Chapter 11 11
Harmony's POV
"Hello, son." murmured the woman in a cold voice.
She was several inches taller than me, dressed in a pricey looking camel coat, with a black dress underneath. Her dark blonde hair was combed back and held in place without a single strand out of order. Her lipstick was a deep burgundy, perfect, as though it was a permanent part of her lips. The color matched her talon-like nails.
As she walked past me, she smelled like the most expensive type of perfume. Everything about her was obviously old money.
She was holding a bouquet of white flowers, but she crossed to the bedside table and set them down unceremoniously, the way you set down a bag of groceries. Had she even picked it herself, or was there someone she paid to do these things for her?
I was already reaching for my clipboard to leave, but curiosity made me slow down. I moved to the small supply cart near the window and started checking the equipment stock, checking nothing in particular. I just wanted to stay behind and eavesdrop.
From the corner of my eye, I glanced at ROMAN, who was staring at his mother like he had seen a ghost. All that easy confidence from the video call was gone. He looked younger somehow, and smaller, which shouldn't have been possible given his size.
"Mom," he called out. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Yes, I didn't think I would too. But I was in the city." She settled into the chair beside his bed, crossed her legs and looked at his injured knee with a cool expression. "How bad is it?"
"I have a fractured kneecap, but I'll be f—"
"Aaron never had a knee injury," she replied almost immediately. "He was always so careful on the ice. I used to watch him play and think to myself, that boy moves like he came out of me in hockey gear. You know?"
Foster's face darkened. "I know, Mom."
"Your coach must be beside herself. What was her name again, the coach?"
"Coach Bailey."
"Right. Bailey." She smoothed an invisible crease from her coat. "That coach adored him, you know. She used to call me personally after matches just to say how proud he was. I haven't heard from her at all, since what happened last year."
"Coach Bailey is busy," Foster replied. "She has a whole team to manage."
I could sense a slight jab from Foster to his mother.
"Of course." Mrs Foster glanced around the room slowly, taking it in. "I just hope that this isn't a pattern. First the match goes badly and now this. Aaron had a terrible second season once, do you remember? But he turned it around completely by the third match, completely. The boy had a gift for bouncing back."
"Mom, Aaron is gone," Foster mumbled, and his voice was flat and careful. "Can we please, not do this right now? Did you come to see how I was doing, or did you come to gloat about how Aaron is so much better than I am?"
"I'm not doing anything, Roman. I'm making conversation." She looked at him with sharp eyes. "I simply think it's worth remembering what your brother was able to achieve, given the circumstances. It might give you something to aim for."
"I have things to aim for."
"Well." She folded her hands in her lap. "I hope so. Because from what I heard about the match, the team was struggling well before your injury. Aaron would never have let a match go 3-0 before finding his footing."
"I scored in the second half!" Foster objected. "Isn't that enough for you?"
"Yes, and then you got injured." She said it simply, without raising her voice. "Aaron always said that staying on your feet was just as important as scoring. He was disciplined that way."
Foster said nothing. He was looking down at his hands, and the boy sitting in that bed had nothing in common with the man who had spent the last week making my working life difficult. He looked like someone who had been through this particular conversation so many times, that he had stopped trying to find a way out of it.
Like a scared little kid.
I kept my eyes on my notepad.
"Aaron was preparing for the Chicago Wolves, you know," Mrs Foster continued. "Before the accident. They had their eye on him. Did you know that, Roman? Your brother was going to play pro hockey."
"I know, Mom. I was there."
Was it my imagination, or was his voice a little shaky?
"I just think about what he could have become." She was staring straight at Foster now, almost as though she wanted her words to dig into his skin. "All that talent, all that potential. And now..."
"Mrs Foster!" I called out.
Both of them turned to look at me in surprise.
I had not planned to open my mouth, but I was done listening to that woman tear her child apart like that.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said, and stepped away from the cart. "I wasn't here for the match where Mr Foster injured his knee, so I can only go by what I've been told. But from what I understand, Foster scored three goals in the second half of that match, which was enough to pull UIC to a tie with the opposing team. He did that while already injured, playing through pain that most people would have passed out from. And I can tell you from working with him this past week that four days after fracturing his kneecap, he was already on crutches trying to move around, because he was that eager to start his recovery and get back to his team."
"Oh, God..." I heard Foster mutter.
Mrs Foster turned to look at me fully, and I felt the full weight of those gray eyes. They were pale and scrutinizing, like a bird watching something from a very high branch, deciding whether it was worth the effort to pounce.
"And who the hell are you?" she snapped.
"Harmony Sinclair. I'm your son's physiotherapist—"
"—who doesn't know when to shut up, apparently." She looked at me for a long moment. "Miss Sinclair, I would suggest that knowing your place is also part of the job. A student intern interjecting in a private family conversation is not appropriate, and I will be having a word with clinic management about the boundaries expected of student staff here."
"Mom, it's not that serious," Foster started.
"It's fine," I said, and I looked right back at her without moving my eyes, then I turned to Foster. "I'll be back for your next session in a few days."
I hurried outside, gripping the clipboard with both hands, which were shaking badly now. My hands were shaking with both fury and sadness. Mrs Foster's cold dead eyes reminded me of someone else, with that same way of making you feel small and inconsequential. Mr Bennett had looked at people exactly like that.