Page 10

Chapter Ten

Scott

The air in the car is stifling. Ivy is curled up in the passenger seat.

She doesn’t speak. I don’t try to make her.

Halfway to the hospital I reach over and splay my hand across her knee. My thumb gently rubbing against the soft fabric of her sweatpants.

I turn into the carpark and she directs me to the best place for us to park. As soon as we are stationary, I walk around the car and pull her door open. She slowly uncurls her body, stepping down from the car and into my side.

I leave her for a moment. Opening the back door of the SUV, I rifle through my training bag and take out the spare Broncos sweatshirt before slamming the door shut again.

I pull it over Ivy’s head, shutting the car door behind her as she threads her arms through it.

Putting my arm around her shoulders, I tuck her small body into mine and guide her towards the main entrance of the hospital.

It is late. Visiting hours are obviously over and the only people in the halls are the staff. Most cluster around the different nurse stations we pass. Ivy gently guides our path to the elevator. When the doors chime open on the fourth floor, I drop my arm and let her step in front of me so she can lead the way now.

She doesn’t get more than a few small steps before she pauses, her hand flying out behind her. She reaches for me. I catch up in one stride and thread my fingers through hers. Her grip tightens around my hand as she leads us to the room her grandfather resides in .

I have never really liked hospitals. I’ve been injured a few times throughout my career and the heavy bleach scent that clings to the air always makes my nose itch and my eyes water. I wonder how Ivy can possibly handle this, sitting in a brightly lit room for a whole day. But then, I’ve always been the patient. My parents’ parents all passed when I was little. My parents themselves were healthy and any minor procedures they’ve had never required me to be at a hospital with them for long.

I glance down at Ivy as she slows her pace. I watch her chest rise and fall with each deep breath as she gulps down air. I squeeze her hand, pulsing our fingers together once and then twice. We reach the end of the corridor and Ivy pushes through the last door on the left. The bed is empty and only half the lights are on. A man in a dark blue scrub set stands, writing notes on a whiteboard that sits below a TV mounted on the opposite wall to the bed.

“Dr. Bryden?” Ivy’s small voice echoes through the silent room.

The old doctor jerks back from the board, inhaling as if we surprised him. “Ivy. My god, sorry sweetheart but you scared me.” Bryden looks to be in his mid-fifties, closer to sixty. He has white hair and wrinkles litter his face. The way he looks at Ivy with sympathy brewing in his eyes tells me that they are well acquainted with each other. This must be her Pops’ regular doctor.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“Sit down, Ivy.” He replies with another kind smile. “Who’s this?” Bryden looks at me. He scans my face and a small flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes. I send up a silent prayer that he keeps whatever questions forming about me and who I am to himself.

Tonight is not the time for that particular conversation.

Ivy moves over to the bed, pulling me with her by our intertwined hands. “This is Scott. He’s … uh … a friend?” She stares up at me as I sit next to her. I can’t help the smirk that stretches across my mouth. Just by looking at her I can see the wheels turning, the questions that have nothing to do with her pops or why we’re here racing in her head. A momentary distraction from the awful to fret about who she is to me.

Who I am to her.

This girl doesn’t even know what she does to me.

A friend? Sure.

None of my other friends make me impossibly hard the way she does by just pursing those perfect lips of hers. None of the other friends I have kiss me like they’re trying to steal every last ounce of air from my lungs the way she does.

No, I’m not just her friend.

But again, now is not the time for that conversation.

“Scott Harvey,” I say, getting up from my seat next to Ivy’s and holding my hand out to shake Bryden’s. His eyes widen and his jaw drops, just a little. I quickly take my seat back on the bed and snake an arm around Ivy, pulling her close again. I redirect the topic to the reason we’re here. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Dr. Bryden sighs, leaning against the blank bit of wall next to the whiteboard he was writing on when we came in. There’s tiny writing of red letters, O-R-7 written across the top and then three other doctors' names below.

“Billy was taking a shower earlier this evening. Something he’s been relatively independent at so far. The nurses have told me that apart from the first day he was here, they haven’t needed to assist him in going to the bathroom or showering more than helping him out of bed and getting his things set up in the bathroom,” he explains.

Ivy leans further into me, her head resting against my shoulder as she listens. I tighten my hold around her shoulders.

“We think he slipped on some water getting out of the shower because the water hadn’t been running when the nurses found him. He wouldn’t have been out more than a minute, less even. The girls check on his room pretty regularly. They love him.” He offers Ivy another one of his smiles before continuing. “The fall caused a small brain bleed and he broke a rib or two upon landing. He was being rushed to emergency surgery as we called you in. He’ll be in there a few more hours but I’m confident they’ll stop the bleeding.”

Ivy sniffles beside me and I shift my attention to her face. A few tears roll in tracks down her cheeks. My hand lifts, a thumb brushing them away.

“Is he going to be okay?” Ivy asks in a small voice.

“I suspect he will be just fine. Rattled, but fine.” Bryden pushes off the wall and comes to stand in front of us, placing a gentle hand on Ivy’s shoulder.

“But,” he says, taking a deep breath like he’s preparing for a fight. “Ivy, we’ve talked about this before. Billy is old. He’s getting more and more fragile. This is simply the latest incident in a long line of them. You need to start making plans for long term, end of life care.”

She starts to shake her head furiously, back and forth, pushing herself away from Bryden. Away from me. She stands moving around the bed and over to the window, arms wrapping around herself. When she turns her back and her shoulders start to shake with the silent sobs wracking through her body, I stand too.

“Ivy,” Bryden continues, “I wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t true. I’ve been Billy’s doctor for a long time and I know he hates to show it, but he’s old. He’s dying. It’s time to come to terms with that.”

She doesn’t turn around and she doesn’t answer. Her phone buzzes a few times as she turns it over and over in her hands. The way that Bryden looks over at her, the way his eyes soften and his sad smile is still stretched across his mouth tells me he’s had this conversation with her before. He sighs again. “I will let you know when I have more updates. You can wait here if you’re going to stay, otherwise if you want to head home I will call you when I know more.”

“I’ll …” she hiccups. “I’m staying.”

“Okay. Let me or one of the nurses know if you need anything. I’m going to stay until the surgeons have given the all clear. ”

Her phone buzzes for the fifth time in less than a minute. She glances at the screen and types out a reply before setting it back on the side of the couch.

I know it’s probably Katie again. Ivy’s best friend has been messaging non-stop since she let her know that we were coming here. Katie has been messaging her nonstop.

Should she come to the hospital? No, Ivy had replied.

Are you alone? Also, no.

Is Pops alive? Yes. Barely.

I stand quietly behind her. She’s still shaking.

“Ivy, baby,” I whisper in her ear. I take her shoulders and pull her gently back toward the couch. “Sit down.”

She doesn't protest and lets me pull her down to the couch. Her body curls into mine and her head rests easily on my shoulder.

She’s quiet for a while. I keep thinking she might fall asleep but then her phone buzzes and her eyes peel open. I wish I could tell Katie to knock it off. My girl needs sleep. She’s strong as hell but she’s tired.

We haven’t heard anything about how the surgery is going yet and it’s been over an hour, at least. My legs are stiff. The arm that’s wrapped around Ivy has gone numb and the fingers that draw small, gentle patterns on her arm works automatically. I flex the fingers on my free hand in an effort to keep them awake.

Even in the moments when her eyes are closed, the tears still leak from beneath the closed lids. I lift my free hand to gently brush them away whenever they do. Every so often her body will start to convulse and she’ll gasp for air, like she stopped breathing but didn’t notice and it suddenly catches up with her.

She hasn’t said a word since Dr. Bryden left us here alone. The nurses rotate in every so often, checking in on her when they can. She doesn’t respond and I just say a quiet “no , thank you” for her whenever they come in .

Her phone buzzes again and I instinctively want to reach for it first so I can tell Katie to shut the fuck up with the texts but the buzzing keeps going. Someone is calling. Ivy lifts the screen so she can see who it is and I glimpse the name. The air empties from my lungs and an invisible band tightens around my chest.

Jeff Brady displays across the screen accompanied by a photo of her standing beside my coach. My head coach.

What the fuck?

Ivy swipes a finger across the screen, answering the call before putting the phone to her ear. “Hi, Uncle Jeff.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

Uncle Jeff?

Why the hell is she calling Coach, Uncle Jeff?

Are they related? Fuck, this is bad. This is so bad. How did I not know there is a connection between them?

Jeff has picture frame after picture frame of his family in his office. I remember studying them intently the day I flew into Boston to discuss terms of my deal with him. His assistant had let me wait in his office to avoid being seen and to avoid the news that I was chatting to other teams being leaked.

I waited for a full ten minutes for Coach and while I waited, I had nothing better to do other than study the photos that littered the large bookshelves lining his office.

Not one of those photos was of Ivy. Not one. I would remember.

At least, I think I would remember.

“I’m okay.” Her whisper down the phone breaks me from my mental spiral. “He’s still in surgery.”

Ivy’s gaze wanders upwards and locks with mine. Her eyes are red rimmed and watery. The blue is impossibly deep. Like the infinite depths of the middle of the ocean. A storm brews in the form of another wave of tears as she nods along with whatever Jeff is telling her on the other end of the line.

Slowly, she unravels herself and stands from the couch. The nerves in my body ripple and the limbs that were numb a moment ago are assaulted with the feeling of pins and needles. I ignore the feeling, my gaze watching Ivy as she paces from one end of the room to the other. She stares at her feet with the phone still pressed against her ear.

“Damn it,” she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “How did they find out?”

She’s silent again as she listens, her head tilting toward the ground as she tucks her chin and stares at the floor. As I watch, her eyes close and a few new tears roll down her cheeks. I move to the edge of the couch, stretching out my legs. Ivy nods her head again asking, “How long do you think until they surround the hospital?”

She lifts her head. Our gazes meet and she stares, an apology written all over her face. What the hell is she sorry for? What is Coach saying?

I almost lose my mind and tell her to put him on speaker. Instead, I clench my jaw and keep my mouth firmly shut.

“Okay, thank you for the heads up.” She sucks in a breath. “I will let you know as soon as I know. Thanks, Uncle Jeff.”

Uncle Jeff.

Again.

I wait for a beat before speaking. She tucks her phone back in her bag that sits on the floor and I use her momentary distraction to unclamp my jaw and swallow the lump in my throat. She straightens, turning back to me.

“Who was that?” I ask, feeling like an absolute dickhead for asking even though I know exactly who was on the other side on the line.

“My uncle. Well, he’s not really my uncle.” She crosses the room, coming to stop in front of my seat on the couch. Her foot taps mine. I open my legs a little further and she moves forward to stand between them .

“Not really your uncle?” I press. My hands land on her hips when she gets close enough and I can’t help but slip my fingers beneath the fabric of her sweatpants that cling to her hips.

“I have to tell you something.” She chews on her bottom lip. Her fingers lift to skim across my shoulders and an apology is written all over her face. Another time—one that isn’t plagued by this hospital trip and the fact my coach just rang her—I’ll remember to tease her about how easy she is to read.

“My family is sort of … football royalty.”

As if the sound is delayed, her words hit me late and my brain turns them over a few times. And then, it’s running a million miles an hour.

Shit.

“You’re … you’re what?” I ask her, my brain reeling from the football sized bomb just dropped. If she is ‘football royalty’ as she put it, how does she not know who I am? How could she possibly be oblivious to my job? My part in the team?

“My pops was a quarterback for the Broncos, years ago but he is kind of a legend. He’s been inducted into the hall of fame and everything. Billy Booker? I’m sure working for the team you’ve probably heard of him.” Her fingertips press into my shoulders, like she doesn’t want me to get up or leave her while she explains.

Billy Booker is familiar.

I know the name. I know who she’s talking about. A framed picture of his Super Bowl winning team hangs in the corridor at the training facility.

“Billy Booker is your pops?” I’m not sure why I need the clarification but my brain can’t seem to string more than that sentence together.

“My dad was a D1 athlete too. He died before the draft happened but it was rumored he would’ve been picked up by the Broncos too. It’s why I don’t like watching football. It … it just hurts watching and knowing he missed out. And, that I missed out on him. ”

“Matty Booker is your dad?” I ask. A faint memory of my parents taking me to a college ball game in LA when I was younger hits me. I saw him play. I saw her dad play.

“I … wow. Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I should’ve told you. Now the press knows about Pops and that he’s in surgery. They’ll be turning up at the hospital within the hour to cover the story. Uncle Jeff said he’s going to try and call someone to clear them but it’s only going to get worse before it gets better. My family’s story is going to be everywhere. Anytime something happens with Pops they bring it all up again and I have to avoid the TV for weeks.” She twists her fingers into my hoodie’s fabric as she rambles.

My lungs feel like they fill with lead and I suck in a breath that hardly helps. Shit. She feels bad and my lie is way worse.

I know that I should probably use this time to tell her who I am. We’re talking about football for the first time since that time in the alley at the bar. I could just … tell her. Easy.

But the way she stares down at me, tears once again threatening to spill over, stops me.

Soon.

Not yet.

“Hey.” I stand up, taking her face between my hands and thumbing her cheek to wipe away the fresh tears. “You have nothing to be sorry about. The paps don’t scare me. The fact you’re Boston football royalty doesn’t scare me.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Jeff is Jeff Brady, right?” I ask, wanting to confirm my suspicion that Coach is the one she was talking to. She cocks her head, eyes burning with the question of how I know that. I shrug. “I work for the team. I know who Jeff is.”

“Right,” she whispers. She lifts a hand to wipe at her cheeks but I beat her to it, smoothing the skin under a gentle caress of my thumb. Even when glistening with tears, her skin is smooth and soft .

My dick twitches in my pants. Fucking hell. Obviously my brain forgot to send the message that now is not the time.

I sigh, dropping my forehead to hers and closing my eyes. She takes a few deep breaths. I trace my fingers gently from her cheeks down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder and down her arms. I can’t help but notice the way my fingers sink into her soft waist. It’s automatic for my hands to land here. I love the feel of her under my touch.

All of me loves it, it seems.

In my head, I start listing my teammates and their positions as I tell her, “It’s going to be okay. He’ll be fine.”

“I hate when they bring it all up again,” she tells me quietly. “They camp outside the house hounding me for quotes about Pop’s and my dad, and they even want comments on the current team. Like I give a rat’s ass about a bunch of players I don’t even know.”

My body convulses, a small shake ripping through me as I choke on a laugh. Even with the tears on her face freshly dried and the shivers of her body only just subsiding from her grief, she’s fiery. Determined.

I like her more than I should for someone I’ve only known for a few weeks.

“What about Jeff?” I ask before I can stop myself. I have to know how she’s related to him. I don’t know all that much about Coach’s family life, haven’t really found myself caring all that much about football so far this season thanks to the bombshell currently in my arms, so all I know is that he’s married with some kids.

He could be her real uncle.

Fuck, was I dating Coach’s niece?

Shit.

“—my dad’s old coach from college. Practically family.” She finishes, pulling away from me. She barely takes a step away from grasp before I reel her back in.

“Huh? ”

She cocks her head, lifting an eyebrow. “You asked a question and then didn’t even listen to the answer.”

There is a small smile teasing her lips so I smirk, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. This time, she giggles and I swear that half the weight I’ve been carrying since she started to cry lifts instantly.

“He used to coach my dad in college and his kids are around the same age as me, older though. He was really there for my parents when they got pregnant with me in their freshman year of college, lived on the same street for ages and then, he ended up getting the Broncos coaching gig. He was always begging to have Pops over for barbecues when I was growing up. Started because Uncle Jeff mainly wanted to pick Pops’ football brain but they ended up becoming really close.”

“So he’s family?” I ask.

“Yeah. He’s family.”

Well, at least they aren’t blood related.

Sounds like he is a pretty big part of her life and regardless, the moment she tells him about me, I’ll be outed.

Keeping my identity a secret was becoming too risky.

Still …

Looking around at the hospital room—the dimly lit bathroom with its door just ajar, the bed in the middle that is piled with colorful blankets obviously brought from home by Ivy, the sad couch in the corner of the room we’ve been sitting on—I can still convince myself that today is not the day to tell her that I am one of the football players she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about.

So, I let myself be convinced.

The silence envelopes us once again but neither of us move from where we are standing. Ivy leans into me, head resting back on my shoulder and my arms pull tighter around her. She fits against my body like a glove. Like …

Like she is made to fit me. Just me .

Ivy’s phone buzzes on the table and she barely glances away from the hand of cards she is holding. In the last hour, I’ve discovered that there is probably nothing she is more competitive about than UNO.

After forty minutes and multiple hands, I’m starting to fear for my life every time I win. My girl is determined like nothing else to outsmart me during a hand of the children’s card game.

We were sitting around, waiting to hear more news of either her Pops or the paparazzi frenzy beginning to populate outside when Ivy sighed and got to her feet. She got the card game from one of the drawers, pulled the roll away table between us and dealt out a hand.

Before today, the last time I played UNO was when I’d been a kid but I haven’t laughed like this in a long time.

It is too hard to not laugh.

Every time I play a reverse, or a skip, or a draw four card, Ivy’s little scowl burrows deeper. The crease between her brows drawing them closer and closer together, her eyes darting between the deck of cards between us and the ones in her hand furiously as she thinks about her next move.

Every time she gets to her last card she knocks so rapidly, so loudly on the roll away table between us that I’m scared it might collapse between us.

That doesn’t mean I’m not afraid to give it my all when it comes to winning. It takes a few rounds at first but eventually my memory of the game catches up to me and I give her a run for her money.

Her eyes narrow, the phone still buzzing next to her as she watches the single card left in my hand with disgust. She is going to lose; she knows it and she hates the thought.

I am loving it.

Reveling in her competitive nature and riling her up, I glance at the phone and then back to her, meeting the hard gaze she’s fixed me with. “You going to answer that? Saved by the bell it seems.”

I wiggle my single card between my fingers, showing it off .

She scowls grumbling, “You wish.”

Slowly, as if the card she’s playing is made of glass, she puts the green five on the pile. She retracts her hand slowly, eyeing me.

I let my face fall with shock, trying to mix in a hint of disappointment and close my eyes slowly. For effect, I mutter under my breath, “Damn.”

When I look up, Ivy has a look of triumph and elation on her face. Her eyes shine with victory and she knocks on the table in quick succession. “Uno,” she calls out.

I shouldn’t be toying with her but it’s proving to be too much fun and making her laugh has quickly gone to the top of my priority list. I lift my free hand, reaching for the pack of cards facing down that we draw from each round. As she begins to beam, watching my hand as it draws nearer, I slap the draw four and color change card in my other hand down on the upturned pile, winning the game and crushing my girl’s victory in its wake.

“What? No!” She looks back and forth between me and the card in disbelief and I can’t help but laugh. Her face is as beautiful in defeat and confusion as it was just moments ago when she thought she was going to win and end my streak.

I mean, I like her, obviously, but I’m still a professional athlete.

You can’t win Super Bowls by letting the other team win.

“Sorry, baby.” I lean back in my seat, stretching my arms behind my head. “You should’ve seen your face though. You really thought you had me there.”

“I did have you! I can’t believe this.” She shakes her head at me, a smile peeking through.

I lean across the table, swiping her cards and catching her gaze. When her navy eyes meet mine, I smirk and throw her a wink. “Maybe next time.”

Her phone buzzes again, this time with a text. She sighs. “Great.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, shuffling the cards in my hands .

She shakes her head. “I love him. I do. But Uncle Jeff wants to come here and it’s only going to make the media circus brewing outside worse.”

I stiffen. If Coach comes here, if he sees me with Ivy, it’s over. Before I can think of something to say, she is already replying back, typing a message across the screen and setting her phone down.

She nods to the cards in my hand. “Okay, one more round before he gets here.”

A lump forms in my throat, the cards still in my hands as I stare at her phone. Shit. Fuck. Shit, fuck, shit.

I’m screwed.

I have to tell her. It will be better coming from me now rather than Coach outing me when he gets here.

I swallow hard, licking my suddenly dry lips and gaze back at Ivy. I open my mouth, ready to tell her when a small knock sounds at the door. One of the nurses that has been checking in every so often peeks around the corner. “Ivy?”

“Yeah?” Ivy’s head snaps up to the nurse.

There is so much hope in her voice as she looks at the nurse. I hope like hell that there is finally some good news. My confession is on the tip of my tongue but I wait, watching Ivy as the nurse speaks.

“Your pops is in recovery now. Would you like to see him?”

“Yes.” Ivy jumps out of her seat; the cards forgotten. I follow her, grabbing my own phone, keys and wallet from where I left it on the couch.

The nurse nods. “I’ll take you up now.”

“Ives?” I say, my hand reaching out for hers before she can race after the nurse. “You go see your pops. I’m going to head home.” It is the shit thing to do but this nurse is giving me an out. And I’m taking it. Like a coward.

“Oh.”

I rub a palm over my chest. “Unless, you want me to—”

“Sorry, but it’s family only in the recovery room.” The nurse gives me a sad look, and then turns back to Ivy. “I’ll be at the nurse’s station when you’re ready.”

“Okay, thank you,” she replies softly. Turning back to me, the disappointment from mere moments ago has lessened. “Thank you for coming with me.”

I nod, stepping in closer to her and breathing in her scent. “You call me if you need anything, okay?”

She drops her head to my chest and my arms lift automatically to pull her tighter against me. “Okay.”

It is a muffled word said into my hoodie. I drop a kiss into her hair, inhaling. When I pull back, so does she, raising her chin to look up at me. She lifts a little on her toes.

I kiss her goodbye and hope once she knows the truth, she doesn’t hate me. Because right now, I’m hating myself enough for the both of us.