Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) Read Online Free PDF Page B

hand and a fracture to his right tibia, most of the crushing damage had been done to the left side of his body. His ability to drive was one thing the doctors assured him he would get back. He looked forward to the day when he didn’t have to rely on anyone for anything.
    The hot water sprayed across his chest, and he stuck his head beneath the powerful stream. He was fairly sure he’d gotten rid of the health care worker with the two-toned hair and the Pucci.
    Water slid into the crease of his smile as he remembered her scandalized gasp. The way she’d said “Pucci,” he’d figured it had to be some high-priced designer. She’d said it like his former wife had said, “It’s Chanel.” He didn’t care how much something cost. He knew ugly when he saw it.
    He washed his hair and soaped up his body, then reached for the detachable showerhead and turned it to massage. He held it against his hip and left thigh and let the hot water beat the hell out of his muscles. It hurt like a son of a bitch but gave him relief from the sharpest pain. When he was finished, he dried himself and brushed his teeth. A day’s growth of beard darkened his cheeks and jaw. Instead of shaving, he moved into the huge walk-in closet and dressed in a pair of blue nylon jogging pants and a plain white T-shirt. He shoved his feet into black Nike flip-flops because tying shoes was a hassle. Yesterday morning before the news conference, it had taken him forever to button his shirt and tie his shoes. Well, maybe not forever , but things that he used to do by rote now took thought and effort.
    He placed the splint on his right hand and tightened the Velcro before he grabbed his black titanium cane from the couch where he’d been sitting last night.
    The original homeowners had a servants’ elevator built inside a large closet down the hall. With the aid of his cane, Mark walked out of the bedroom and past the spiral stairs he used to take two at a time. He glanced over the ornate wrought-iron and wood railing as he moved across the landing. Sunlight poured in through the heavily leaded glass in the entry, tossing murky patterns on the marble floor below. He opened the closet door and rode the small elevator down. It opened into the kitchen, and he stepped out. He poured himself a bowl of Wheaties and ate at the kitchen table because he needed something in his stomach or the medication he took would make him nauseous.
    For as long as he could remember he’d eaten the Breakfast of Champions. Probably because it’s what his father could afford to feed him. Sometimes he couldn’t remember what he did last week, but he could recall sitting at his gran’s old kitchen table, a white sugar bowl in the center of the yellow tablecloth, eating Wheaties before school. He remembered perfectly the morning in 1980 when his grandmother had set the orange box on the table and he’d stared at the Olympic hockey team on the front. His heart had stopped. His throat closed as he’d looked at Dave Silk, Neil Broten, and the guys. He’d been eight and they’d been his heroes. His grandmother had told him he could grow up and be anything he wanted. He’d believed her. There hadn’t been a lot he’d believed in, but he believed his grandmother Bressler. She never lied to him. Still didn’t. Not even when it would be easier. When he’d woken from his coma a month after the accident, hers was the first face he’d seen. She’d stood next to his father by the foot of his bed and she’d told him about the accident. She’d listed all his injuries for him, starting with his skull fracture and ending with the break in his big toe. What she hadn’t mentioned was that he’d never play hockey again, but she hadn’t had to. He’d known by the list of his injuries and the look in his father’s eyes.
    Of the two adults in his life, his grandmother had always been the strong one. The one to make things better, but that day in the hospital, she’d looked exhausted