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"Hamish," she purrs, practically draping herself over the bedrail. "If you need any... special help with your rehab, you just ask for Nurse Candy."

Amy’s grip on the plastic chair arm tightens so hard, I swear I hear it crack.

"Cheers, hen," I say with a wink, fully enjoying the way Amy’s eyes narrow to lethal slits.

"Oh, my gosh," Nurse Candy gushes, "I just loved your Sports Illustrated covers! The nude ones especially. Absolute perfection. You're a literal sculpture come to life. I mean, honestly, I bought two copies—one for the living room and one for my bedroom."

Amy makes a noise that sounds like a chipmunk being strangled. "Where's the QR code for filling out those satisfaction surveys again?" she asks loudly, triggering shifty eyes in Nurse Eye Candy.

"Moving on!" Dr. Jelshi claps, clearly used to this circus. "It will take a whole team to help you recover: orthopedic surgeons, physiotherapists, sports psychologists, nutritionists, and maybe even a priest if we’re desperate."

"Sounds like a bloody Avengers reboot," I grumble.

"Timeline," he goes on, "nine to twelve months, best case. Maybe longer."

My stomach drops to my socks. "That's an entire season!" Jody is going to lose his shit. I'll hear about nothing but contracts and injury clauses for the next...

Nine to twelve months?

"And," he adds gently, "it might be worth considering alternative work. Endorsements? Broadcasting? Modeling? I know you’ve done some of that in the past."

"Ye want me tae be just a pretty face? " I squawk.

"You'd be amazing on television," Amy says too brightly. "The ESPN deal could come through."

"That was supposed to be in addition to playing, no’ instead of! I’m no’ done yet," I grumble. "I've taken worse hits than this."

Dr. Jelshi smiles kindly. "Bad luck, Hamish. That's all this is."

Bad luck . Two words that taste like ash in my mouth. Worse than drinking glitter.

But I've beaten bad luck before. And if bad luck thinks it's finished off Hamish McCormick this time, it's in for a hell of a fight.

Tap tap tap

Two familiar faces appear in the doorway and thank God, it's not my mother and Marie.

It's Jody and Coach.

The door swings open and they walk in. Coach is all steely glare and khaki silence. Jody is rubbing his temples like he’s prepping for a tax audit.

Dr. Jelshi transforms instantly. He straightens, tones down the wacky, and gives a tiny cough. “Gentlemen. It’s an honor. I’ve followed your careers closely.”

Coach Jensen just grunts.

“I’ve always dreamed of being the team’s orthopedic surgeon,” he goes on. “And I must say, this diagnosis was… clinically fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” Jody repeats skeptically.

“Like a lunar eclipse,” Jelshi says. “Rare, powerful. Slightly tragic. Can I interest the team in my CV?”

Coach Jensen gives him the kind of look you reserve for spoiled condiments.

Jody points at the x-ray on screen. “Is this Hamish’s knee? Or some kind of worst-case example?”

Dr. Jelshi nods solemnly. “He might recover with work. But getting back to full form? That’s a tall order.”

“Tall orders are Hamish’s specialty,” Amy says.

Coach studies the x-ray. “The team’s got depth, but we don’t have Hamish depth.”

“Thank ye, Coach,” I say, throat tight.

“I meant, your merchandise line sells better than the entire midfield combined.”

“Oh.”

Jody sighs. “We’ll look at more lifestyle endorsements. ESPN. Maybe even reality TV?—”

“I’m nae goin’ on Love Island, Jody!”

“I was thinking Strictly Come Dancing. ”

“Better. But still?—”

Amy cuts through the madness. “He’s not done. Hamish can have a career beyond football. He’s not just a striker. He’s a brand. A good man. A partner. A future dad. He’s more than this injury.”

Silence falls.

Even Coach softens.

Dr. Jelshi clears his throat. “Well, I think we’ve covered everything.” He turns to leave, then pauses, signaling to Amy.

She stands, follows him to the door, and leans in to whisper.

He chuckles.

“What’d ye say ta him?” I call out.

Amy just smiles.

“No, seriously. What did ye say?”

Dr. Jelshi waves. “Nothing, Mr. McCormick. Just… professional curiosity.”

“I heard that! Ma leg’s the problem, no’ ma todger!”

The room goes quiet.

“I can still shag like a champion! Blavek kicked ma knee, no’ ma manhood!”

Amy beams. “Exactly what I told him.”

“Good. Let’s make sure the next person who walks in here knows that, too.”

The door crashes open.

"HAMISH!"

Mum storms in, a whirlwind in tartan, dragging Amy's mum behind her. She’s got that mad gleam in her eye that means someone’s about to get hugged, scolded, or both.

Amy turns red. Not pink, not flushed. Full scarlet. Dr. Jelshi suddenly finds his chart very interesting. Jody’s lips twitch. Coach stares off at the ceiling with the same look he gets during postgame interviews when he’s refusing to answer.

"Ma wee boy!" Mum cries, throwing her arms around me like I’ve just returned from war. "Are ye in pain? Are the nurses bein’ gentle? Have they fed ye yet? I brought yer peppermint foot cream and the good socks!"

"Mum, I’m fine?—"

WHACK

Right upside the back of my head.

"ARE YE DAFT?!" she roars. "Lettin’ that slab-headed Blavek take ye down like a sack o’ tatties! What in God's name were ye thinkin’? Ye think this is amateur hour? That yer still nineteen and made o’ bouncin’ rubber?"

I shrink about two inches into the bed.

"I tried?—"

" Tried? Tryin’s for toddlers learnin’ ta pee standin’ up. Ye do, son! Ye win! Ye dominate the pitch, not roll ’round on it like a baby wi' a bruised banana!"

I can see the shock pour into Amy, flowing fast and suddenly, slowing down as she sees what Mum’s doing to me. I'm used to it. Toughens me up. You can't get to where I am in my career without being tough.

"Fiona, please." Amy stands, her voice tight and sharp.

"Please what, pet?"

“Please stop yelling at him." Another woman would say the words in a pleading tone, deferring to my ma with a gentle touch.

Amy isn't any other woman, though.

Amy sounds like she wants to take that sack o' tatties Mum talked about and bash her head in.

She holds my hand and I give hers a good squeeze as she says tartly, "He just proposed to me, right before the EMTs rolled him off the pitch. He’s been sitting here facing the possibility of never playing again.

He doesn’t need you berating him. Why would you stress him out like that?

Look at him." She points to my mummified leg. "He needs compassion, not a screed.”

Mum whirls on her.

“Oh, aye? And who are you ta tell me what ma son needs? Ye were’na there when he was a wee three-year-old wi' a strong left kick. Ye didna go to sae many games, yer young’uns have permanent grass stains on the soles o' their feet. Have ye stripped a disgustin' kit yer teen sweat into sae much it could double as the sea? Ye ever taken a tackle from a six-foot-three defender wi’ vengeance in his soul? Ye ever played through a sprain so bad, ye could see yer ankle bone poppin’ out? ”

“No,” Amy says, moving closer, “but I know how to be a decent human being when someone’s hurt.”

I close my eyes at the words "decent human being." Amy's just called Mum’s character into question. This will go about as well as telling me I canna hold my whisky.

“Oh, do ye, now?” Mum steps right up in her face. “Then maybe ye’d like ta take it outside. See who really cares more for ma Hamish.”

I groan into the pillow. “Mum, please, dinna start a punch-up in the trauma ward.”

Amy laughs in Mum’s face. Whoa. Didn't see that coming.

"You want to have a street fight with your future daughter-in-law over a comment about how you're being an arse to him?"

Marie's jaw drops. Mine, too.

Mum’s tightens.

"Strong words for a woman who willna even wear the ring ma boy gave her!"

Och. Now it's on.

"I WAS WAITING FOR A PRIVATE MOMENT WHEN HE'S NOT TALKING ABOUT EATING GLITTER BANANA PUDDING TO HAVE HIM SLIDE IT ON MY FINGER!" Amy bellows.

I swear Marie's hair just blew an inch back off her face from the sheer G-force of the yell.

"DO YOU WANT TO SEE THE FINGER NEXT TO THE ONE THE RING GOES ON?" Amy continues, and I'm helpless. Worse than that.

I'm useless.

Because my ma and my betrothed are about to rip each other's hair out, and all I can do is lie here and wonder what glitter banana pudding tastes like.

"Amy," Marie says calmly, reaching for her elbow, but Amy shakes her off. As Mum takes a step closer, her eyes crawl from the tips of Amy’s shoes to the crown of her bonnie ginger head.

"Didna think ye had it in ye. Huh," Mum says, her finger going in Amy's face. “Good. Ye have the fire ye'll need ta go through life wrangling this numpty." Mum leans forward and smacks my face lightly, a love tap, as it were. "Ye coulda picked a meeker gal, Hamish."

"Love picked her for me, Mum.”

"What's the priest goin' ta think o' that mouth on her?"

I can see Amy's fingers twitching.

Marie edges forward, holding her wedding binder as a peace offering.

“All right, all right. Let’s not throw hands over a proposal.

There’s no way to spin ‘hospital brawl between bride and mother of the groom’ into a good wedding hashtag.

” Marie frowns, "And what's this about a priest?

We're having a minister for the wedding. "

Amy and Mum glare at each other. Coach mutters to no one in particular, “Had locker room fights over McCormick before. Didn’t expect one in a hospital.”

Jody says, “We could livestream it. Rehab funding and PR.”

Dr. Jelshi clears his throat politely. “Do I need to call security? Or just make popcorn?”

Amy pulls herself away first. Mum backs off, slow and stubborn.

Then Marie looks at my leg and says, “Just to clarify—there’s no permanent damage... downstairs, right? I’ve got grandchild projections riding on this.”

“WHAT IS WRONG WI’ YE PEOPLE?” I shout so hard, I begin to cough.

Mum’s eyes light up with the first flicker of genuine fear I've seen in her since Pookie swallowed a lipstick when she was four and pooped red for days. She leans in toward Dr. Jelshi.

“Doctor,” she whispers, “his injury won’t affect... performance? ”

“IT’S MA KNEE, NO’ MA TODGER!”

Jody snorts. Coach turns away. Jelshi nearly chokes.

“Blavek kicked ma knee, not ma manhood! ”

Amy grins like she’s just been handed a ring and a remote control that works on the entire world.

“Good,” she says. “Because we’re testing that theory the moment we get home.”

I groan and cover my face.

“Someone end me. Ma career’s in ruins and now I’ve nae privacy either.”

“Amy,” Marie chides. “For as much as I want more grandchildren, you have to wait until after my Farmington—I mean, after the wedding.”

"WHAT?" Mum shrieks, spinning like she’s ready to fight. "If they want ta have a wee bairn, let them! It’s no’ like yer uterus is involved!

Ye’ve got grandweans already, aye? I want ma first!

And Fergus isn’t gettin’ any younger, poor man’s hips click like castanets in the cold!

Dinna go tellin’ ma son when he can make babies!

Yer no’ the manager o' his willie. That’s no’ yer lane, woman! "

“I—” Amy tries.

Mum steamrolls. “And what’s this Farmington shite? There’s nae Farmington in Scotland! Ye want the weddin’ tae be next to a golf course wi' valet parking, or on the beautiful cliffs of Edinburgh Castle, wi' bagpipes and a three-hour ceilidh, eh? And wi' a proper priest.”

Marie looks at Mum, whose face is increasingly red, and then at Amy, who clearly wishes Blavek had kicked her in the head and made her pass out. Finally, Marie turns her head toward me like she’s an owl mid-exorcism.

“Scotland?” she echoes. “What does Scotland have to do with their wedding?”

Have you ever seen a human tomato covered in plaid explode?

We're about to.