He pulled it from her hand. “This, right here, is vanilla ice cream with a caramel swirl and mini cinnamon apple pie Pop-Tarts scattered throughout. A favorite from my childhood. That’s the treasure.”
One of her dark brows shot up.
“I’m from Spokane,” he said. “Washington, apples. Caramel, apples. Ice cream—”
“Apples,” she finished.
He spread his hands. “Exactly. And the proceeds benefit charity. The Dyslexia Foundation.”
“Well, at least it’s got that going for it. But it belongs in the freezers of the general population, not an elite athlete. It’s got to go.” Her voice remained level as she dug deeper into the
freezer and tossed his Bagel Bites, his Pizza Rolls, his Hot Pockets. “You’ll be sticking with fresh fruits and vegetables. Lean protein. Complex carbs. Omega 3s for your fat. And water. Lots of water. After I assess you, I’ll get you on a vitamin and supplement regiment…”
She closed the freezer and opened the closest cabinet, grabbing a box of Pop-Tarts from a shelf. Noah launched forward—pain be damned. He snapped the box from her hand and bared his teeth. “Don’t touch my Pop-Tarts.”
“Pop-Tarts and Ben & Jerry’s and all the other crap in this place is what got you into this mess.” Her gaze grew intense. “This diet is probably more than half your problem. If you don’t feed your body what it needs to heal—”
“I’m feeding my body just fine.”
“Do you realize how debilitating your injury could be? Not just now, but over the course of your lifetime? As many as half of all talus fractures lead to avascular necrosis, osteonecrosis, and arthritis. In layman’s terms, if you don’t rehab your ankle—the right way—chronic arthritis could put you in a wheelchair. If you lose blood flow, your bones disintegrate. You’re talking about a life filled with debilitating pain, possibly even losing your leg below the knee to amputation.”
Ampu—what? She talked too damned fast, and his brain worked way too slow. “I’m really not in the mood to be bullied—”
“Bullied? You think this is bullying? Has anyone explained the dangers of poor rehab practices to you? Because if they have, and you’re still limping, you’re not only naïve and ignorant, you’re downright stupid. If they haven’t, teaching you is even more important. You need to understand how your decisions now will impact the rest of your life. How you exercise, how you eat, how you train, it all impacts the big picture of your recovery.”
With a disgusted sigh and a shake of her head, Julia dragged the garbage bag from the trash can and tied the top, then picked up the other. “Like I said, we’ve got lots to talk about, lots to plan. Where’s your trash?”
Dazed from the barrage of information, Noah pointed to the front door, grateful for a moment to think without her hounding him. “Around the side of the garage.”
He watched her go, not thinking anymore about the food he’d lost. He was far more concerned that what she’d said could be true. Not only had no one told him any of that before, everyone seemed to treat him with kid gloves, limiting the information they gave him as if they were afraid he’d crumble at the news. None of his other physical therapists had been this confident or this informative, which was why he’d gotten rid of them.
Julia set the bags down and stepped into knee-high snow boots, then grabbed the trash and disappeared out the door. Leaving Noah to realize in the silence that followed, a lot of what she was saying connected with a shadowy part of him he wasn’t ready or willing to acknowledge. Not now, with a hangover. And not to her, the bossy know-it-all. He needed to yell at Drake, down a shitload of pain relievers, then crawl back into bed and sleep off both his hangover and his swollen leg.
This chick was going to be a bitch to get rid of. And if he had to listen to her rant one more time, his head would split.
With anger and panic mixing in his bloodstream, Noah pushed himself to the front door and locked it. Then he started for the stairs, flipping the dead bolt to the garage door on his way past. He had no idea where his cell was, but he had a landline in his bedroom, and he needed to rip Drake a new asshole. Right now.
By the time he’d reached the third stair, Julia was pounding on the door. By the time he’d reached the tenth, she was bellowing obscenities and threats. By the time he’d reached the landing, she was circling the house, trying every door and window she could reach, and Noah was sweating and panting from the exertion and pain.
He stumbled into his bedroom, fell onto his bed, and grabbed his phone, tapping into his contacts. Just as he hit Drake’s number, a familiar rumble kicked up in the garage.
“What…?” he murmured.
A squeal drew him to the window just as his new silver Maserati Kubang backed out.
“No way!” He dropped to his knees as she rolled his car into the street. “No.” He slapped an open hand to his window. “Don’t you dare.”
But she took off down the street anyway.
“Motherfucker,” he screamed, pain and rage frothing through his veins.
“Noah.”
The distant call of his name drew his attention to the phone, and he jerked it to his ear. “Drake? You sent that crazy bitch over here?”
“We talked about this last night—”
“She stole my car, man,” he yelled over Drake. “She stole my fuckin’ car right out of my garage. I gotta go. I gotta call the cops—”