Page 12 of The Fake Husband Play (That Steamy Hockey Romance #1)

I curl my fingers into my lap, squeezing my hands into one tight fist.

“She’s going to be okay, Elly,” Grammercy says as he pulls into a parking spot in the dedicated ER lot. “I can feel it.”

I nod, holding in all the words rising inside me.

Things like—yeah, she’ll probably be okay tonight. But what about tomorrow night? What about next week, when our insurance is gone? What about a year from now, two years, three?

Is a better standard of life really in the cards for my little girl?

Or is our life always going to feel like this…like we’re driving on thin ice, always dangerously close to skidding over the center line into oncoming traffic?

After he’s shut off the car, Grammercy shocks me by reaching over, covering my fisted hands with his and saying in a low, comforting voice, “You’re not alone tonight, okay? I’m here. Just let me know what you need, and I’ll do my best to help in any way I can.”

Blinking away tears, I squeak, “You’re c-coming in? You don’t have to. I never expected— I mean, just giving me a ride was such a help, I never?—”

“Oh, hush, chère ,” he cuts in gently. “Of course, I’m coming in. Come on, let’s go find your baby.”

Nodding fast, I rasp out, “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

Across the parking lot, the automatic doors of the children’s ER whoosh open in front of us with a mechanical sigh, releasing a wave of sensory memories, none of them good.

It’s not just my own little girl’s suffering that I’ve witnessed here.

Memories of other kids’ tears and cries of pain echo in my ears as I hurry to the check-in area.

It’s Pammy on duty tonight. She recognizes me on sight and is already holding out a visitor’s badge by the time I reach the desk, proving I’ve been here too many damn times.

“Hey, Elly. She’s in bay twelve, sweetheart,” Pammy says, with a tired smile. “I’ll open the doors. You know the way.” She arches a brow at Grammercy, interest sparking in her weary gaze. “Do you need another badge? For your…friend?”

“Yes, please,” Grammercy says.

“Y-yes, please,” I echo inanely as I clip the badge to my shirt with trembling fingers. But now that I’m here, so close to Mimi, I’m finding it even harder to focus on anything else, even my NHL escort.

I need to see her.

Now.

As soon as the automatic doors open, I bustle down the corridor, Grammercy keeping pace close behind me.

The hallway feels endless, lined with cheerful murals of cartoon animals that are supposed to make the experience of being a kid in the hospital feel less terrifying, but somehow only make it feel more surreal.

Bay ten… bay eleven…

“This one,” I whisper, more to myself than to Grammercy, pushing aside the pale blue curtain that serves as a door. “Mimi?”

“Elly! You’re here.” Nancy practically launches herself out of the uncomfortable-looking chair beside Mimi’s bed.

The exhaustion on her face tells the story of the last hour, but her smile is real.

“She’s doing so much better. Fever’s down to one hundred at the last check, and she started asking for a snack a few minutes ago.

Feeling snacky is always a good sign in my book. ”

“Mine, too. Thank you so much, Nancy, you’re the best,” I say, but I’m already moving past her, to where my baby girl is propped up against pillows in the narrow hospital bed, her big eyes locked on me. “Hey, bug. How are you feeling?”

“Poopy,” Mimi says, summoning a soft snort of amusement from behind me. “But not as poopy as before. I’m glad you’re here, Mama. I needed your hugs.”

“I needed yours, too, baby.” I perch on the side of her mattress, wrapping my arms around her as she burrows into my chest. I stroke a gentle hand up and down her back.

Her dark curls are still damp with sweat, but her voice is strong as she whispers, “And I’m starving. I need apple juice and chips.”

“We’ll get you some,” I assure her as she sits back. “As soon as the nurses say it’s okay.” I give her wrist a gentle squeeze, carefully avoiding the IV taped to her tiny hand. “How was the needle? Not too pokey this time?”

She shakes her head. “Nope, the nurse was super good and got it in one try. And then the doctor gave me medicine that tastes like cherry instead of the yucky bubble gum.”

I nod, forcing an upbeat note into my voice. “Sounds like a ten out of ten. I mean, as far as hospital visits go. And you got to ride in the ambulance. You haven’t ridden in one of those in a long time. Were the lights awesome and flashy?”

Her still glassy eyes flicker with excitement. “Yeah, it was fun. They put the siren on super loud. It was cool, even though it hurt my head a little.” She lowers her voice as she adds in a whisper loud enough for half the ward to hear, “And Nancy cussed when we hit a big speed bump. ”

Nancy laughs. “I did. Sorry, buddy. Sometimes I cuss in a crisis.”

“Same,” I assure her. “No worries at all. I’m so thankful you were there with her when I couldn’t be.”

“Me, too,” Mimi assures her. “I’m sorry I told on you. My brain is fuzzy. You’re still my favorite babysitter.”

“No worries, honey,” Nancy says, blowing her a kiss as she gathers her purse.

“But I’m going to head home if that’s okay?

” she says to me. “My roommate’s been texting about drama with her boyfriend, and I could use a snack, myself.

We didn’t get to eat much pizza before Mimi started feeling pretty bad. ”

“Totally. Nancy, I can’t even begin to thank you.” I stand up to give her a quick hug. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Of course, El. Always have your back,” she says firmly. “That’s what friends are for. Besides, this one is my girl.” She winks at Mimi, who beams. “See you soon, sweets. Hope you feel so much better.”

“Thanks, Nancy,” Mimi says, yawning as I settle back on the mattress beside her. She yawns again as she takes my hand, threading her little fingers through mine. “I’m tired, Mama.”

“You can sleep if you want, baby,” I assure her.

“But wake me up if the nurse says I can have juice and chips?”

I smooth her hair from her forehead with my free hand, so grateful for the cool skin beneath my fingers. “Absolutely. The second they say I’m free to hit the vending machines, I’ll get Doritos and Cheetos and Fritos. All the crunchy O’s. Just for you, and you don’t even have to share.”

Her lips quirk at the edges as her lids grow heavy. “I’ll share. I know you love Cheetos, Mama. ”

“Not as much as I love you,” I whisper, my throat tight.

God, what wouldn’t I give for this to be the last time I spend the night at the hospital with this kid?

I hate feeling so helpless to make being alive in her little body easier for her.

I can’t even tell her stories about our relatives who had arthritis like this and thrived despite it because I don’t know who they are.

My father and mother abandoned me so thoroughly, they might as well be ghosts.

But I can tell her the stories of us .

Of her.

Of how much I love her and admire her and will always be by her side, no matter what.

“Want me to tell you the story of brave baby Mimi to help you go to sleep?” I ask, tucking her stuffed unicorn under the covers with her, so glad Nancy remembered to grab Miss Sparklehorn. She always comes with us to the hospital, our little rainbow-maned good luck charm.

“Yes,” she whispers as she snuggles into the pillow. “I love that one.”

“Me, too,” I say. It’s half true. I love that she’s always been so brave.

I just hate that she has to be. “Once upon a time, there was a very brave little girl named Mimi with shiny black curls like a fairy-tale princess and magical art skills in her fingers, who had to go to the hospital for the first time when she was only two years old and barely bigger than a possum.”

Mimi giggles. “Not a possum. A raccoon. I was barely bigger than a raccoon.”

“Oh, that’s right,” I say, pretending this isn’t part of the ritual. But it is. I always mix up the animals at first. “You’re right, she was barely bigger than a raccoon, so tiny the paramedic couldn’t figure out how to strap her onto the stretcher.”

“So, they strapped Mama on and told her to hold baby Mimi extra tight.”

“They sure did,” I say. “And Mama and Mimi took a ride all the way down four flights of stairs in their old apartment because the lights were out in the whole city from a big storm and the elevator wasn’t working.”

“And Mama was scared,” Mimi murmurs as her eyes begin to close.

“I was, but Mimi giggled the whole way down, even though she had a fever and a cough and the paramedics had to keep stopping to put a portable nebulizer over her little nose and mouth to help her breathe,” I say, finding myself comforted by the old story, too.

It’s a tale of survival, evidence that we can get through hard times to the other side.

“When we got to the ambulance, she barely cried at all,” I continue, soft and low as she drifts away from me, into a sleep I hope is peaceful and pain-free.

“Even though the siren was loud and scary. And at the hospital, she held Mama’s hand while she got three big shots and the doctors said they’d never seen a little girl so strong… or beautiful.”

My voice cracks on the last word, and I have to take a beat to swallow. To regain control. To remind myself that this fear and rage at the unfairness of life is part of love, too.

It’s part of the gift of being this little girl’s mother and all the ways it’s made me the woman I am today. And that’s a woman I’m proud of, even when I’m scared and frantic and falling short of “perfect.”

I stay curled up beside her for a while longer, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, letting the reality of being nearly out of the woods sink into my bones.

The fever is down and staying down. That’s always a good sign.

The monitors beep their reassuring rhythm, and beyond our curtain, the hospital continues its healing mission.

There’s peace in this place sometimes, too. In the aftermath.