"I can't. I'll get—"
"Anderson!" My head snaps up to find Monte at the locker room entrance. "What the hell are you doing?"
I look at my dad, and he tips his head toward the door.
"Coach," I move toward him, my heart-racing in my chest. "Brooke, she's..."
"I know," he says. Then he exhales deeply. "Go."
"Wait, are you sure?"
"No," he answers, blowing another breath through his lips. "But Brooke's like family, and you… well, just don't fuck this up, okay?"
I don't need him to explain that he means more than just her. "I won't, Coach."
With that, he holds the door open for me, but before I step through it, I turn back to my father. Tears threaten to well at the sight of him. For the first time in a long time, my chest doesn't constrict when he looks back at me. Anger doesn't burn in my chest. Bitterness doesn't swell in my gut. For the first time in a long time, when our eyes meet, all I see is Dad.
"I love you too, son," he says, staring back at me.
I turn to leave, but at the last minute, I twist back around. "Wait… if you didn't tell the reporter then..."
He takes a deep breath. "There's only one person who would benefit from stirring up drama with you. And who would be pissed that you aren't listening to her."
I scoff. "I guess I have a few calls to make then."
Dad pulls his phone from his pocket and tosses it to me. I rip my glove from my hand, and it lands in my palm with a smack. "I don't have Brooke's number, but I have the rest of the ones you're probably looking for."
"Thanks, Dad," I say. He smiles at me, and I finally leave.
To fix this mess.
And get my girl.
35
Brooke
"Falling down toward her, I roll her thighs so her knees point outward. She glistens between them, and I force myself not to dive right… alright, I think that's enough for today."
I glance up at Aunt Ivy over the pages of her latest read to find her eyes closed and her breathing steady. She's out cold. I'm glad she's resting, she needs it, but I am questioning howthatscene is the one that put her to sleep. Then again, I'm always a little curious about the things that Ivy does.
The doctors say she has a weak heart. I guess cardiac strength isn't measured in kindness or adventures. She's lucky she was on her way over yesterday—or maybe not, if the mereideaof my mother was enough to make her heart skip a beat. But my free-spirited soul of an aunt could have been anywhere when she collapsed to the ground.
Setting the book in the bag that it came from, I quietly scoot my chair back and stand. Draping the white hospital-grade blanket over her toes, I study the way her chest repeatedly rises and falls, her breaths low and slow with heavy sleep.
I wish we were somewhere else—anywhere else. I wish we were sipping coffees together while I listened to Ivy tell the story about her trip to thenudist colony or that time she supposedly shared a cigarette with Dolly Parton at a bus stop. I'd laugh, and she'd hum the song they sang together under the overhang until she realized it wasn't Dolly after all becausehervibrato would never sound that pitchy.
I wish we weren't stuck in a hospital room surrounded by stark white walls and beeping machines. But in a strange way, I'm also grateful for the distraction. Those headlines last night hit me like a train off its tracks, and I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to believe. The worst part is, I haven't talked to Drew. Not once. I was too distracted to reach out about something that suddenly felt so insignificant in comparison, and he either didn't know about the stories or didn't care enough to call me.
I stopped checking my phone after things settled down here. Alex and Levi both know where I am. The team's content is scheduled for the rest of my time with the Flames. And the only things waiting on that screen are headlines I'm avoiding and messages that don't seem to be coming. I'm trying not to jump to conclusions, but between his acting skills and the radio silence, things aren't adding up in my favor.
I was upset at first—frustrated, angry, hurt. Still am. But now, most of it is directed at myself. This is why I don't open up. Why I keep things surface level—easy. Why I avoid commitments—in jobs, relationships, all of it. Because the second you let yourself believe it could actually work out—you might get the guy, land that job, maybe even make your mom proud—it doesn't.
Leaning down, I place a gentle kiss on Aunt Ivy's head before tip-toeing out of her room. I reach back to pull the door shut, and when I turn around, I find my mother standing mere inches from me.
"Shit," I whisper-yell, bringing a hand to my chest. "Good thing I'm not the one with the weak heart, Mom. You scared me half to death."
With a roll of her eyes, she peeks through the window of the hospital room door. "How's she doing?"
