Before he can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door. “Let me call you back, Da.”
“Rest up. We’ll catch up soon.”
I gingerly maneuver myself out of bed to open the door. Immediately, I’m staring into Amy’s worried eyes. Her mouth opens to speak, but I beat her to it. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean it didn’t scare me.” Amy surges through the door with an overstuffed backpack slung over her shoulder. “Watching you being carted off the ice was horrible.”
I toe the door shut behind her and watch as she carefully places her backpack on the floor. “It was fine,” I lie. My wrist throbs in agony but I don’t want Amy worried about that. Still, I make no objections when she urges me back to bed before carefully laying a fresh ice pack on it.
I’m not surprised when she asks, “Have you eaten?”
“No.”
She turns away from her bag exasperated, “Brennan.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But you also have to take something to avoid aggravating your stomach from the pain meds,” she reminds me.
I grumble. “It’s just a prescription dose of…”
That’s when she stuns me by lifting out a bag from one of our favorite restaurants. “Then the soup I bought should be just enough.” Steam curls faintly when she lifts the lid, filling the room with the smell of chicken and herbs and something warm that could only come from the woman I love taking care of me.
“You didn’t have to?—”
“I know.” She says it softly as she places it in my hand.
Something in my chest cracks open. I already knew I was in love with Amy, but her presence helps calm me down in a way I knew I’d always rely on. Setting the bowl aside with my good hand, I turn slightly—enough that she has to lift her head to look at me. Her eyes are soft, open, full of something that looked a lot like worry and a lot like love. “Why are you so good to me?”
Her expression went startled, like the question itself was strange. “Because I love you.”
Back in the present, it strikes me as significant when I realize Amy’s the only one who ever treated my injuries like something to be soothed instead of overcome. I’m debating pacing off some of my nervous energy when I hear the door open behind me. “Mr. McCallister? I apologize for being late. I was tied up in rounds this morning.”
I surge to my feet and hold out my hand. “Brennan McCallister.”
“A pleasure. I know you by reputation. I’m more of a F1fan, myself.”
An edge laces my voice when I ask, “If I’d been a driver, would that have gotten me in sooner?”
“No. But if your scans had presented me with an astrocytoma, I’d have adjusted my schedule.”
“What’s that?”
“A cancerous brain tumor. One I removed and was checking on before I walked in.”
Appropriately rebuked, I swallow down my shameful entitlement.Now I get what Moser’s staff has been trying to tell me.
Instead of lingering on the subject, Moser gestures for me to resume my seat. Moving behind his desk, he lifts the tablet that’s been perfectly centered there since I walked in. Tapping it awake, he’s silent for a few moments before setting it aside and folding his fingers together.
I know—I just know—even before he starts talking, the news isn’t going to be what I want it to be.
“You’re tenacious.”
That’s not what I was expecting him to lead with. “What makes you say that?”
“I have all of your scans and records. I see you’ve received diagnoses and opinions from specialists—who happen to be three of my peers. While that kind of persistence is admirable on the ice, I’m not certain what you expect me to express that will be different, Mr. McCallister.”
Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What does my fortitude get me?”
