Claudette left for you.”

“You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and you’re already raiding the fridge.”

“Can you blame me?” he asks.

“Not a bit. And I’ll move now. I’ll have a cup of coffee too.”

“How long has it been since we’ve sat together over coffee?” Patrick asks offhandedly.

“Too long,” I admit.

“Well, let’s rectify that,” Patrick says.

He pulls my scooter away from the wall where it was parked for the night. I sit up, inching slowly toward the edge of the bed. At least I still have my upper body strength.

Patrick puts the brake on the scooter and rifles through the drawers in the dresser where Mom stashed a bunch of loose-fitting clothes and underwear for me.

He chuckles, holding up a pair of boxers.

“What are those?” I ask.

“Mom’s idea of a joke, I think.”

Our mom is a stereotypical wife of a wealthy businessman with all her functions and fundraisers. Underneath the prim and proper exterior, she hides a playful sense of humor that comes out at the oddest times.

The boxers in question are bright red with a rubber duck motif. Patrick tosses them at me. Then he sends a pair of loose gym shorts sailing in my direction followed by a well-worn Thunder T-shirt.

I shift so my leg is straight, lifting my body and maneuvering until I’m dressed. Patrick respects my need to get this done on my own even though it feels like it takes an eternity. He stands still, studying a painting on the wall like an art critic while I tilt to one side, supporting my body weight with one arm and tugging my shorts on, then pivoting to do the same maneuver on the other side.

“I’m decent,” I tell him once I’ve managed to pull everything on.

He steps closer to the bed and I use his shoulder to stabilize myself while I transfer to the scooter.

“Being an athlete has its perks,” he says.