Page 25

Chapter 24

Nash

I hate hospitals , I think as I breathe in the sharp chemical air around me. I’m pacing because I refuse to lie on the hospital bed. Gabby is sitting on a plastic chair in the corner of my room. It’s not technically a room, but a small pre-surgical cubicle with a curtain for a door. I’m in one of those hospital gowns with the gaping back, which annoys the hell out of me and also stresses me out because Gabby is right there.

I’m careful not to flash her as I move. She is on her phone, likely typing an update to Coach and the team doc. The meeting with Dr. Marchand went great. He’s calm and not overly concerned. He said if he was a betting man he’d lay odds on the fact that this thing was a Schwannoma, which is a benign tumor that grows on nerves. The placement of mine is “incredibly rare” Dr. Marchand said, which is why he’s pushing through an immediate biopsy. Which is also why I’m in a butt-less dress at the moment.

“You seem nervous.”

I shake my head and scratch the back of my neck. “But I’m not nervous. I’m annoyed and frustrated.”

“It will be quick and relatively painless,” she says about the procedure I’m waiting for.

I nod. “But he hasn’t said that I can keep playing right away.”

"He hasn't said you can't, though." It turns out Gabby is a bit of an optimist. This whole trip, which has been twelve hours so far, she's countered all my grumpy comments with positive ones. It's annoying, and it's also making me miss Tenley more. She would do this, not because she's overly positive but because she loves to push my buttons. God, I miss that. I wonder for the hundredth time if I should have told her about this.

The curtain is suddenly pulled back and I spin, forgetting for a second that turning that way puts Gabby behind me and gives her a full view of my ass. My hands quickly grope behind me and grab at the fabric, holding it together. But when I glance over my shoulder she’s smirking, which means she got an eyeful. The nurse is smiling politely.

“Are you ready, Mr. Westwood?” I nod and she points to the wall. “There’s a robe there if you’d like modesty.”

I see the bland, cotton robe hanging there. “I didn’t see it.”

“Clearly,” Gabby whispers, and I turn and she grins again.

Ignoring her, I walk over and shrug into the robe. The nurse turns to Gabby. “He’ll be back here in twenty minutes to half an hour.”

She nods and I follow the nurse down a hallway. The doctor is in this stark white room standing next to the MRI machine, which he’s already explained I have to be in so he can get a clear image of the tumor to direct the needle into it and take a sample, which he will then get analyzed so we know if it’s cancer or the benign kind. “Are you claustrophobic or scared of needles?”

I shake my head at him. “At this point, the only thing I’m scared of is missing the rest of the season.”

He nods but doesn’t give me the answer I want—or any answer. The nurse directs me to get on my stomach on the platform they slide into the tube. I take a deep breath and follow orders.

Forty minutes later I’m dressed in my street clothes with a gauze pad on the back of my leg rubbing against my pants. The procedure was relatively painless. The doctor walks in and I swear I lose any manners my parents ever taught me. “So can I play or not?”

He chuckles. “I talk to Aaron all the time and he always tries to make the case that his job as the team doctor for hockey players is just as stressful as mine. Now I know he’s right if he’s dealing with guys like you all the time.”

“I’m sorry. Truly, it’s just this isn’t just a job and I’ve worked my ass off this year to help get us into the finals and?—”

“You can play until the biopsy results are in,” he cuts me off.

“What about after?”

“Well that will depend on the result,” Dr. Marchand explains. “If it’s cancerous, then you should have surgery to remove it right away and you may even need chemo.”

I feel sick.

“But you still think it’s benign?” Gabby pushes and her optimism finally doesn’t annoy me.

Dr. Marchand nods. “I still believe it is likely benign but it is causing nerve pain and numbness so the sooner we get it out the better. However…”

“However?”

“However the reason I did the biopsy first is that I knew you’d refuse to have it removed immediately if it was benign,” he replies. “It’s a complicated surgery, although with minimal risk, and the recovery would mean no skating for six to eight weeks.”

“Will I suffer long-term injury if I wait a couple of months to remove it? If it’s benign?”

“I can’t make guarantees on that however, it’s been in there for years,” Dr. Marchand says. “So it shouldn’t grow much in the next couple of months so no more damage should be incurred.”

I want to hug the short, portly man but that seems excessive so I shake his hand instead and head out. Gabby is on her phone the whole way down the hall and in the elevator. “Updating Coach,” she says.

It isn't until we're on the sunny street on the Upper West Side with what feels like half the world bustling by that Gabby finally tucks her phone away. "What did Coach say?"

“He said he’s happy the doctor is leaning towards benign and to keep him posted,” Gabby says.

“But is he letting me play the next game?”

"He didn't say either way," Gabby replies, and a sound bubbles up from the back of my throat that is all frustration. Gabby touches my arm. "Hey. Come on. You know he only has your best interest at heart and that he will play you if he feels he can. He needs you on that ice as much as you need to be on it."

“I fucking hope so,” I bark and look at my watch. It’s only four-thirty. Our flight back to Los Angeles isn’t until eleven tonight. I tug on the collar of my dress shirt. “I got all dressed up for this for some stupid reason.”

Gabby smiles and waves a hand in front of her own outfit. “You aren’t the only one.”

I give her a curt smile because I think this is the only time I've ever seen her out of a tracksuit or leggings and a sweatshirt. She's wearing charcoal dress pants and a black blouse with a long tan trench and heels. They're tiny but they are heels. "You look good. I meant to tell you that but it seemed weird."

“Because we used to bang?” She quirks a penciled eyebrow.

“Because I’m… married.”

“On paper only, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, the thing is…” I rub the back of my neck. “I think we should find a place to eat.”

Gabby smiles. “Oh shit. You caught feelings.”

Fuck. I take in her expression but she doesn't look hurt or angry. She looks a little shocked like a unicorn just trotted by on West 87 th behind me. She pokes me gently in the center of my chest. “Nash Westwood, you broke all your own rules, didn’t you?”

“What? No? I didn’t… mean to,” I confess, and she bursts out laughing.

When Gabby bothers to contain her amusement, which takes much longer than I feel is appropriate, she lifts her hand and starts raising a finger one after the other with each thing she says. “I won’t date seriously until my career is done. I don’t want a woman who is younger than me. My age, or older would be even better. I don’t have any inclination to marry, ever. That might change but it definitely won’t until my next career has started, which will likely be coaching. Oh and my personal favorite, I’m not attracted to blondes because they remind me of my mom.”

Okay, I have to smile now too, but it’s entirely sheepish. “Wow. I sound like a rightful asshole.”

“You kinda did but I wanted dick so I was willing to overlook it,” Gabby replies. “And that’s all I wanted from you so I wasn’t offended.”

“Tenley looks nothing like my mom,” I say.

“She doesn’t,” Gabby agrees but then she smirks. “She kind of looks like Tate though.”

“Shut it!” I bark.

“And she definitely, totally looks like Jordan Garrison,” Gabby announces and my eyes squeeze shut like I’ve just swallowed something bitter.

"If you keep this up, I'm leaving you right here," I warn, fighting a full-body shudder. "I will see you at the airport."

“Okay fine. I’ll stop… even though I’m completely right.” She takes a breath. “I’m starving. Let’s eat. I know a place around the corner that has killer craft cocktails and a decent menu with the best wedge salad I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

“Lead the way.” I follow her as she turns toward Central Park.

Forty-five minutes later she’s on her second jalapeno pineapple margarita and I’m on my third Perrier when the waiter drops two wedge salads in front of us and a plate of crispy tofu between us. Everything looks and smells incredible. Gabby must see it in my eyes as I reach for my fork and knife because she says, “I told you so.”

I cut through the crispiest chunk of iceberg slathered in blue cheese and crumbled bacon, juicy ripe grape tomatoes, and drizzled with balsamic. The flavors explode in my mouth and I make a small moan of appreciation. Gabby plucks a piece of tofu off the plate we’re sharing and dips it in one of the three sauces in tiny bowls that came with it. “Oh this is another winner, try!”

She spears another chunk on her fork, runs it through the sauce, and holds it out for me. I hesitate but then decide to take her fork from her and try it. I nod as I hand her back her fork. "Yeah. Ten out of ten on that."

My brain runs straight to Tenley because she would love this salad. The bacon is real bacon, not that turkey stuff I stock during the season and she complains about relentlessly. I owe her a phone call. She messaged me that Callie had come through her procedure well, but I just gave it a thumbs up because I was called in to see Dr. Marchand right when I received the text. That was a subpar response and I owe it to her to do better. I promise myself I’ll sneak away to the restroom when we get to the airport and call her.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m going to stay married,” I say suddenly, pulling Gabby out of her food haze.

She blinks, swallows down her mouthful of salad, and reaches for her cocktail. “You and Tenley, you mean?”

“Yeah. I can’t stay married,” I reply. “Even if this thing between us continues, we’ll have to divorce.”

She takes a big gulp of her cocktail. “Oh man, it’s an actual thing? Like you two are involved?”

I slice into the salad again. “I mean… a little.”

Gabby puts down her fork and raises a single eyebrow. “Okay so does a little mean we’ve kissed or does a little mean we’ve had sex?”

“The latter.”

“More than once?”

“More than I can count.”

“God men are so stupid.” Gabby shakes her head. “So you like her and want to date her?”

“Yeah.” I take another piece of tofu.

“And she likes you and wants to date you?”

“I think so?”

“But you haven’t actually had a conversation about it?” Gabby asks, and I shake my head. She sighs. “So if you like her, why isn’t she here with you?”

“She had a family thing. It’s serious.”

Gabby considers that. “Okay, but you haven’t even told her you might have cancer, have you?”

“I don’t have cancer,” I argue.

“You don’t know that.”

“Fuck.” My stomach drops and twists and I suddenly wish it was empty. “What happened to positive Gabby?”

She puts a hand over mine on the table, just long enough to give it a squeeze and then she pulls away. “I don’t think it’s cancer, but it’s a big deal that we have to go through all this to make sure. And you haven’t told her. That’s weird.”

"It's a lot." I take a sip of water and let my fingers linger on the thick linen tablecloth. "This problem is a lot and Tenley is already dealing with a lot with her aunt."

“That’s why Tate went home too, right?”

I nod. "Yeah, and the last thing she needs is to worry about her fake husband. And if this is cancer… I mean I wouldn't want her to stick around."

Gabby frowns. “Well, cool, because she won’t if you keep this up.”

“What?”

Gabby puts down her fork and turns to glare at me. “Dude, look, I thought your lone wolf shit was kinda hot and amusing because I didn’t want to date you. But Tenley does. And so cutting her out, or deciding for her what she can and can’t handle, is going to make her change her mind. I don’t know her well but she must be one hell of a strong woman to keep you on your toes. So give her some credit and let her in on this so she can handle it the way she wants.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I grab another piece of tofu. “I’ll consider it.”

"Good." Gabby takes another sip of her margarita and then smiles at me over the salty rim. "And I can't wait to hear all about how you intend to tell your wife you want a divorce, so you can start dating each other. TMZ Sports is gonna have a field day with that."

“Fuck TMZ,” I mutter and she laughs.

But seriously, how am I going to tackle that?