CHAPTER TEN
Inside the ambulance the sirens weren’t as loud. Oliver hadn’t regained consciousness by the time the ambulance and paramedics made it to the stairwell. I couldn’t let him ride alone. I imagine any ambulance ride is scary, but it’s particularly bad when you don’t understand the language. Asbell showed up as they were loading Oliver onto the stretcher. He asked me to stop and tellhim what happened, but I couldn’t leave Oliver alone.
There were tests and a slew of doctors — both from our team and the host country — nobody wants to be responsible for misdiagnosing an athlete. Now six hours later, I’ve finally found a minute to relax and appreciate the fact I survived through it all. Oliver too.
It’s been one hell of a long day.
The United States of America flag wavesin the background and our national anthem plays over the loudspeakers. A Winter Games official steps up to the third spot on the podium and drapes a bronze medal around the athlete’s neck.
“James is such a pussy.” Oliver adjusts his head on the hospital pillows. There’s at least eight of them helping to keep him propped up because in his words they were too small and skimpy. Nothing like therobust pillows they have in American hospitals. It was said with such authority I have to question how many hospitals he’s found himself in to be in the position to compare pillows.
“Look at him, smiling over a bronze medal. I would’ve taken first.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” There’s only so many times I can apologize for making Oliver miss his chance at competing in the biggest athletic event ofhis life.
His attention wavers from the TV. “Hey, what did I say? This is not your fault.” He raises up his left arm showing off the red cast that covers from his wrist all the way to his elbow. “There are other chances to win medals, but there aren’t other Kennys.”
If I didn’t have such guilt over what happened, I’d find his words comforting. As it stands I cost him a lot more than a gold medal.Recognition, sponsors, money, and months of practice time.
“It’s not your fault they wouldn’t let me compete.”
“Oliver, you broke an arm.”
He makes a face, half of one side pinched. “I snowboard. It’s not like I need my arm to do much but balance me.”
Regardless of whether or not he actually could have made his way down the mountain with a broken arm, it was a liability in the American teamnor anyone in the Gold Medal committee wasn’t going to allow.
“I feel horrible. This is all my fault.” Why didn’t I do something to Isaac? Knee him in the balls? Scream for help earlier?
Oliver pats my knee, pulling me closer from where I’m perched on the side of his hospital bed. “You can make it up to me on the first date.”
“First date? What is this?” I throw my hands out to encompass theroom. “Plus we’ve already had sex.” Is he saying I put out before the first date?
“You fluffing my pillows in the hospital room is not a first date.” The national anthem playing on the TV changes, drawing Oliver’s attention again. “Look at him, up there smiling like a dumb ass. I would have fucked shit up on that podium.”
I laugh. “Next time, tiger.” He refuses to admit it, but I think he isfeeling the pain medication a little bit more than he realizes. Some of his answers and reactions to conversations over the last few hours have been more than comical.
Earlier this afternoon, he offered me a job as his publicist slash public relations person once we make it back to Cali. I’ve never really considered they were different job titles. I have a degree in marketing. I expected tomarket little boxes of soap or maybe some shoes. Never a person.
And definitely not an athlete. I’ve pretty much written them all off as crazy. Although managing someone as laid back as Oliver might not be so bad. Maybe even fun. But it’s definitely not a good idea to mix business and pleasure. That and I’m sure by the time the drugs wear off he won’t remember making the offer.
Oliver picksup a plastic fork from his bedside tray and shoves the pointed tongs down his cast.
“Oliver!” I grab at the fork, hitting his cast in the process and he winces. “What are you doing?”
“It itches.” He sticks the fork further down. “Haven’t you had a cast before? You have to stick stuff in there to really get at the itch.”
“No! I’ve never broken a bone.”
Oliver sucks in a breath, but not outof pain. “You’ve never broken a bone? What kind of life have you been living?”
“A safe one.” This man has most certainly been in the hospital way too many times. He pushes the fork even deeper to the point I only see a very small portion of the tip where his fingers hold on to it. “Oliver, what if the fork breaks?”
“It itches, dammit. Distract me.” He pulls the fork out from underneath his cast,and my stomach seizes in relief when all four tongs are attached to the plastic base.
“How?”
He leans over, his lips puckered. “You could kiss me.”
