Page 11

Hamish

They say hospitals never sleep, but I didn’t expect mine to flirt, giggle, and offer me juice every seven minutes.

Took Mum long enough to leave, and Marie went along, too, the both of them bickering all the way down the hall like two peacocks fighting over a mirror.

I haven't had a moment's peace because Coach and Jody have been arguing over what this injury means for my career.

Jody's saying I can nail down the ESPN sportscasting role and help open more of the United States audience to European football.

Or, as we call it, football .

He's persuasive, I'll give him that. Says Ted Lasso built interest. That Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElroy buying Wrexham was a blessing for my career. That my good looks and happy nature mean endorsements come easy.

The two raise their voices, but it's hard to pay attention now. The painkillers have kicked in and as the adrenaline's neutralized by time and this soft bed, it all marinates in me.

I'm cooked.

And I miss Amy terribly.

It's my fault she left–I shooed her away gently, telling her she needed to go home to her mum and da, to get some home cooking and sleep. Yes, she has a flat here in Boston, but the way she lit up when I mentioned Jason made me pour it on nice and thick.

Sometimes, Amy needs to be nudged–nae, shoved–to do what's right for her. To take her own needs into account, override what's expected, and do what feels good.

Today is one of those days.

After they hissed at each other a bit, Jody sits stone-still in the chair beside me, watching like he’s scouting for emotional weakness.

Coach stands by the window with his arms crossed and fury barely leashed, his body physically rejecting the idea of patience.

I've no idea what they were fighting about, but it seemed to have something to do with how hard to push me to get my arse back on the pitch.

And next to them, a golden statue of competence, stands Dr. Monica Carlo.

Tall. Blonde. Broad shoulders. The kind of woman who can win arguments with her biceps alone. Already famous for being the daughter of the American football coach who brought his NFL team to the Super Bowl an unprecedented number of times, she became an accomplished athlete in her own right.

Deadlifting. Near-Olympic level until an injury sidelined her career.

Apparently, I've now joined a club I didn't know existed.

She nods along as Jelshi finishes his rundown.

“Nine to twelve months if rehab goes well,” he says. “It’s a complex ACL and meniscus tear with some mechanical locking. Surgery is on the table, pending further imaging. Not urgent today, but we’ll need to decide soon.”

“Aye. So I’m out for a year. Brilliant. Just in time ta miss everythin’ that matters.”

Carlo nods. “I agree with Jelshi's assessment. It’s a serious recovery. I know. I blew mine at a national weightlifting meet. The knee doesn’t care about your timing.”

Before I can respond, the door cracks open again.

A nurse enters holding a blood pressure cuff and looking like she just stepped out of a music video. “Hi! Just checking BP again. Dr. Jelshi said you’re a VIP.”

“I’m no’ dead,” I grumble. “I’ve had it taken three times today.”

She giggles. “I know. But you’re Hamish McCormick. Your face is on my boyfriend’s cologne bottle.”

She leaves and five seconds later, another nurse walks in with a thermometer. “Sorry—temp check. It’s protocol.” She leans a little too close. “I saw you in the ad for that moisturizer. You don’t even have pores.”

I stare at her. “I’m tryin’ ta figure out how ta walk again, and yer talkin’ about ma skin? ”

She just smiles and slips out.

“Right,” Carlo snaps. “No more vitals unless he flatlines.”

There’s a pause. Even Coach looks spooked.

Then the door opens again .

A woman in heels and a blazer strides in like she owns the building.

“Mr. McCormick! I’m with hospital quality assurance.

Jasmine Fischer. We just wanted to extend a personal welcome and thank you for trusting our hospital with your care.

If there’s anything we can do for you, anything at all—room upgrade, preferred catering, foot rub—just say the word. ”

She hands me a business card with a gold foil logo.

"I didn't pick the hospital. Ma physio did."

"Well, thank your physio for us."

“Ye’ve got ta be kiddin’.”

“I’m dead serious. You have no idea how many lives you've improved. Your scarf campaign for Burberry changed my entire skincare routine. Those patterns and my new color pallette make such a difference!”

She winks. Winks.

Then leaves.

Dr. Carlo rubs her temples. “Is this what it’s like when Taylor Swift gets a pap smear?”

“Worse,” I say. “At least she can walk.”

I try to shift in the bed, just slightly. Huge mistake.

The pain rips through me—deep, stabbing, like my knee’s auditioning for a horror film. I grab the edge of the mattress, grit my teeth, and taste failure.

“Fffff— bloody hell. ” And this is what it's like with painkillers. I've never experienced anything like it, and I can take a hit. I can struggle through pain. I can use sheer force of will to bring on adrenaline rushes that mask it.

My body locks up. Sweat beads at my temples. Everything aches.

I’m not just feeling pain.

I’m humiliated.

I can’t even sit up on my own. I was supposed to be celebrating my engagement right now, with forty thousand of my closest friends, with Mum and Da and Darren and the gang, getting covered in glitter by Pookie, being begged for a fiver by Maggie so he could get more caramel popcorn from the cute girl selling concessions.

I should have Amy in my arms, staring at her new diamond ring, Marie gushing over us, Jason giving me fatherly looks, my cousin Declan making jokes about how our family tree is turning into a Celtic knot.

Instead, I’m in a hospital bed, being coddled as if I’m a wounded swan who once modeled for Adidas.

I had a plan for how we'd celebrate privately tomorrow, long after the cheers faded in our ears, morning light welcoming us after a sweet night of back-breaking lovemaking.

Amy. A beach. Donuts from the shop she loves that “infuses everything with joy,” whatever the hell that means, though I like it. A bottle of overpriced wine.

I even learned how to unfold a picnic blanket with flair.

And then I went and destroyed everything, starting with my knee.

Didn’t see Blavek coming. Didn’t protect myself. Went for the ball like an idiot, got clattered, and now I’ve got Dr. Muscle Barbie telling me I’ll be lucky to jog again by Christmas .

I stare at the ceiling. I’ve let Amy down. Mum and Da, too. So many people rely on me.

I’ve let myself down. I’ve let everything down.

Thank God, my phone buzzes. Amy. Facetime.

My thumb hovers. I tap.

Her face fills the screen. Gorgeous. Flushed. Windswept curls. And behind her?

Carnage.

There's screaming. Pillows flying. It appears that her mother is in full tactical throwdown with Mum over what looks like a planter shaped like a goose.

"Looks like yer gettin' ta ken ma parents just fine," I joke weakly.

Please let her laugh.

Please let me still be the version of myself she thinks I am.

"Hamish, you've got to do something," Amy pleads, eyes red-rimmed and wide on my phone screen. She's pacing now, the chaotic blur of motion behind her making me feel seasick, which is saying something considering I'm flat on my back in a hospital bed.

"Aboot what?"

"Your mother."

"Ma? What's she done now?"

"She–she's so critical! Non-stop negativity! She can't go two seconds without making a nasty judgment about something. She criticized the kitchen rug tassels, for God's sake!"

"Aye. That's Mum. Just ignore it."

"Ignore it? What? It's painful and it’s never-ending! I can't ignore it!"

"What exactly d’ye want me ta do, Amy? I’m stuck here like a sausage roll in a vendin’ machine,” I say as calmly as I can, though the shrieking beeps of my blood pressure monitor betray me.

"I don’t know! Something! They've both gone completely off the rails. I yelled at your Mum. Twice."

"I canna believe ye did that.” My heart kicks like a mule. Yelling at Fiona McCormick is like arguing with a storm cloud—useless and guaranteed to get you soaked.

Amy stops pacing, turning the camera to her face. Her cheeks are bright pink. “She asked again why I wasn’t wearing your engagement ring.”

“And…” I hesitate, “why aren’t ye?”

Her mouth drops open slightly. “I love your ring, Hamish. I adore it. But I don’t want to wear it until we can be together and you can be the one to put it on my hand."

I wasn't expecting that answer. Now I feel like a cad. A useless, broken cad. I couldn't even put my own engagement ring on my girl's finger right.

Another failure today.

"And now your mother thinks I’m rejecting you, which–” her voice cracks, “–I’m not.”

"Aye, love,” I say quickly, my chest aching. “I ken that. Ye’re not rejectin’ me."

But maybe you should.

The thought slips in, a cold whisper, making my spine tingle with fear in a way I've only ever felt before on a pitch. But that was back when I was younger and less secure, a new player who didn't know how to let instinct and muscle memory blend with hard work.

"Good. I love you. Love you to the core of my being. But I can't take this!"

"Mum’s just bein’…well, Mum.” It's weak, I know, but true.

A crash blasts through the speaker. Then comes Mum’s voice, shrill and righteous: “Farmington Country Club? O’er mah deid body , Marie! It's Edinburgh Castle, St. Margaret’s Chapel, or there’s nae weddin’ at all! I’ve dreamed o’ this since I was a wee lassie!”

“Well,” Marie fires back, matching her pitch, “Farmington has been my dream since Shannon was getting married. Carol eloped. Amy's my last chance. I’m not flying to Scotland so my daughter can get married in some damp medieval cave!”

“ Cave? It’s a chapel, ye drama queen!”

“Drama? DRAMA? Fiona, you have seven other weddings in the future. Let me have this one!”