“Two against one. Why do I feel like I’m witnessing a trend emerging?”
“Trend is already fully emerged.” My shoulder lifted as I approached where the two of them were stretched out on the couch, flipping through what looked like a photo album. “Sorry.”
“Compression tights,” Grant repeated.
My eyes dropped to his Lycra leggings, and I shook my head. To be fair, he had on a pair of athletic shorts over them, but still. “Whatever, Superman.”
Charlie giggled, flipping another page in the album.
Grant sighed, rubbing at his shoulder. “After today’s practice, I’m not feeling so ‘super’ or made of steel.”
I lifted what I’d just pulled out of the microwave and crawled beside him onto the couch. It was one of those huge, sprawling couches with recliners and cup holders built into it. Very much of the bachelor persuasion, which followed the theme of most of the house. The most feminine touch was the flowers growing in the beds outside, making me wonder if a woman had ever lived here with him or even shared a night every once in a while.
The lack of incriminating evidence in his bedroom and bathroom indicated that none had . . . not that I’d checked.
“Old war wound acting up?” I said, getting him to sit up just enough so I could drape the warm compress over his shoulder.
Grant’s head tipped back toward me, his eyes finding mine. “Best battle I ever fought.”
We held each other’s stare for a minute, long enough for me to be transported back in time to when we’d been nothing but a couple of kids that society had turned its collective back on. I saw the same mix of strength and rage in his eyes as I’d seen back then. He saw the same mix of courage and fear in mine, I guessed from the way his forehead pinched together.
“Sweet Jesus, what is that?” Grant practically moaned a minute later, his whole body relaxing.
I wrestled with a smile as I adjusted the warm pad a little higher up on his shoulder. “Witchy voodoo medicine.”
“So much better than those top-of-the-line doctors and physical therapists the Storm keeps on the payroll.” Grant’s eyes closed as I gently rubbed his shoulder through the pillow of the compress. “What is it really?”
Charlie’s attention turned from the album to what we were talking about. “It’s just rice inside a couple of pieces of fabric. Then you microwave it for a minute.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “Mom and I made it.”
“I love witchy voodoo medicine.” Grant sighed again. “You two should mass produce these things, and I can sell them to a bunch of guys I know who have too much money and too many muscle aches. They would eat these things up.”
“What did you do to your shoulder?” Charlie asked, sitting up to look over at where I’d draped the warm rice bag on him. She’d changed out of her wet clothes and was in her pajamas. It was late again, and she was still up, but there had been lots of special exceptions lately. Lots of reasons to let bedtime slide a little.
“I dislocated it.”
“When?” I saw Charlie scan through her memory, searching for the game where Grant Turner had dislocated his shoulder.
“When I was thirteen. Just a kid.” His tone was a note deeper, undetectable to anyone who hadn’t spent countless days with him.
“How?”
Grant paused a moment, checking me before answering. When I gave a slight nod, he said, “A fight.”
“Who’d you get into a fight with?” Charlie had totally twisted around in her seat, fully invested in the story now.
“A man.”
My hand still rubbing his shoulder started to tremble. This time, it wasn’t from the Huntington’s. I managed to rein it in quickly though, before even Grant picked up on it.
“Why did you get into a fight with a man when you were only thirteen?” Charlie’s big, innocent eyes blinked at Grant, waiting.
He didn’t know what to do; I could see it on his face. He didn’t want to betray his daughter by lying to her, but at the same time, he didn’t want to betray me by telling anyone what we’d agreed was my story to tell should I ever want or choose to.
I made the choice, so he didn’t have to betray either of us.
“Because he was helping me,” I said calmly, looking her in the eye. “Your dad got into the fight with that man because he was trying to save me.”
“Save you from what?”
Stalling to figure out a way to word my answer, I wetted my lips. “That man, he was trying to take something from me.”
Charlie’s next question came before I was finished giving my answer to her prior one. “What was he trying to take?”