Tragically, he was seriously injured two months ago in a heroic act of bravery. He was attempting to stop a gang of thugs from attacking a woman, and barely came out of the encounter with his life. He had been stabbed multiple times, then beaten with a tire iron. He lost a spleen and had a severe brain bleed, but the most damaging injury was a spinal contusion. While he’s recovered from most of the wounds, he, unfortunately, has severe paralysis in his legs. He was just moved to a rehab hospital a few weeks ago, where he’s undergoing intensive physical therapy and has another surgery on his spine scheduled. While no doctor will come out and say one way or the other, the consensus is his career is over. At this point, we don’t even know if he’ll walk again.
What the team found out through numerous visits is Baden seems to have lost his spirit to fight. He’ll smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He won’t actively engage in conversation, but he will answer direct questions.
He’s fucking depressed, but who wouldn’t be? Frankly, none of us know how to help him.
“He told me he wants to get moved to a hospital closer to home,” Jim says dejectedly.
Baden’s parents still live back in Montréal, and it would make sense for him to go back there. But he also has the best medical staff a man could want here, especially one hoping to make a full recovery. Our team’s owner, Dominik Carlson, has seen to that. I expect he’ll stay here at least for the second surgery, but then, after that, I have a horrible feeling he’ll leave and no longer be a part of our lives.
“Hey,” Jett says, waving his second cookie. “Miracles happen all the time. He needs to look on the bright side. He’s starting to get some feeling back in his legs, so he could continue to get better.”
“But he’ll most likely never play professional hockey again,” I point out.
“I never say never,” Jett replies with a firm nod. For a moment, I want to have that type of optimistic hope for my friend.
I smile back. “You know what… you’re right. Miracles happen all the time.”
“Fucking right,” Jim adds, his expression turning into one of confidence. And then just as quickly, it slides right off his face to be replaced by one of stunned disbelief. “What in the ever-loving fuck?” he growls as his gaze pins on something across the restaurant.
Jett turns slightly. I have to twist in my seat, but my gaze lands on exactly what’s causing Jim’s distress.
His wife, Ella, walking in with another man. He has his hand pressed to her lower back while her head is tipped back, laughing at something he’s saying. They weave their way through the tables on their way out.
I grimace when the man’s palm drops from Ella’s back to take her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. She smiles, all doe-eyed, and they make their way out of the restaurant.
“She’s dating, huh?” I ask my friend, feeling sick to my stomach for him.
Jim and Ella separated about five months ago, and they’re sharing custody of their thirteen-year-old daughter, Lucy.
“Christ,” Jim mutters, dropping his sandwich onto his plate. I can tell he’s lost his appetite. He shakes his head. “She said she was thinking about it, but that looks like she’s done a lot more than think.”
I don’t know the details of what happened, but Jim hasn’t been happy about the separation. He’s been under a lot of stress, mainly because Lucy hasn’t been making things easy on him. She’s put herself in her mom’s corner, and she seems to butt heads with him at every turn.
“Maybe you need to get back in the dating game,” Jett suggests. “Help distract you.”
“I don’t want to fucking date anyone else,” Jim growls, and that’s the most I’ve heard him take a stand on his marital issues.
“It’s hard to get back in the saddle,” I offer, keeping my tone neutral. Now I’m just being fucking nosy.
“I don’t want to get out of my current saddle,” he grumbles. “I want to keep my current saddle with my wife in it.”
I blink in surprise because I just assumed their marriage was over. I mean, I figured there were hard feelings to resolve and shit, but to hear Jim doesn’t want to be separated is a damn revelation.
“Have you told her this?” I ask curiously.
Jim shakes his head. “We don’t seem to be able to have a civil conversation these days.”
Jett and I exchange glances. He gives a slight shrug, meaning he doesn’t have a lick of good advice.
Not sure I do, either, but I know not talking about it is guaranteed failure. “Then I suggest you put on your big-girl panties and resolve to have a civil conversation.”