Chapter 6

Erik

I’m dismayed when I pull my car up to the visitors’ parking lot for the Cresson. I’m not sure what I was expecting of the group home that Billy Gardner lives in, but it definitely wasn’t this drab institutional-looking three-story building. I guess because when I had first met Billy he seemed like such a cheerful guy and was having fun at the festival with Blue. Perhaps I subconsciously expected him to live in something that resembled Disney World, where he could be happy and have fun all day.

Instead, the lusterless, water-stained stucco and gray concrete exterior looks more like a prison than an adult-care facility. The only thing missing to make it so would be barbed wire around the perimeter.

I turn off the engine and pull myself out of the low-slung Corvette I bought a couple of weeks ago. The electric-blue color stands out almost gaudily against the dreary-looking building where Billy lives.

Pocketing my keys, I head to the entrance. The lobby area is huge and the first thing I notice when I enter is that it’s as dull as the outside: light gray walls with peeling paint and white tiling that’s yellowed over time like coffee-stained teeth. At least an effort has been made to brighten up the place with colorful prints and vases of silk flowers dotting the lobby. There’s an abundance of furniture for people to sit and visit in but it’s cheap and mismatched. The reception desk has seen better days and has scarring around the bottom which I bet comes from wheelchairs bumping up against it. There’s an old piano in one corner and a middle-aged man sits at it tapping on the keys.

Several residents and their family members are hanging out in the lobby. Some are in motorized wheelchairs, others are being pushed. Some residents use braces, and others walk just fine on their own. Most of them look incredibly content but then again, they are with their family members for a visit.

A kind-looking older woman sits behind the reception desk, her hair a cap of tight gray curls pinned close to her head.

“Can I help you?” she asks with a bright smile.

“Yeah…I’m here for the art auction.”

Rather than direct me to where I need to go, the woman’s eyes flare and then round into big orbs of pure shock. “Oh my God. You’re Erik Dalhbeck.”

My lips start to curve up into a charming smile that I would bestow upon any fan but I nearly jump out of my skin when she shrieks, pointing a finger at me. “Oh. My. God. You’re Erik Dalhbeck.”

All the people in the lobby—patients, family members, and nursing aides alike—stop what they’re doing and turn to stare, not at the woman who just shrieked, but at me.

The limelight is nothing I’ve ever shied away from. Being a professional hockey player obviously brings about a certain level of notoriety and fame. Living out in Los Angeles when I played for the Demons, that was multiplied by a hundred. I partied with rock stars and actresses and had a few flings with them in between. Paparazzi always had cameras in my face. I was often on either an entertainment channel or sports show, usually with a beautiful actress or socialite draped along my side.

But something about standing in this dingy group home with a woman old enough to be my grandmother, shrieking with excitement over me, causes my cheeks to burn hot. Thankfully, she realizes the ruckus she’s made and drops her voice about forty decibels. “Oh my God. You’re Erik Dalhbeck,” she whispers.

Yeah…got that the first two times.

“That I am,” I tell her in a low voice, hoping it encourages her to keep hers down.

I consider extending my hand to her to shake but before I know it she is up and around the reception desk, practically throwing herself into my arms. She squeezes me hard around the waist, the top of her head barely coming to my collarbone, and exclaims, “You’re my favorite player on the Vengeance.”

Chuckling, my arms reactively come around the woman’s back and I give her a light squeeze. When she pulls back, I look down at her to see perhaps the brightest smile I’ve ever been bestowed in my entire life. I have met all kinds of fans from all walks of life and from all age ranges, and yet the look on this old woman’s face is actually a little humbling.

I glance down at her chest since she’s wearing a name tag. When I look back up to her face, I say, “Helen…it’s certainly nice to meet you.”

One of her hands flutters up to cover her mouth and she shakes her head as if in disbelief that I’m standing before her. Then she playfully swats at me, and declares “Oh Lord. You must think me so foolish. But I can’t help it. My husband, Bobby, and I just adore hockey. We didn’t start watching until Phoenix got a team but we are hooked. Bobby’s favorite player is Legend Bay. I hope you don’t hold that against him.”

“Not at all.”

Helen seems to get control of herself and straightens up as she goes all businesslike. “Now, forgive me. You said you were here for the art auction?”

“Yup. Thought I would bid on something pretty to put in my new house.”

Helen’s expression goes all soft and mushy as her hand comes back up to cover her mouth again. She shakes her head and swats at me again. “Oh, I knew you were a good man. A great hockey player but I just knew you were a nice person.”

I can’t freaking help myself. I pull Helen back into a quick hug and she has no problem reciprocating. When we break apart she gives me directions to the second-floor community room where I would find all of the art pieces completed by the residents that were going to be up for silent auction today. As I wave goodbye to Helen, I make a mental note to have tickets delivered to her for the next home game.

I know I probably shouldn’t be here and my visit today stands to alienate Blue from me as much as it might hopefully get her to open up to me. At dinner a few nights ago, she was talking about Billy to one of the other girls and I shamelessly eavesdropped, even though it appeared I was involved in a heavy discussion with Dax about the best brand of tape to wrap our hockey sticks.

From listening in on her conversation, I learned the residents here were putting on an art auction to raise money so they can take a field trip to Disneyland. Blue described the complexities of traveling with several disabled people. Not only would transportation be tricky, but they would need an aide for every single person attending as well as additional chaperones for extra help.

It absolutely charmed me as Blue gushed on and on about a painting that Billy did for the auction and how proud he was of it. I don’t know her brother’s artistic capabilities, so I have no clue if I’m going to be purchasing a piece of art that looks like it was done by a third grader or by Monet.

I don’t care either.

I take the stairs to the second floor and easily follow Helen’s directions to the community room. There are tables set up all around the perimeter, displaying the various art projects. There are paintings, sculpted clay pots, photographic art, and weaved baskets, to name a few. As I walk around and look at the pieces, I’m somewhat startled by the skill level. Don’t get me wrong, there’s also macaroni shells painted and glued to paper plates, but there are some really amazing and complex items as well.

At some of the stations, the actual artists themselves are sitting, proudly displaying their masterpieces, usually with an aide, if needed, or a family member. I talk to them all, asking questions. Some can respond to me, others can’t. I make it a point to praise them heavily, and it’s more than a little heartwarming to see how much pride each person takes in their creation.

I don’t know the specific conditions of the other residents here but I know a little more about Billy. Blue seems to really have accepted our truce and agreement to be friends, because she’s indulged my curiosity when I’ve asked questions about him. I’ve learned that her brother has spastic quadriplegia, a form of cerebral palsy. She had explained that cerebral palsy affects muscle tone and movement, in turn affecting mobility to varying degrees. Billy is pretty much confined to his motorized wheelchair for independent mobility.

I continue to weave in and out of people who are milling about and looking at the different displays. In front of each piece is a clipboard where you can write down your silent bid. I bid on a carved wooden walking stick that I don’t need, nor do I know anyone who needs it, but I thought it was a really well-done.

And then I come to Billy’s painting and I am absolutely floored. Neither he nor Blue are here which is probably a good thing because I bet the expression on my face is completely skeptical that he actually did this amazing piece of work. At first glance, it’s hard to see it. The brush strokes are choppy with thick dollops of oil paint left behind. But once you sort of widen your gaze to take in the entirety, you see a forest.

A redwood forest, I believe.

And it’s painted from the perspective of Billy walking through it. Even though the strokes seem garishly unrefined, they actual give amazing texture to the tree trunks. He even managed to paint filtered light, and dappled shadows on the ground.

I wonder how he did it. Where did he get the inspiration, because I doubt Billy’s ever been able to walk through a redwood forest. I even wonder about the physical mechanics. While Billy’s arms are contracted in a bit, he must have some good fine motor skills in his hands. Blue had said he gets therapy several times a week to help his tightened muscles.

Glancing down, I read the bids made for the painting. There are several, the last one being $225.00, which is actually pretty generous compared to the bids I’d seen on other projects.

Without any doubt over what I’m doing, I pick up the clipboard and pen that’s attached via a piece of yarn, and I scrawl my bid under the most recent one. I have to leave my name and phone number as well, in case I win. I stare at it a moment before I set it back down on the table.

I’m totally going to win.

My job is done and I make my way out of the community room, down the staircase, and through the lobby. I point at Helen who beams back at me. “I’m sending you and Bobby some tickets to the next home game.”

Both hands come up to cover her mouth falling open in surprise. I’m at the door when she finally drops them to call out, “Thank you, Erik.”

I’m still grinning at her over my shoulder as I hear the electronic sliding door that leads out hisses open, and I manage to walk smack into someone, almost knocking them over.

My hands reach out blindly but by the time my head turns to see what this curvy softness I’m holding is, I already know it’s Blue. Her perfume is distinctive. It’s flowery but with tang. It’s how I imagine sunflowers would smell if I actually ever smelled one, all bright and sunny.

“Hey,” I say as I make sure she’s steady on her feet before releasing her.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaims with a slight tilt of the head.

I throw a thumb over my shoulder toward the lobby. “Oh, you were talking about the art auction a few days ago at dinner, so I thought I’d come and bid on a few pieces. Help raise money for their field trip.”

I can see it all flit across her face. Surprise, annoyance, uncertainty. Has this crossed the line she drew in the sand?

“Did you bid on Billy’s painting?” she asks.

It’s at this point as people brush by us that I realize we’re standing right in the doorway. I take Blue by the upper arm and lead her out and to the side so the electronic doors can shut.

When I release her, I answer her question. “Yeah…I bid on that and a few other things.”

Blue’s arms cross over her chest and her expression turns skeptical. “How much did you bid for that painting?”

“Don’t recall,” I say evasively.

“Erik,” she says in a warning tone.

“Fine,” I snap at her. “Five thousand dollars.”

“What?!?!” she exclaims as her eyes go wide.

Shoving my hands down into the pockets of my jeans, I mutter, “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s totally a big deal,” she retorts but I can hear the amusement underlying the annoyance. “That will finance their entire field trip.”

“Good,” I say emphatically. “That will make me happy.”

“Why will that make you happy?” Her eyebrows have narrowed in as if she’s starting to put things together.

“Because it will make Billy happy, which will in turn make you happy, and that will make me happy.”

“Erik,” Blue says with a long sigh, her words softening with the inevitable letdown.

“So I’m thinking dinner,” I cut in over her attempt to brush me off. “One date. That’s all I’m asking for.”

She smirks at me. “So you bid five thousand dollars on the painting to get a date with me?”

“Nah,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I did that for Billy. But if it softens you up in any way—”

“It doesn’t,” she cuts in.

I blink in surprise, because I really thought it would.

“You tried to make a date with me before.”

“I remember that,” I grit out.

“And it was painful the way in which I found out that you really didn’t want to see me again,” she points out.

I don’t say anything. I’d apologize again to her—hell, a million more times if she asks me to—but I get the feeling she wants something else.

“But I tell you what,” she murmurs as she steps in closer to me. We’re not touching, but only inches separate our bodies. “I’ll give you a chance to earn a date with me.”

“How?” I demand, eager to knock out whatever task she has for me. I just dropped five thousand dollars on a painting for her brother, so she shouldn’t underestimate my drive.

I’m stunned when she puts her hand on my chest and comes up on her tip toes so her face is closer to mine. I could easily kiss her and would if I didn’t think I’d get kneed in the nuts.

She’s fucking close enough I can smell her minty breath.

“Remember that night we were together?” she asks in a throaty voice.

God, do I fucking remember it. It’s all I’ve been able to think about lately, particularly lying in bed at night with my fist for company. I merely nod at her.

“You seemed to be especially crazy for the way I waxed myself,” she whispers.

My mouth actually starts watering as I remember how great she tasted and how soft her skin was. I nod again.

“So here’s the deal, Erik,” she says, and I can hear a tint of wickedness in her voice. “You get yourself waxed downstairs for me, and I’ll go on one date with you.”

“Because you like men bare too?” I ask her, not quite willing to think about doing something like that. But I’m sure she could persuade me.

Blue drops down to her heels and takes a step back from me. Her eyes glitter with mischief. “No. I just want to exact some painful revenge on you first. Trust me, waxing is not for the faint of heart.”

I bite my tongue not to laugh. Instead, I stick my chin up. “I’m a hockey player. I’ve played with broken bones. I doubt a little wax is going to hurt me.”

Blue throws her head back and she does laugh. When she looks back to me, I get a wink. “We’ll see.”

“Yes, you will,” I say stubbornly.

Her eyes hold mine for a moment before she turns for the doors. There’s hesitation in her step and she looks over her shoulder at me. “And thank you for the bid on that painting. That was really very nice of you.”

“My pleasure,” I return to her.