Tacker Page 7
“I have an idea,” Nora suggests. I blink, focusing with a tiny measure of trepidation. Her having an idea sounds very much like she wants me to do something outside my comfort zone. “Let’s talk about something this week that you’ve been grateful for. You may not have even realized it happened.”
When I walk out of Nora’s house at the end of the session, I have to admit to feeling an incredibly unique sensation. I feel a tiny bit free, as if there’s not a weight pushing me down. Nora might even translate that into hope, but I don’t want to go that far.
Raul pulls up on a Gator as I’m walking down the porch steps. The back is loaded with two chainsaws. He nods in acknowledgment, and I return the gesture.
The front door to the main house opens and Nora comes trotting down the porch steps, putting on a pair of heavy work gloves.
I nod at the chainsaws. “Going to cut some stuff up?”
“Oh yeah,” she replies with a laugh, rounding the front of the Gator. “Too much work and not enough time on this ranch.”
“I’m going to the game tonight, so I need to head back to Phoenix,” I say, wondering what the fuck I’m doing. “But I could come back tomorrow and help.”
Nora’s eyes briefly widen before she grins. “Okay. I’m not going to turn down free help. Just come on out when you can.”
“Okay,” I reply.
Nora waves and hops in the Gator beside Raul. I watch as they roar away.
CHAPTER 10
Nora
“I’ve got that one,” Tacker says as he nudges me aside to grab a fairly large section of an old mesquite Raul and I had cut down yesterday to make way for a new pasture. He places it carefully on the trailer, which we’d attached to the Gator, and makes quick work of securing the pile down with bungee cords.
It’s our third load of the morning. We’ve been hauling them to the far end of the ranch. One day, I’ll hopefully have the ability to haul it away from the ranch. For right now, though, this will have to do. Burning it all isn’t an option—prohibited actually.
Although Tacker hadn’t asked, he’d taken the driver seat in the Gator from the first load we moved. Must be a man thing, I’m thinking, but when he does it again, I take the passenger seat.
At the pile of debris we’d cut, he also kept nudging me out of the way every time I’d try to pick up something heavy until I finally had to tell him to back off. That I was more than capable of the work. I’d also pointed out he was the one lifting stuff with a wrist in a cast. Granted, he was able to easily grab the cut pieces with his good arm, but still… it was insulting in a way.
For the most part, we’ve worked in silence today, which is fine. It’s not a formal counseling session, but I’m always at the ready to talk if he wants. I’m not the type who can click my clients on and off outside formal office hours.
But the short drive on the Gator is an opportunity to engage in conversation, and I’ve gotten a good sense Tacker might need practice on how to re-engage with people since he’s been so cut off from others for the past year.
“How was the game last night?” I ask. “I saw that the Vengeance won on the morning news.”
Tacker nods as we bump along the rough terrain, no road having been forged to where we’re going. “It was a close game, but they pulled it out.”
“They?” I ask curiously. “It’s your team, too.”
He shoots me a sharp look before it turns sheepish. “You’re right. I should be using the term ‘we’.”
“It’s easy to get disconnected when you’re away from the action,” I say. “Once you’re back on the ice with them again, it will seem like an old, comfy hat.”
“It did feel good to be back in the arena again,” he admits almost grudgingly.
Laughing, I give him a small pop on his bicep with my fist. “You’re allowed to have happiness, Tacker. Remember… give yourself permission to feel grateful for things.”
“Yes, Doc,” he mutters, but I take heart in the way the corners of his lips curve upward.
We reach our destination, unload the haul in a disproportionate effort as Tacker out-lifts and out-moves me, and then head back in the Gator with the now-empty trailer.
“Head up to the main house,” I say. “It’s almost lunchtime. I’ll make us something to eat.”
“You don’t have to,” he’s quick to reply.
I give him a slow smirk. “Trust me… I have to. I feel guilty with how hard you’ve been working.”
“It’s nothing,” he mutters.
“It’s very much appreciated,” I chide, not wanting him to dismiss his generosity at offering his time. “Without volunteer help, not sure this place would survive.”
Tacker maneuvers the Gator around the big barn, past my metal shack office, and over to the main house. As he brings it to a stop, he turns slightly in his seat. “Maybe I could get a couple of the guys from the team to come help on a day off. We could knock out the entire job in one day.”
Surprised, I blink at him. “Really? They’d do that?”
“I’m sure they would,” he replies, not sounding all that sure. I suspect that’s because he’s just not clear on what type of relationship he has with his team at this point, but I love he doesn’t seem afraid to ask. That’s a huge step. “Also… I’d like to invite someone else out to see the horses.”
“Sure,” I reply easily, especially since he’s offering all that muscle to help.
“My teammate, Erik Dahlbeck, is dating this girl… Blue. And her brother, Billy, has cerebral palsy. He’s wheelchair-bound, but I know he’d get a kick out of coming here to see the horses.”
“He’s more than welcome,” I say with excitement. “Anyone from the team is. If you get a group out here, I’ll fire up our BBQ pit at the barn and feed everyone. You could make it a fun get-together.”
Tacker seems distinctly uncomfortable at being thrust into the helm of a social event. “Well, I don’t know—”
“Relax,” I assure him, giving a soft pat to his forearm before moving out of the Gator. Bending to see him, I wink. “I’ve got you covered. I’ll handle all the hosting. You just provide the backbone for the work, okay?”
I don’t wait for him to answer, not wanting him to overthink things. The last thing I want is him to get inside his head and figure out a way to back out of this. Tacker needs connections. I mean… he genuinely needs this, and I know he’s ready as well.
After he gets out of the Gator, he follows me inside the house, through the living area, and into the kitchen. I point at the round kitchen table. “Take a load off while I whip us up something.”
Tacker sits heavily in one of the chairs. I pull a bottle of water out of the refrigerator for him, along with cold cuts and condiments.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask from where I work at the counter by the window bordering the front porch. I opened it this morning because it’s a nice day out, and the fresh air smells good.
“You’re my therapist,” he replies blandly. “That’s your job.”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “Yeah, but we’re not technically in a session. I don’t want to overstep my bounds.”
Tacker shrugs. “Go for it.”
I return to my task, stacking turkey slices and ham on thick pieces of white bread. “What’s your family situation? Who do you have for a support system?”
“No one really,” he replies. His answer makes my heart ache a bit. “Mom died when I was thirteen. My dad remarried pretty quickly, but I wasn’t overly close to him. It’s not a bad relationship. It’s just… nonexistent.”
“Did he try to be there for you after the crash?” I ask, which is a potentially sensitive question.
Tacker doesn’t answer right away before finally admitting. “Of course. I mean… he’s my dad. He flew to Dallas, then stayed through MJ’s funeral. But—”
“But then it was back to normal?” I guess.
“For him, yes. For me, nothing’s been normal.”
“Funny you should ask,” he says, honest-to-goodness humor in his voice. It startles me so much I swivel to face him. “My best friend from Dallas just got traded to the Vengeance. Aaron Wylde. He showed up on my doorstep a few days ago.”
“Wonderful,” I exclaim, knowing how helpful friends can be to someone like Tacker who is trying to reestablish his life again.
Tacker shrugs, letting his finger play with the saltshaker on the table. “I haven’t been a good friend to him since the crash. Or rather, I wouldn’t let him be a good friend to me.”
“It’s terrifying to talk about your losses,” I say, moving a few steps to reach the table. I merely put my hands on the back of the chair that’s perpendicular to him. “But if you avoid it due to your fears, then you avoid ever thinking about the person you lost. You risk losing all the good memories along with the bad.”
He nods, my words clearly striking something deep within him, but his tone sounds slightly flat. “I have to look at MJ’s pictures more often than I used to. In my memories, her face is starting to lose focus.”
I take a moment, wondering if I should wait to broach this until our next session. But Tacker is open and talking without hesitation. I hate to lose the moment.
Leaning over, I put my forearms on the back of the chair, which brings my face more in line with his so I’m not looming over him. “Have you properly grieved for MJ?”
Surprised, Tacker frowns. “You mean… have I broken down and cried?”
Quickly, I shake my head. “Grieving is personal, and it doesn’t necessarily look like any one thing. We commonly associate crying with it, but I’m talking about really allowing yourself to process your loss, whatever that looks like. Or do you think you’ve been so mired in anger and guilt that you haven’t let the sadness in?”
He shakes his head, confusion crinkling his brow. “I don’t know.”
Straightening, I give him an encouraging smile. “Think about it. Maybe journal about it tonight. But give yourself permission to feel sad, Tacker. You need to mourn MJ. If you don’t, you’re missing a crucial step in healing.”
He swallows hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “I’ll put some thought to it.”
“Good,” I reply brightly, deciding we need to move to lighter things like food. “Do me a favor… go out on the porch and ring the dinner triangle.”
“Are you serious?” he asks, slowly rising from the table.
“Yup. Raul should be heading this way for lunch, but he always loves ringing that damn triangle for me like I’m Pavlov’s dog. I’m looking forward to doing it back to him.”
Tacker leaves, hits the porch, and reappears into my line of view through the window as I continue making lunch for us. I’m disappointed to see Raul has already arrived and is at the side of the house, bent over and washing his hands at the faucet.
Tacker sees him, too. Yet, he still picks up the metal bar attached to the triangle by a piece of twine. There’s no need to ring the bell, other than to startle Raul and to fulfill my sense of payback. I can’t help but laugh as Tacker does exactly that.
He bangs the metal bar on the inside of the triangle, watching intently as Raul skitters sideways away from the startling noise.
Whipping around, he glares at Tacker, who innocently says, “Oops. Sorry… didn’t see you there.”
I grin, dropping my eyes to my work. But they continue to talk, so there’s no stopping their voices, which carry to me.
Popping my head up, I peek through the window screen when Raul says, “You’re looking at Nora in a different way now.”
He’s moved to the edge of the porch, gazing up at Tacker. Since I’m not exactly sure what he means by that, my instinct is to say something so they both know I can hear everything.
But then Raul says, “You’re finally buying in to what she says, and I like that, amigo.”
I relax minutely as I realize Raul is referring to nothing more than my philosophy and counseling. Not that he should be talking about any other way Tacker might be looking at me.
“She shared with me what happened to her in Kosovo,” Tacker says, and I go tense again. Not that he’s saying something he shouldn’t, because Raul knows everything. Knows more about me than Tacker does because he’s had me cry on his shoulder many times when I was young and overly emotional about what had happened.
I tense because I hadn’t been sure just how much my story had helped Tacker.
Raul nods understandingly with a sage expression. “You two share a connection. A common experience now.”
“It helps,” Tacker admits. “More than I thought it would.”
“Respect it,” Raul advises. “And be grateful for it. She doesn’t do this for everyone.”
Tacker’s head tilts. “This?”
“Invite people into her home. Tell them about her past.” Raul pauses, staring off in the distance over the ranch. I know what he’s thinking. He’s grateful he’s still here with me. That I gave him a job after I bought the ranch, because Raul doesn’t really have anyone else.
His gaze moves to Tacker, and my eyes mist up a bit over the emotion in his voice. “If you treat her right, Nora will be a friend to you for life. You’ll never find someone more loyal or dedicated. Make sure you’re worth it.”
Those last words have an edge.
Tacker smirks, his voice slightly teasing. “Yeah, yeah… I know… or you’ll whip my ass.”
Raul grins up at Tacker, making me realize he must have threatened him with the same thing before. I should admonish him for bullying my client, but I can’t. I love him too much to do so, and Tacker seems to be okay with the jest.
Raul’s booted feet hit the wooden porch, then the front door opens and both men enter the kitchen. When I glance at Raul, he shoots me a short wink, which means he knows I was eavesdropping the whole time.
I wink back at him.
CHAPTER 11
Tacker
This may have been one of the roughest weeks of my life—and one of the best at the same time. I stepped back onto the ice with the team, practicing with them each day. I still have the cast on, and I’ve not been cleared for game play, but, fuck, it felt great.
My teammates—every fucking one—hold nothing against me. There was no recrimination or blame for the way the team has faltered a bit over the last few weeks since my injury. Just genuine happiness I was back and incredible support of the silent variety, which I appreciate. Even Rafe Simmons, who had moved up from second line to first to take my spot, welcomed me back with a huge smile. Told me he was still going to play his ass off to keep the top spot once I was medically cleared, but that he realized it was a pipe dream.
“You’re the best center in the league, Tacker,” he’d said with a light clap on my shoulder. “Our team needs you on the first line if we’re going to take a solid run at the Cup.”
As good as it was to be on the ice, it was frustrating as well. Obviously, my stick handling is clunky with the cast and despite still hitting the gym during my recovery, my legs were easily gassed. I’ve got some major work to do to return to peak performance.
I also saw Nora twice this week, having to shift to Tuesday and Thursday because of conflicts with practice. On her end, Nora shuffled her schedule to accommodate me, for which I’m grateful. She’s incredibly busy and overworked. Since I hadn’t been able to make our regular sessions, it would have been easy for her to refer me out to someone else.
That’s really not an option for me, so I made sure she knew how thankful I was. I wasn’t sure if it was kosher or not, but I brought her a bouquet of flowers on Tuesday to let her know it was appreciated.
No other therapist is going to work for me. Has nothing to do with the unique nature of this ranch or how the horses are used to get people to open up. I haven’t touched a horse yet—thank fuck—but it has everything to do with Nora.
Not only was a bond established when she told me about her past, letting
me know I’m not alone in my feelings, but trust was formed when she shared with me first. Just knowing she has experienced every terrible feeling I have and still managed to overcome her pain gave me a renewed sense of purpose.
For fuck’s sake—the woman gives me hope.
While it’s been hard talking through my feelings this week, it had to be done. We spent our entire Tuesday session talking about MJ. Not about the crash or how she died, but about what MJ meant to me. Nora encouraged me to spend that time reflecting on happier moments. Had me really latch on and savor them. At one point, she even got me to laugh when she asked me to tell her the funniest thing MJ had ever done. I relayed a story about how she’d pranked me once by putting a fake spider in my car. After I laughed until my stomach hurt, I got incredibly sad and depressed, though.
Didn’t cry, but I went utterly quiet, feeling the weight of what I’d lost.
Nora just let me be alone… in my silence. She waited until I was ready to talk again.
Yeah… rough, but also incredibly helpful. By Thursday, I felt stronger. I didn’t flinch when Nora had me talk about my grief.
I got through it.
Which makes me wonder if our sessions are why I’m out furniture shopping right now. Have I moved into a headspace where I can think about establishing a real home?
It has to be something like that because I fucking hate shopping. And yet, I follow the saleswoman around the store while she shows me living room and bedroom sets to choose from. It also makes me think I may perhaps need something a little bit better than the dumpy apartment I’m currently in. It’s not exactly in the best neighborhood, and there’s a lot of noise through the night with people yelling through paper-thin walls and parties going on.
My phone chimes to alert me to a text, and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s from Dax.
Think you can swing by my place to check on Regan?
My heart rate speeds up a bit as I reply. She okay?