One Week Later
It’s déjà vu all over again.
Another release from the hospital. Another wheelchair. Another crowd of media vultures lurking outside, and another speedy getaway in a hired car that Wes has waiting outside.
The last week has been hell. I found myself in that fucking hospitalagain. But I was out of it for the first three days. On the fourth day I woke up to find both my mother and nurse Bertha staring at me with worried expressions on their faces.
Never get pneumonia. Just don’t. It’s a real bitch.
But my fever is gone for good now. Mom flew back to California this morning with Jess, and I can’t say I’m not relieved, especially about the latter being gone. I love Jess, but she wasnotin a good place this week. She felt so incredibly guilty that I’d gotten a high fever on her watch that she stuck to me like Velcro the whole time I was in the hospital. Mymother had to send her home a couple of times when I couldn’t take any more of her overbearing brand of love.
Wes and I don’t speak as we step out of the elevator. My legs feel a bit wobbly, and I stumble when we’re halfway down the hall, but when Wes tries to take my arm, I scowl at him. I’m sick to death of being fussed over and treated like I’m an invalid.
Without a word, his hand drops to his side. We reach our apartment. Wes jams the key in the lock and pops the door open. Inside, he throws the bag with my stuff in it onto the floor and then stands in the middle of the living room, staring at me.
“You need anything?” His voice is gruff. “Food? Shower? Tea?”
Tea? Like I’m a little old lady whose delicate stomach can’t handle good old coffee?
Bitterness rises in my throat. I force myself to swallow it down, because it’s not fair to Wes. It’s not his fault I got laid out on my ass with pneumonia. And I know what a panic he’s been in this past week.
He played another two games on the road before he could even come to the hospital to see me. Not that I noticed in my passed-out state. But the team wouldn’t give him a hardship leave because my sister and mother were converging on the hospital.
He told me this morning that he doesn’t even remember those games, he was so pissed off and worried, calling Jess and Mom and Blake every free moment he had.
I should be kissing his feet for being a concerned, loving boyfriend. But I’m not. I’m just…mad. At him. At my body. At fucking everything. And the drugs the hospital pumped me full of this week are wreaking havoc on my system. I started a course of steroids this morning, and they’re making me feel strange. It’s like a superficial high that doesn’t quite match the anger and resentment churning in my stomach.
Wes watches me warily. “Babe?”
I realize I haven’t answered the question. “I don’t need anything,” I mumble. “Gonna take a nap.”
Disappointment crosses his expression. He doesn’t have a game today, and I know he was probably hoping to spend some time together. But I’m not good company right now. I’m sick of being sick. I hated being in the hospital. I hate that I can’t go back to work until…until who fucking knows when. I called Bill last night and he ordered me not to even think about coming back for at least another week.
I don’t need another week. I just need my life back.
“Okay,” Wes finally says. “I’ll just…” His gray eyes dart around, then land on the hall table, which is stacked high with mail. “Open the mail, maybe pay some bills.”
A scornful remark almost flies out.Do you even know how?
Since we moved in together, Wes hasn’t taken care of any house-related shit. Laundry. Bills. Cleaning. I do it all, because he’s too busy being an NHL sensation to—
Enough, an internal voice commands. Maybe it’s my conscience. Or the part of me that is madly, deeply in love with this man. Either way, I’m not being fair again.
So I inject genuine gratitude into my response. “Thanks. That would definitely make my life easier if you did that. And keep a lookout for the hospital bill—” I stop and gulp, because it just occurred to me that a two-week hospital visit might very well drain my savings account. Maybe even max out my credit cards. I’m not a Canadian citizen, so I’m not sure if my insurance will cover the entire stay.
“Oh, there won’t be one,” Wes says, waving a hand. “I already paid your deductible. Insurance covered the rest.”
I clench my jaw. He paid my bill?
Wes frowns when he notices my expression. “What’s wrong?”
My voice comes out harsher than I intend. “Let me know the amount you paid and I’ll transfer the money into your account.”
He’s quick to protest. “It’s not a big deal, babe. I’ve got plenty of cash. Why put financial strain on yourself when I’m perfectly capable of—”
“I’ll pay you back,” I grind out.
There’s a long pause. Then Wes nods. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
