“He’s going to be okay now, though. He’s a strong man. He’ll get through this. And you’ll be here to help him.”

“It’s going to be so hard for him.” I pull back and wipe my nose on my sleeve, leaving behind a disgusting snail trail. “Not playing for the rest of the season? I don’t know how he’s going to deal with it. Hockey is his world.”

“Alex has always been an intense person.” She smooths her hands over my hair. “When he’s passionate about something, he puts all of his energy into it—and that’s not limited to his career. He’s a very driven man, and sometimes he has difficulty with moderation. When he’s in, he’s all in; he’ll bury himself in something so he can be the best. It’s what he’s been doing for the past six years with hockey, and before that he was just as involved in school and figure skating.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that’s how he is with you as well.” Her voice is soft, and so is her expression.

“He loves hard.” And for once I don’t mean it in a pervy way.

“He does everything hard.” I’m almost certain Daisy doesn’t mean that in a pervy way either.

I also don’t think Alex will be doing anything hard right now. I’m not even sure he can get hard. Well, okay, he can get hard. I saw him sporting a semi a few times in the hospital, but I don’t know that he has the energy to do anything with it.

“Sitting around isn’t going to be easy for him. He gets pent-up a lot.”

Daisy seems to miss my accidental inappropriate reference.

“He’ll find a way to manage himself, I’m sure,” she says.

I doubt he’ll achieve that by whacking off constantly, but that’s where my mind goes, maybe because I haven’t had an orgasm in days, and now that we’re home I can. Not now, but later. When everyone else is sleeping, I can get out Buddy and give myself a little beaver bang. I stifle a laugh through the sniffles, so it sounds snort-cryish.

“I can stay as long as you need me, of course.”

“Thanks, Daisy. I know how much Alex loves your cooking.”

“I could teach you how to make some of Alex’s favorites while I’m here, if you want,” she offers.

“You’d do that?”

Her electric pink lips spread until her dimples appear. “Of course! He loves breakfast for dinner, so I thought we could make omelets tonight.”

So that’s what we do. When dinner’s almost ready, I go upstairs and wake Alex. It takes some coaxing to get him out of bed. He’s sore and grumpy, but when I tell him what we’re having for dinner, he gets up. Getting down the stairs is slow.

Daisy serves him like he’s the king of the world, and he shovels in food, groaning his pleasure. The sound is reminiscent of his orgasm moan. Or maybe I’m horny.

Except then I look at him, and all the buzzing in my beaver stops. Alex is eating like a pig. His mouth is two inches from his plate, and he keeps jamming more food in before he even has a chance to swallow. He’s also eating with his left hand instead of his right, so bits of egg have fallen off his plate and onto the table.

“This is so much better than hospital crap. Thanks, Mom,” he says around a mouthful of omelet.

“Violet helped.” Daisy sits primly at the table with her napkin in her lap. She has amazing manners. My legs are crossed like I’m sitting on a yoga mat. I rearrange them so I’m sitting nicely, even though they’re visible to no one.

Alex stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Really?”

I focus on my plate. I shouldn’t be hurt by his surprise. Usually I take something out of the freezer and follow the directions Alex’s personal chef has left us. He shows up every Monday to make a week’s worth of meals when Alex isn’t on the road.

Daisy pats my hand. “She did a great job. She even made her own omelet.”

Alex looks at my mangled, misshapen omelet, and then back at what’s left of his own perfect one, which his mother made. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks,” I say. I need to stop being so sensitive. Daisy’s just here to help, not show Alex I’m poor wife material.

When the guys are on the road, Charlene and I do takeout half the time. The other half we eat ramen noodles like we did in college, or Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese, and occasionally, when Charlene is feeling particularly ambitious, she makes shepherd’s pie—but with those fake potatoes, because mashing real ones takes work. Hopefully Daisy can teach me how to make something even better than that.

Eating takes all of Alex’s energy. So as soon as dinner is over, he goes back upstairs. I plan to help Daisy with dishes. She insists on washing most of them even though we have a dishwasher, which I usually load to capacity and often forget to run. The housekeeper takes care of it when I don’t. Daisy seems more than happy to wash them by hand.

I reach for a dish towel to dry, but she puts her hand on my arm.

“I can take care of this. I’ll be fine for the rest of the evening. Why don’t you go up and see if Alex needs you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Daisy.” I kiss her on the cheek, because it feels right.

Her smile pops a dimple. She pats my cheek and turns back to the dishes, humming as she pulls on a pair of yellow gloves and dunks her hands in the soapy water.