Flying first class was plush. My own seat by a window, lots of leg room, a flight attendant who brought me ginger ale when my stomach got touchy after takeoff, some ibuprofen when my head started to ache from the cabin pressure, and a new sleeping mask to block out the lights when the string on the one I had came off. Her name was Melinda, and she was amazing.

“Sorry for being such a pain,” I said again as she refilled my ginger ale. I knew I was being whiny. Flying with a lingering head injury was totally different from flying when a person’s brain wasn’t healing from a bruise. Normally I aced this jet-hopping shit.

“It’s fine, Mr. Rowe. If you need anything else, please let me know.” Melinda shook open the packaged blanket and laid it over my lap with a soft smile. If I’d been into women, I would’ve asked the tall, leggy black woman out on a date. Sure, she was older than me by about ten years, but I kind of liked a little age on my lovers.

I settled back into the well-padded seat, slid my earbuds in, and let my tunes drown out the noise of the flight. The music was low, loud stuff made me wince, but even at low volume, Marianas Trench’s fourth album Astoria seeped into my soul and eased it. I napped on and off for the four-hour flight, waking as we descended for the landing. My gut rolled over when we touched down, a side-effect of the TSAH, Traumatic Subarachnoid Hemorrhage, in brain doctor speak. I removed the sleep mask, eased the window blind up, and grimaced at the brilliant sun reflecting off the white snow blanketing the tarmac. Right, shades on.

I filed off the plane with the other first-class passengers, my Railers bag over my shoulder. I’d only brought a carry-on. Most of my clothes were still in the dresser at home. Home. The space I shared with Mads. I was so desperate to see him I had to tamp down the urge to run into the terminal. Being stuck behind an old woman with a cane as we made our way up the jet bridge kept me in check.

I stepped around the old gal once we were inside and had our bags, and amid the crush of holiday travelers, Jared Madsen stood out. He was taller than most, broader than most, and way fucking more handsome than anyone else on the planet. He raised a hand, and I raced to him, not giving two shits about the odd looks I was getting. Mads opened his arms for me. I bounced off some dude with a rolling suitcase, fumbling over my feet, recovered, apologized, and then threw myself at Mads. He lifted me a few inches, arms tight around my middle, and kissed me passionately.

“Hey,” I panted in greeting when we came up for air.

“Hey.” His light blue eyes glistened like tourmaline gems. “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Same here.” I ran my finger through his short, golden hair, loving the crisp feel on my fingers. “Let’s go home. I want to get… all over you.”

He let me down, my sneakers dropping back to the floor. “About that…”

I snuggled into his chest, burrowing my nose into the lapels of his winter coat and inhaling the erotic fragrance of his cologne mingled with his unique scent.

“Tell me the family hasn’t descended,” I mumbled into his coat.

“Like a flock of blackbirds on a cornfield.” He nuzzled into my hair.

“Great.” I sighed, hugged him tight, and then because I had to, I pulled away. “Are they all here?”

“Every single one and the dog.” He lifted my bag from my shoulder, dropped it onto his shoulder, and took my hand. Some people looked at us in disgust, but a lot didn’t notice at all.

“Man, our place… must be packed full.”

He led me outside. The cold was so severe it made my nose hair freeze and my head ache. Mads gave me a worried frown. “Are you in pain?”

“Meh, cold headache. I’m fine.”

“Let’s get you into the car and warmed up.”

Being fussed over was nice. The ride to our apartment was uneventful, just Mads and me talking about my therapy and the treatments they were giving me and the Railers. When we pulled up in front of our townhouse, I moaned at the rental cars in our driveway.

“Man, you weren’t kidding.” I sighed, wishing that my loving, crazy family could have given Mads and me at least one hour of alone time.

“They’ll all go to their respective hotels later,” Mads told me, slipping his big Range Rover into park. “Well, except for your mother and father. They’re in the guest room.”

“Well, sure they are.” I stepped out of the car to the curb because we’d been relegated to the street, glancing up at the front door with the evergreen wreath opening up. There stood my mother in the doorway, her hands clasped and resting on her chest, her smile wobbly.

I was about to call out a greeting to her when a snowball the size of a cannonball hit me in the face. I stumbled back into the fender of Mads’ car, spitting and coughing as someone—it sounded a great deal like Jamie—yelled something indecipherable.

Wiping snow from behind my sunglasses with my finger, I heard my mother come completely unhinged on her middle son. The snowball hadn’t hurt, but hearing my brother get chewed out was always fun.

“James Rowe! What the hell are you doing throwing snowballs at Tennant? What if that had a rock in it as it did that time he was seven?”

“Ten, are you okay?” Mads asked, stepping up beside me.

I chuckled, nodded, and handed him my snowy shades. “Yeah, it’s all good.” Jamie was in the front yard, beside Brady, both dressed for snow with coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. The sun hurt my eyes, but as they adjusted, I saw the pile of snowballs by the driveway. Typical Rowe boys’ welcome home. My mother was still yelling at Jamie. “Mom, hey, it’s cool! I’m fine. He totally owed me that one. I got him with a water balloon the last time we were in Florida.”

“He does not owe you that! You’re recovering from a major brain injury, and he throws a snowball at your head. You both apologize to your little brother right now.” She stood in front of them, her nice warm spot inside the door left as the maternal rage had overcome her, staring up the men who had a good foot of height on her. She was so mad her hands were tightly fisted at her sides.

“Why am I getting yelled at?” Brady inquired. “I didn’t throw it at his head.”

“Because you’re the eldest and should have talked him out of it.” Mom pointed at him. I waited patiently, Mads at my side. “James?”

“Sorry, Ten, I wasn’t aiming at your face. I was aiming at your balls.”

“James!”

“Well, I was,” he muttered.

“Christ, no wonder you can’t hit the one or three hole,” Brady chimed in.

The sound of kids screaming rolled out of the house. Brady’s twin girls, no doubt. Jamie’s daughter too, I bet.

“Oh, fuck you, Brady,” Jamie fired back. “At least I can say Saturday correctly.”

“Don’t start with that shit. I speak just fine.”

“Ah no, you don’t. It’s Saturday, not Saddadee.”

The twins ran outside in their slippers. Their mother, Lisa #1, who was growing big and round with their second set of twins, waddled outside to yell at the girls.

Jamie’s daughter started crying right after Brady’s dog, Bourque, dashed outside after the children with a stuffed bear in his big jowls. Her howls bounced down the street.

I glanced at Mads. “Maybe we should get a hotel room and let them have the townhouse?”

“Tempting,” he replied with a soft smile. “But the tree is in there waiting for us.”

“Ah, well, okay, I guess we’ll have to stay here then.” I took my shades back from Mads and put them back on. “For the… tree.”

“For the tree.” He ruffled my hair gently.

We never got to the tree decorating. My family kind of swept us along like a storm surge. Everyone talked at me all day long, asking questions about rehab, how I felt, had I thought about checking for something closer to home for the specialty rehabilitation, had I watched that new superhero show on Netflix, and on and on and on until my sluggish brain was on the verge of shutting down.

Thankfully, the dinner bell was rung and saved me. Sitting next to Mads, I tossed back some pain pills while Brady got the girls into their seats. They were tired and cranky, miserable to be exact, which made three of us. Brady’s Lisa looked to be in the same boat. If not for the fact that Mom had made one of my favorite meals—lasagna—I would have begged off and gone to lie down in our bedroom, preferably with Mads and no lights or sounds. But Mom was in full Mama Bear mode, hovering around me all day, bringing me anything I might’ve needed or thought I might’ve needed in the near future.

As always, the talk at any Rowe gathering soon turned to hockey, our teams, and how we were doing in the standings. This would, inevitably, turn into a dick-swinging contest between Brady and Jamie. I poked at the slab of saucy noodles on my plate, the thumping headache souring my appetite. Both Lisas tried to stem the hockey talk after giving me several furtive glances, but the two elder Rowes were in full cock battle mode.

“… just saying that if your attention were on the odd man skating high…”

“… difference in a one-man or two-man forecheck…”

“… left wing lock like Montreal and Detroit have used…”

“… New Jersey trapped their way to how many Cup wins and never…”

“… not every team can be a free-flowing team…”

“… get his opinion. What do you think, Ten?”

Mads tapped my knee with his. I lifted my eyes from my lasagna and was shocked to discover that Mom had cleared the table and placed a massive chocolate cake in front of me. When I glanced around, everyone at the table, down to Jamie’s little girl Bethany, was staring at me. My brain slammed down as all the words spoken around me in the last half hour tried to jam themselves into my head at once.

“Uhm… I guess I’m… the forecheck is kind of, I never… the odd man… uhm, could we… I need to… fuck.” I buried my face in my hands.

The deafening silence that fell over the table made my shaky breathing sound louder.

“I think it’s time for Ten to relax. Too much overstimulation shorts him out a bit,” Mads said, pushing to his feet and taking me by the elbow. No one, not even Bethany, who was a jabber-monkey, said a thing. “Come on, babe.”

I stood, stared at the cake, which was my favorite kind of cake, and then found my mother. Tears welled in her eyes. I turned away and leaned on Mads. He led me to our bedroom, gently closed the door, and moved around me with quiet, confident ease. I let him peel me out of my clothes. When I was down to my underwear, he got me into bed, crawled in beside me in just his briefs, turned off the light and held me close.

“Mads, I—”

“Shh.” His fingers slid into my hair. He didn’t rub or stroke my scalp. He just let his hand rest there.

“It’s too…” I drew in a reedy breath. “Bed. Too early for… bed. I hate this, Mads. I just… want to be… me again.” I wept on his chest for a few minutes, unable to string the words together to express how fucking fed up I was with the whole miserable situation.

“Everything will get better, Ten. Give it time. Your injury is fresh. Try to rest, babe. Things will look better in the morning.”

I snuffled, my thoughts starting to string out and get fuzzy. The pain meds were seeping into my bruised gray matter. Sleep stole me away from Mads for several hours. When I woke at five a.m., my mouth was crusty and my throat dry. Damn pain pills gave me such cotton mouth. Mads was on his side, facing the window, deeply asleep. Not wanting to rouse him, I slipped out of bed, pawed around for some clothes in the dark, and padded downstairs in a pair of my jogging pants and one of my boyfriend’s old Sabres T-shirts.

“Good morning,” my mother called from the living room. She was seated on the bench in front of my old upright piano, sipping some coffee, in her pajamas and a robe, her hair brushed neatly. I made my way to her. She smiled feebly up at me. I bent down to kiss her cheek. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, thanks.” I lowered myself to the bench beside her. She slid around to face the piano. “My head just gets… filled up, and the injury slows… it slows me down, my responses and speech and… stuff.”

“We shouldn’t have all come here at once,” she murmured into her mug.

“No, no, I like you here.” I studied her profile. She wrinkled her nose. “I do. I could live without Jamie and Brady, but… but everyone else is cool.”

That made her smile just a little. “Your brothers love you, even if they have barbaric ways of showing it at times.”

“I know.”

She offered me her coffee. I took it with a soft “thanks” and sipped cautiously. The warm, sweet liquid felt wonderful sliding down my throat. We sat there for a few minutes, sharing coffee in front of the ugly upright that rested by a naked fir tree.

“I’ve been doing lots of reading of late about how music stimulates the brain in powerful ways. Research shows that it does wonders for those who suffer from Alzheimer’s or who have brain disorders.”

I threw her a look. “I’m not fighting… dementia.”

“No, but the therapy you’re getting in Tucson is similar to that they use for stroke victims or those who are battling Alzheimer’s. Would you like to try something simple?” She slowly lifted the fallboard. I stared at the black and white keys as if they were scorpions. “Chopsticks maybe?”

“No, I can’t… even talk right. The notes will confuse me.” I closed the fallboard.

“I did not raise men who were quitters.” She opened the fallboard. I closed it. She opened it and laid her fingers on the keys, in position for the song I had learned when I was three or something.

“Cheater,” I grumbled but took my position on the keyboard. We’d performed this duet a thousand times when I was learning to play. It was burned into my brain cells. The trick, we’d learned as I faltered along, so far behind her that the childish little song was totally out of sync, was getting my brain to feed my fingers quickly enough. She paused several times to let me catch up, but the relays from my brain to my fingers were listless. “Fuck, I just… can’t. I can’t!”

I cleared the sheet music from the music rack in raging frustration, then slammed the fallboard shut. Mom sat beside me, face drawn, as sheets filled with tiny black notes that I would probably never be able to read again, fluttered to the carpet.

“I can’t… Mom, I can’t do this…” I coughed, my emotions running wild, my thoughts a tangled mess.

“You will,” she softly assured me, then took me into her arms. “You will, baby boy. You will. I know my son. You will.”

I was glad she had so much faith in me. Someone had to believe it would all be okay in time. God knows I was having doubts.