Page 9 of Lovetown, USA

Trey

I’m in my office early this morning. Much earlier than I need to be.

Mornings like this, when the waiting room is still quiet and the coffee is still hot, I can actually hear myself think.

I can get shit done. Right now, I’m knocking out the notes from yesterday’s appointments.

Approving prescription refills. Combing through insurance forms.

Getting a slight headache.

“Pam,” I call through the intercom. “Did you sort the mail yet?”

She’s rustling around up front. “Not yet, hon. Want me to bring it all back?”

“Please.”

Pam’s been with me since I first set up shop here two years ago. I always joke with her that she’s the grandmother I never had, and she gets offended and tells me to shut the fuck up. She’s sixty-two, but she’s young and spry, according to her, and I’m not too old for her to whoop me.

While I wait for her return, I pull out my phone and check for any missed calls. Nothing from Cameron, yet again. I hesitate for a second, then hit the button. Straight to voicemail.

Again.

I blow out a sigh, trying to sound casual. “Hey, man. It’s your pops. Just checking in again. Look, I know you’re busy, but…call your old man when you get a chance. I need to hear your voice.” I clear my throat. “Love you.”

I end the call, then immediately send a text to Desiree to update her on my progress with our son.

Or, lack thereof.

Been trying to reach Cam. Left another voicemail. Let me know when he reaches out to you.

Pam knocks once before entering again, her hands full of envelopes of various sizes.

“Here you go, Dr. Montgomery.”

I give her a grateful nod and flip through the stack. Insurance shit. Coupons. Medical device sales brochures. And then—Zoning Board of Appeals.

I pause as my stomach drops. Pam sees my face and immediately perks up.

“Is that the one?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

She nods and exits quickly, leaving me to either bask in my success or wallow in my failure.

I take a long, deep breath and tear the envelope open, holding the paper up as my eyes scan the page.

Denied .

Again.

I blow out a breath and toss the letter on my desk. It lands on top of the wood like a brick.

“Fuck.”

Pam pokes her head back in. “What’d they say?”

“Same thing they always say. ‘Wrong use of space. Not in line with commercial code. No variance granted.’ They might as well have written ‘fuck you’ at the top.”

She frowns at the news. “I’m so sorry, Trey.”

“I don’t get it. It’s a clinic, not a fuckin’ strip club.”

“I know.” She steps back inside and leans against the doorframe. “But don’t let this make you give up on your dream, sweetheart. A delay isn’t a denial.”

I hold up the paper so she can see it. “You see that word right there? Bold letters. DENIED.”

“Okay, but it’s not the end of the story, you stubborn-headed mule.”

“That’s redundant,” I mumble.

She chuckles, just like she always does when I’m on my bullshit. “Pout a little bit, and then think of Spain. That’ll get you right again.”

I shrug, but she’s already walking away.

Pam’s not wrong. Thinking of Spain always does it for me. I had the time of my life playing basketball over there. It was only four years, but it was long enough for me to consider it my second home.

Then I blew out my knee, and it became something even better.

It became my inspiration.

I still remember it as vividly as if it were yesterday. The fans pressed shoulder to shoulder in the arena, chanting in a rhythm I’d come to understand despite not speaking much of the language.

The ball came to me. Dribble once, cross left, pivot hard, explode to the basket. I’d done it a million times. My defender bit like I knew he would, then the lane opened wide. All that remained was a step, a jump, and the sweet release as the ball left my hand.

But it didn’t happen that way.

My foot planted, but my knee didn’t hold.

I heard the sound of a thick branch snapping, then white hot pain slicked through me and I knew that sound had come from me.

My leg buckled, my body went sideways, and the ball skittered out of my hand and across the floor, just as useless as I was.

The roar of the crowd shifted to a low gasp, then silence so loud I felt like my ears were ringing.

It almost felt like a betrayal. My body, the thing I’d spent years honing, perfecting, training, pushing, had failed me in one sickening twist. My teammates rushed in, hands on me, voices heavy with worry.

Tranquilo , tranquilo . But I couldn’t stay calm.

Tears filled my eyes as the trainers knelt beside me.

I heard ligamentos and I knew.

That was the end.

The crowd clapped politely when I got carried off the court. Shit felt like a funeral march. That was the death of my basketball career. The death of my fucking dream.

I don’t think I slept at all that first night in the hospital. All I could think of, all I could hear was the honking of cars outside and the echo of that snap in my head.

The first few weeks after my surgery were physically and emotionally painful, but my recovery was about as smooth as you can ask for.

I became fast friends with one of my physical therapists; I’d talk basketball, he’d talk medicine.

With time to kill and a curious mind, I asked questions.

I learned about the healthcare system over there and how well they cared for their citizens.

It pissed me off, especially given what my granddaddy went through.

I watched that man die slowly and painfully over a period of years because he couldn’t afford top of the line care. Even as a hardheaded teenager, I knew something was very wrong with that picture.

Spain was the death of my athletic dreams and the birth of my medical career.

I glance back over at my screen, scrolling to my patient list. That’s when I see her name.

Lane.

The sight of it punches through the fog.

I’m working; I shouldn’t let my mind wander like this, and I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about that night, but here I am sitting in my ergonomic chair with my eyes closed, daydreaming about how she looked, how she felt, how she tasted.

I can see it so clearly the way she looked at me as I rocked in and out of her, almost like she was staring into my fucking soul.

My body stirs with the memory, giving me a delicious ache even I can’t cure. There’s no prescription for this. No remedy.

I open my eyes and breathe out, imagining those thoughts leaving my mind the way the oxygen left my lungs. I need to focus. I have business to handle.

Pam is right. A delay isn’t a denial. And I have one card I haven’t played yet. It’s a long shot, and not my best option, but I’m out of patience.

I pick up my phone and scroll until I find the number.

I haven’t called her in over a year, not since the thing with the city’s health initiative fizzled out—along with our little situationship.

I know I won’t be able to reach her directly, but she’ll call back eventually.

I’m not being cocky when I say I had her sprung.

It rings twice.

“Mayor Davis’ office, how may I direct your call?”