Page 4 of Golden Goal

“Rebecca.”

“Dad.”

“My neck hurt because I slept wrong. I don’t need a new pillow. I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t know if either item was necessary.”

“Let me take care of you. It’s the least I can do after everything.”

He blows out a breath. “Rebecca–Becca, I love you. I love that you want to take care of me like this. But even though I might be close to seventy, I can still take care of myself.”

I suck in a breath, running a hand down my face. “I know, but I feel guilty. I’m so far away and can’t help you, and the car accident. . .”

“Becca, the car accident was almost twenty years ago and is not the cause of my current aches and pains. And even if it was, it was not your fault.”

“But—“

“How about I promise to tell you if there’s something you can help me with, otherwise know I’ve got it handled?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now we’ve solved that, I’ll let you go. Glad you’re having a good first week. Talk soon?”

“Yep. Love you. Bye, Dad.”

“Love you.”

I set the phone on the couch and stretch my arms over my head. Peaches, my ginger cat, jumps up and sits next to me, all but glaring at me.

“I can take the hint, Peach. Time for dinner.” I pet her before standing up and making my way over to the kitchen, pausing to connect my phone to my Bluetooth speaker and turn on my current music obsession—Billy Joel. I crank the volume up since I’m pretty sure the apartment next to me is empty—there’s never been any signs of life the past week—and sing along to the music.

Once Peaches is happily feasting on her food, I set about figuring out what to make myself. I finally decide on a can of chicken noodle soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Not the healthiest, but I don’t have the energy to make anything else. I had a big salad at lunch, so it’s not like I didn’t have any vegetables today. I make a mental note to find some crock pot recipes so I can come home and have dinner waiting for me. Especially if today is any indication of how busy I’ll be in the future.

“Hey,” a blonde woman who appears to be about my age says, coming up to me in the staff kitchen the next morning. “Dr. Jansen, Rebecca, right? The new PT?”

“Guilty,” I say before taking a sip of water from my water bottle.

“I’m Sutton St. James.” She puts her hand out, and I shake it. “We haven’t met yet. I’m the head of the Public Relations and Marketing Department.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. St. James.”

She grabs a Styrofoam cup and pours herself a coffee. “Just Sutton. We’re not big on formality here. How are things going? The guys aren’t giving you a hard time, are they?”

“It’s only my first week, but it’s going well so far.”

She leans a hip against the counter. “Don’t let them fool you, they’re all softies at heart.” I raise an eyebrow but remain silent. “If the guys give you any trouble, let me know, and I’ll take care of it.”

I chuckle. “Thanks?”

She grins at me before taking a sip of her coffee, visibly blanching as she swallows. “Gosh, I forgot how terrible this stuff is.”

She walks over to the sink and dumps her drink down the drain. I take another sip of my water, wondering whether this conversation is over and I should leave the kitchen or if she’s going to say something else.

“I need caffeine, and this isn’t drinkable. Want to go on a coffee run with me?” she asks, turning to face me.

“Ummm . . .” I hesitate, unsure of what to say.

I don’t have anything to do right now or in the next hour, but it is still the middle of the workday. At my old job, unless it was lunch or an emergency, we were expected to be at the office and available during working hours even if we had no scheduled patients.

“It’s just down the street. We can walk there and back in thirty. You’ll find everyone around here is pretty lax with your coming and going. We all end up working way longer than forty hours a week anyway, even with the occasional mid-morning coffee run and long lunch.” She pauses, studying me. “As long as you don’t have any appointments or meetings?”