A Match Made in Texas- By Arlene James Page 0,51

odd sense of anticipation, turned through the foyer and climbed the stairs without seeing another soul. As she moved along the landing toward the front of the house and Stephen’s suite, her way was partially lit by the gray light of the television emanating from his open doorway. She was halfway there when he roared in apparent anguish.

“Aaarrrgh!”

She broke into a run, swinging through the door and into the sitting room, just in time to see Stephen pound his good right fist on the arm of his wheelchair.

“Forty seconds!” Stephen howled, glancing over his shoulder at her. “He lets them go ahead with forty seconds left to play!”

Kaylie slumped against the back of the sofa, one hand splayed over her heart and gasped, “You scared me.”

“We were tied,” Stephen barked at her, “and Kapimsky let them score!” He raised a hand and made a grasping motion at the television screen, as if he might pluck this Kapimsky off his skates. “Forty seconds from overtime.”

Suddenly, his demeanor changed. Sitting forward, he lifted his fist at the TV. “Go, Smitty, go. Deke left, deke left. No! Left. Aw, man. Their goalie’s a strong right, so he always expects a shot from the left. You fake left, then you shoot right.” A buzzer sounded, and Stephen threw up his hand.

“I take it they lost,” Kaylie said, starting around the sofa. Her heart still hammered. In those few seconds before she’d entered the suite, she’d imagined him on the floor in pain, having reinjured himself yet again, and the guilt had been heavy indeed. For whose fault would it have been except her own?

Stephen muted the television and curtly nodded for her to sit on the couch. “They lost,” he confirmed, “in the last forty seconds! Unbelievable.” He shook his head.

Kaylie gladly dropped down onto the cushions. “So is it over for them?”

He shook his head. “Naw, this is a seven-game series, but we’re down two-to-one now.” Sighing, he rubbed his forehead and shifted in his chair. “I should have been in the pipes tonight. I should be there for my team!” He smacked the arm of his chair with his palm, punctuating his words. “I deserve to be cut after this. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

“Well, yes, it is stupid for you to think like that,” Kaylie said bluntly.

Stephen looked up in some surprise then shifted again, saying, “Look, I did this to myself, okay?”

“Okay. That doesn’t mean you deserve to be cut from the team, especially for what happened tonight. That’s on them.” She swept a hand, indicating the casts on his arm and leg. “This is on you, and you’ve suffered mightily for it. Still are, judging by the way you keep fidgeting in that chair.”

Stephen sighed and pointed the remote at the television. “I just want to hear the post-game—”

“Uh, no,” Kaylie said, taking the remote from his hand.

What was it with the men in her life lately? One insisted that his life was essentially over, and the other seemed determined to beat himself up even more than he already had.

“You need rest and medication.” She pointed the remote and shut off the television, tossing the small, rectangular black box onto the sofa, then moved behind his chair. The fact that he didn’t argue confirmed her diagnosis.

“Watch the drinking glass,” he mumbled.

“Hmm? Where?”

He reached down and came up with a tall crystal tumbler. “Your aunt was good enough to bring me a glass of apple juice earlier.”

“Ah.” Kaylie smiled to herself. She took the glass from him and carried it to the desk, where she left it, intending to take it downstairs with her later. “Odelia, I presume.”

He held up a finger. “That’s Tante Odelia.”

Kaylie laughed, moving back to grasp the handles of his chair. “Can you get the brake?” He leaned forward and flipped the lever that freed the wheels. She rocked the wheelchair back and then shoved it forward. “So Odelia’s styling herself as your tante now, is she?”

“Something like that.”

“Look out,” Kaylie teased, swinging the chair around in order to back through the door. “She’ll be adopting you into the family if you’re not careful.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he said after a moment, a wistful tone in his voice.

“I expect your mother would,” Kaylie pointed out softly.

“I doubt it,” he replied, shaking his head, “not after everything that’s happened.” He quickly changed the subject then. “My father certainly wouldn’t. He washed his hands of me long ago.”

Kaylie brought the chair to a halt beside the bed and set the brake