The Year We Fell Down: A Hockey Romance (The Ivy Years Book 1)

—Corey—

“What’s the matter, Callahan?” Hartley asked as we made our way slowly toward Commons for lunch.

I stuffed my phone into my bag and caught up with him. “Nothing. My mom is having a cow because I told her I didn’t want to fly home for Thanksgiving.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “It’s too many planes, trains and automobiles for only for a couple of days.” Flying with a wheelchair in tow was a drag, especially because Harkness students had to catch a bus to the airport. I just didn’t want the hassle.

“This place really empties out over Thanksgiving. You don’t want to stay here alone.”

“I’m not. Dana isn’t going all the way back to Japan for Thanksgiving. So we’re going to hang out together. The medical school cafeteria stays open that day.”

Hartley stopped crutching toward Commons. “You are not eating in the med school caf on Thanksgiving.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped it. Then he put it to his ear.

I waited, of course, because a guy can’t crutch and talk on the phone at the same time.

“Hey Mom? I need to bring two more friends home for Thanksgiving.”

“Hartley! Don’t…”

He waved a hand to silence me. “No, don’t worry. She’s still safely out of the country. These are perfectly normal friends. Nobody will be expecting caviar and fois gras.” He paused. “Awesome. Love you.” He hung up, stuffed the phone into his pocket and put his hands back on the crutch handles.

“Hartley,” I protested. “Your mom doesn’t need two extra guests.”

“Sure she does. I was already bringing Bridger and his sister. I always bring people, because I live close by. The only guest my mom did not enjoy was Stacia.” We waited for the light to change so that we could cross the street. “You and I will have to stay on the first floor, of course. If you don’t mind sharing a room with me.”

I didn’t know what to say. Did I want to go to Hartley’s house with him? Heck yes. But I could imagine the pitfalls — me looking ridiculous, mostly. “That’s really nice of you,” I said, thinking. “Did you say Bridger has a sister?”

Hartley laughed. “Wait until you meet her.”

A week later, I watched the streets of sleepy Etna, Connecticut, roll by from the backseat of Bridger’s car. Hartley rode shotgun, on the phone again with his mother. “We’re just off the highway,” he was saying. “Do you need us to pick anything up?”

In the back seat, between Dana and me, Bridger’s sister Lucy bounced in her seat. “Over the river and through the woods, to Hartley’s house we go…” she sang. “Are we there yet?”

Bridger’s sister was nothing like what I expected — mainly because she was seven years old, and in the second grade.

“If you kick the front seat one more time,” Bridger threatened from behind the wheel, “I will tickle you until you pee yourself.”

“Icky,” Lucy agreed, stilling her feet. Her ponytail was a gorgeous russet color, the exact same shade as Bridger’s.

“And you’d better not be kicking Callahan,” Bridger added.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly.

Hartley was still on the phone with his mom. “That inflatable mattress has a hole in it,” he said. “But we’re good, because Bridger and Lucy can have the guest room, and Dana will take my old room. Callahan is going to bunk with me, because neither one of us is any good on the stairs.” He listened for a moment. “You need to relax, mom. Stop ironing napkins and have a glass of wine. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

When Bridger pulled into the driveway, Hartley’s mom was waiting for us on the porch swing of an old wooden house. When Hartley opened his door, she bounced down three steps and ran over to kiss him and ruffle his hair.

She was pretty, and younger than I expected her to be, with shiny black hair and rosy skin. Her eyes were just as beautiful as Hartley’s, only darker. “Welcome! Welcome,” she said as Dana hopped out of the car, her smile wide. “I’m Theresa.”

“Hi Aunt Theresa!” Lucy yelled, hugging her around the waist.

“Oh! You’ve gotten so tall,” Hartley’s mom said. “You big girl. The dog is upstairs, Lucy. She’ll be happy to see you.”

Without another word, the little girl ran up the steps and inside.

“Mom, this is Callahan and Dana.”

“I hope we’re not imposing,” I couldn’t help but say. “Hartley wouldn’t let us stay on campus for some reason.”

“You can’t stay there!” she laughed. “Not on Thanksgiving.”

Dana pressed a bottle of wine into her hands. “Thanks so much for having us.”

“You’re always welcome. But hang on, Adam. I didn’t realize Miss Callahan was a girl. She won’t want to bunk with you.”

“Mom, all the ladies want to share my bed.”

“Hartley!” I punched him in the arm, and his mother laughed.

He turned to me. “The bed is the size of Massachusetts. I’m not kidding.” To his mom he said, “You’re not talking me onto that evil couch.” Hartley kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

“Good,” she said.

“Is there anything Bridger and I can help you with while we’re here?”

She cocked her head to the side. “The car could use an oil change,” she said. “You could do that this weekend. Save me the forty bucks.”

“Done,” he said.

Theresa had already done most of the work on the Thanksgiving meal. The turkey was almost done, and two pies cooled on the counter.

Even so, Hartley tied an apron around his waist and then poured a quart of heavy cream into a bowl. He took a whisk from a drawer and began whipping quick ovals through the bowl. “What’s the matter, Callahan? You’ve never seen a guy whip cream before?”

I shook off my surprise. “I just wouldn’t expect you to cook, Hartley.”

“I’m only the assistant.” He sped up the motion, the whisk a blur through the white surface. He picked up a cup of sugar and shook some of it into the mixture. Then he began whipping again.

I dragged my eyes away from the mouthwatering sight of Hartley’s upper body hard at work. “So what can I do to help?” I asked. “I’m not, um, a cook. But I take direction well enough.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Theresa said, although it seemed categorically impossible that at two p.m. on Thanksgiving there wasn’t something I could do.

“Mom,” Hartley said, “Callahan gets cranky if she thinks you’re babying her. If you want peace in the kingdom, give her a job.”

His mother laughed. “Sorry, Corey. It’s just that I’m not used to it. Not all of Hartley’s friends have such a positive attitude toward kitchen work.”

“Nice, mom,” Hartley said. “Take a couple of shots at her even though she’s on another continent.”

I pointed to a bag of potatoes on the counter. “Do these need peeling?”

“They sure do,” Theresa said, opening a drawer to produce a peeler.

I tucked the bag under my arm, and crutched over to the kitchen table. I heaved myself into a chair. Theresa watched as I unlocked my knees and swiveled to face the table. She brought me a newspaper for the peels, and a bowl for the finished spuds. The peeling was slow work, but I didn’t mind.

“Adam, how’s the therapy going?” Theresa asked.

“Tedious,” he said, still whisking. “Callahan and I have the same trainer. Pat the drill sergeant.”

“I think therapists are like dentists,” I said. “Nobody is ever excited to see them. Or maybe you and I are just jerks.”

“Or maybe it’s Pat,” Theresa suggested.

“Nope!” I argued cheerfully. “I’ve pretty much disliked every therapist I’ve met. And there have been many.” I tossed another potato into the bowl. “Although, I might be mellowing with age. I’m not as ornery with Pat as I was with the others.”

“Why?” Hartley asked.

“Well, the first therapists I saw were teaching me to do things like put on my own socks, and transfer from the wheelchair to a bed. And I was so pissed off that I needed someone to teach me that, I couldn’t see straight.”

“I can understand that,” Theresa said.

“They know a lot of cool tricks, though. Once they show you something — like how to get from the floor back into your wheelchair without tipping over — it’s just so obvious how much you need their help. And that just makes it worse. You hate learning it, but you can’t afford not to.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Hartley said.

“You’d think, since I’d spent so many hours training for sports, that I would have been a model patient, but you’d be wrong,” I told them. “Okay, I’m going to stop whining now,” I said, tossing a potato into the bowl.

“You’re not a whiner, Callahan,” Hartley said sweetly. “Except when you lose to me at RealStix.”

“But that so rarely happens,” I said, and Theresa laughed.

The house began to smell wonderful. Dana and Bridger set the table, swearing that they couldn’t use my help just at that moment. So I sat on the living room couch, flipping pages in my economics textbook. Exams were coming up fast.

Lucy appeared in front of me, a deck of cards in her hands. “Do you know how to play Uno?”

“Well, sure,” I closed the book. “Want to play?”

“Yeah! Do you know how to shuffle? I suck at shuffling.” She threw herself down on the living room floor and cut the deck in two.

I unstrapped my braces and dropped them on the floor. Then, with no grace whatsoever, I slid off the sofa and butt-scooted over to Lucy. Using my hands, I arranged my legs in a straddle position and took the cards from her. As I shuffled and dealt, Lucy stretched out a hand and cautiously touched my toe.

“Um, Callahan?” she looked at me with a question in her eyes. “Can you really not feel this?”

I shook my head. “Can’t. Swear to God.” I watched as her finger traced the top of my sock. She might as well have been touching someone else’s foot, for all I could tell.

“What does it feel like not to feel?” Lucy had a high little voice, clear and sweet. If someone else had asked me the question, I might have bristled. But there was a guileless curiosity shining in her face, and it was impossible to feel self-conscious.

“Well, I can only say that it feels like nothing. If I were to reach over and pinch your ponytail, you might not notice. Or you might feel a little tug, but not in the place I’m pinching. Like that.”

Lucy considered this explanation. “That’s a little creepy.”

I laughed. “It is, honestly. Sometimes I stare at my feet and try to convince them to move. When I was in the hospital I did that all day long. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I’d say, ‘come on feet! Everyone else is doing it.’”

Lucy giggled. “Do you miss walking normal?”

“Well, sure. But mostly I can get where I need to go. Stairs are a big problem, though. And what I really miss is skating.”

Lucy frowned, her elfin face tilted up toward mine. “Skating is okay,” she said. “But I fall down a lot. Not like Bridger. He skates fast.”

“Keep skating, and you’ll go fast too. Fast is amazing,” I told her. “It feels like flying. I still dream about skating. I think I dream about it every night.” I’d never admitted that out loud before. And Lucy’s mouth didn’t fall open with distress the way my parents’ would, if I’d said it to them.

“I dream about riding horses,” Lucy said, fiddling with her cards. Then the little girl turned her chin toward the doorway. “What, Hartley? Did you want to play too?”

I looked up quickly, but Hartley was already turning away. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there. “Dinner in fifteen minutes,” he said in a gruff voice as he walked away.

There were six of us around the table, and Theresa lit candles as we passed around the dishes.

“No green beans,” Lucy argued as her brother filled her plate.

“Just eat three,” Bridger countered. “Hartley, guess what they outlawed from the training camp for next year?”

“Let me think,” Hartley said, flipping a dollop of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “The climbing wall?”

“Bingo,” Bridger said. “Isn’t that stupid? The insurance company is making them take it down.”

Hartley passed the platter of turkey to his mother. “As long as they don’t outlaw hockey, we should be okay.”

“Actually, I heard they’re talking about jacking the penalties again,” Bridger complained. “Which is stupid. You almost never see anyone get seriously hurt at the rink.”

At that, I almost choked on the piece of turkey in my mouth.

“Didn’t somebody break both his wrists last year?” Theresa asked.

“That was really a freak accident,” Bridger said. “But seriously — look at football. Brain damage, anyone?”

Dana cleared her throat. “This is just lovely, Theresa. Thank you so much for having us.” I felt my roommate’s eyes on me.

“My pleasure, sweetie.”

“I mean, a few broken bones is pretty tame by comparison,” Bridger continued, oblivious.

The tension on Dana’s face drew Hartley’s attention. He looked from Dana to me to Bridger. And then understanding dawned on his face. “Bridge?” Hartley said, his voice edgy. “Can you grab the wine off the kitchen counter?”

Lucy hopped out of her chair. “I’ll get it!”

“I get so sick of people saying hockey is only for bruisers,” Bridger continued. “It’s just not true.”

“Dude,” Hartley said, exasperated. “Shut up already.”

Bridger looked up at the faces around him. When his gaze landed on me, his mouth fell open. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

Next to him, Hartley’s mom wore a look of undisguised horror.

“I’m sorry…” Bridger shook his head, speechless. “No idea…”

“There’s no need,” I said quickly. I really wasn’t going to talk about my accident on Thanksgiving.

Just at that second, Lucy came bounding back into the room. “Here,” she said, handing Hartley a bottle of vinegar.

He stared at it in his hand. “Um, thanks?” he set it down on the table.

“Hey,” Lucy said. “We have to say what we’re thankful for.” She climbed back in her chair and looked at all of us expectantly.

Theresa swallowed hard, and then her eyes went soft. “You’re right, Lucy. Do you want to start?”

“Sure! I’m thankful for…” her little brow wrinkled in thought. “Ice cream, and no homework over Thanksgiving. And mom and Bridger. Oh — and all the Christmas specials start this weekend.”

Bridger leaned back in his chair, his eyes made darker by the candlelight. “That’s a good list, kid,” he said gently. I got a lump in my throat as he put his big hand on her little shoulder. “If I’m next…” he looked around the table again. “Then I’m thankful for the whole crew here. Because you all put up with me,” his smile was shy.

“Well you took mine,” Dana said. “So I’ll say how awesome it is to be back in America. This year so far has been just as great as I’d hoped it would be.”

Then it was Hartley’s turn. “Well, I’m grateful for Advil, and beer, and elevators, and my mom putting up with me. And for good friends who drink beer and ride elevators and drive me places. And put up with me.”

Theresa was next, holding her glass of wine in the candlelight. “I’m just happy to see all of your shining faces around my table tonight.” She beamed at each of us in turn. “Thank you for coming.”

That left only me. And while I’d been enjoying hearing what nice things my friends had to say, the truth was that I couldn’t think of anything to add. Because I hadn’t been a very thankful person lately. “I’d like to say thanks to whichever computer makes the roommate assignment selections. And for getting to sit here with all of you tonight.”

And that’s the best I could do. At least for right then.