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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

SICK DAY

JAX

S unday morning is rough.

I wake up early in the morning, overcome by nausea that my usual breathing exercises do nothing to combat. This sucks.

Reaching for my phone, I see a few texts from Emma, sent late last night before she went to bed, and I tap out a quick message wishing her luck in today’s scrimmage, and then I call the one person I’m sure is up at this hour.

“Jax,” Dad answers my call with a note of concern in his voice. “What’s up?”

“Would you mind coming to get the girls for the day? I think I’ve got food poisoning or a stomach bug,” my guess is the latter, “and I can’t be at my best for them today.”

“Sure. Do you want me to come get them now, or wait?”

“They wake up around seven, so you could wait until then. I don’t know if I’m contagious or not, so I’ll keep my distance. Let yourself in and I’ll mask up.”

“Understandable. Do you need anything?”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. Thank you.”

I think I underestimated how “fine” I’d be. After getting off the phone with Dad, I just make it to the bathroom in time, and when Dad comes to get the girls, I’m thankful that they are able to get up and ready on their own, pack their overnight bag, and Dad grabs their backpacks just in case. There’s a snowstorm in the forecast, but we’re hopeful it will pass us.

The girls will be in good hands for the day, which is good because as Dad’s car pulls out of my driveway I’m hit with a wave of nausea that has me racing for my bathroom again, where I stay for a while on the cool tile floor. When I finally scrape myself off of the floor I change into gym shorts and a tee shirt before raiding my kitchen for whatever I can find that might – hopefully – be gentle on my stomach. There isn’t much. The best I can find is a handful of oyster crackers and a bottle of electrolyte water from the back of my fridge. It’s better than nothing.

I stretch out on the couch covered with a blanket from the basket nearby, and close my eyes, only opening them again when my doorbell rings. A quick glance at the clock tells me I’ve been asleep for a few hours, and as I sit up my world spins just a bit and nausea washes over me but I drag myself to the door anyway, opening it to find Emma on my doorstep, but she doesn’t look happy to see me.

“Jax?” She drops her bags just inside the door and reaches for me, steadying me with her hand on my shoulder, the other pressed to my forehead. “Oh Jax, are you alright?”

Emma shuts the door before guiding me to the couch and making me sit down before she surveys the house, a worried wrinkle furrowing her brow.

“Where are the girls?”

“Dad got them this morning,” I tell her, leaning my head back against the couch and closing my eyes to stop everything from spinning.

“Good. Have you eaten anything today? Hydrated?”

“Crackers. Water…but it’s been a few hours.”

“Okay,” her gaze softens as she crouches down on the floor in front of me, I sit up and look at her, taking in her slightly damp hair, the joggers that hug her quads when she leans down, and the tee shirt that clings to her frame, vaguely recalling that her scrimmage was this morning. She looks gorgeous. She looks like a soccer player – strong lines and powerful muscle. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth and I want to lean in and kiss her but I shouldn’t. I can’t. “Will you be okay for about fifteen more minutes on your own?”

“Emma, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Shut up,” she says with a smile. “From what I can tell, you’ve slept most of the day, which is great, but you need hydration. And sustenance. So I’m going to run to a store. Can I leave you on your own?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she stands up and makes her way back toward the front door and the bags that she dropped there, and I hear the jingle of the car keys in her hand. She comes back to me and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, “I’ll be right back.”

“It’s snowing,” I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. “Be careful on the roads.”

“I will.”

When Emma comes back, I join her in the kitchen as she carries in a couple armloads of bags and begins to unload their contents onto the counter and into the fridge. There’s electrolyte drinks, ginger ale and lemon lime sodas, packages of chicken and boxes of noodles, fresh vegetables, a knob of ginger root, and various flavors of popsicles. Someone means business.

“The shelves were pretty bare with everyone prepping for the storm, but I managed to get a few sick day essentials.” I watch as she takes a sleeve of crackers out of the box, handing it to me before twisting off the lid of an electrolyte drink. “Go sit on the couch with these. If you can keep it down, we’ll try soup later.”

“Emma…”

“Jax,” she comes around the kitchen island and gently steers me toward the couch, “let someone take care of you for a change. Let me take care of you. Okay?”

I do as she says and start nibbling on the crackers, taking a few cautious sips of the sports drink while she starts clanging pots and pans in my kitchen. Resisting the urge to turn and figure out what she’s doing, I reach for the remote and start scanning the channels before landing on a football game. Soon the smell of onions and garlic and ginger fills the house and my stomach rumbles, not with a feeling of sickness but hunger. Suddenly I want more than these crackers, but I eat a couple more anyway, knowing that Emma’s right, I need to eat. And hydrate.

It’s been close to a half hour that Emma’s been here, and so far the crackers and sports drink haven’t come back up, which I consider a good sign, but the chills have come back and a headache is building just behind my eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Emma reaches over the back of the couch and presses a soft – cold! – hand to my forehead. “You’re still hot.”

“Why, thank you.” My attempt at humor clearly doesn’t amuse her if the look on her face when she steps into view is any indication. “I’ve kept the crackers down.”

She cracks a small smile but the worry that mars her face isn’t going away.

“Do you want to try some soup?”

“I’d like to. Make sure you eat too, I know it’s been a long day.”

Emma returns with two bowls of chicken noodle soup, handing one to me before curling up on the other end of the couch with her bowl cradled in her hands. It could be the fever talking, or the fact that I haven’t eaten anything but dry saltine crackers all day, but this is the best soup I’ve ever had. The sharp bite of ginger in the broth adds a layer of flavor that I wasn’t expecting but is surprisingly soothing.

We eat in comfortable silence, and when we’ve finished our meal, Emma takes our bowls to the kitchen where I insist that she loads them into the dishwasher rather than washing everything by hand. I listen to her load and start the dishwasher and then she starts turning off lights around the house and plugging in the Christmas tree lights instead.

A soft, golden glow fills the room, and when she returns to the couch, I have to laugh at the blue, disposable mask on her face, but it makes sense when she lifts the corner of the blanket and sinks onto the couch right next to me. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward her, and for the first time all day, I feel truly relaxed as I settle against her.

Emma’s fingers twist into the hair at the back of my neck, and before I know it my eyelids are drooping shut, but I still want to hear about her weekend, how training went and the scrimmage today. Reaching for the remote, I turn the volume down on the television, and lean closer to Emma, seeking her warmth. Seeking the comfort of having her here.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been sick. The last time I found myself under the weather I guzzled cough medicine, popped cough drops, and life went on. I had daughters to take care of, and people who depended on me, and I’d already leaned so much on my family that it never felt right to ask them to step in. They say doctors and medical professionals are the worst patients, and I’d add to that sentiment, when they ask for help. It’s not easy to ask for help, but here I am, not asking, instead being told that I’m going to be taken care of. And being taken care of by the woman I love – the woman who loves me – isn’t so bad.

“Tell me how the scrimmage went,” I barely suppress a yawn.

“Surprisingly well,” her hand drops to my back, nails lightly scratching up and down and across my shoulders. “I told you Coach Torres put me on First Team, which was unexpected, but not unearned, I hope. This odd sense of calm came over me when the whistle blew, and it’s been a while but I found my footing pretty quick and Lara and I never missed a beat.”

“Em, that’s fantastic.”

“Forty-five minutes was rough, but I knew I had this to look forward to at the end of the night.”

“I meant to text you this morning, to let you know I was sick and tell you not to come.”

“That wouldn’t have kept me away. The only thing that would have done is ensure that I wouldn’t have shown up empty handed. If I’d have known, I could have come prepared.”

“Just being here is enough for me, but thank you for the soup and everything else. Your company is pretty great, too.”

“How are you feeling?” She asks.

“The best I have all day. Apparently eating and hydrating helps.”

“It does,” she chuckles, “I’m glad I could help with that. But you need rest, too.”

“Is this not resting?” I sweep my hand across my body stretched out beside her on the couch.

“This isn’t sleep,” her response is gentle yet stern. “You need actual sleep. You should go to bed.”

“Come with me.”

“That’s the fever talking,” she laughs as she pushes up off of the couch and offers me a hand. “Seriously Jax. Go to bed. I can take care of things here.”

Emma presses her mask covered lips to my forehead and sends me down the hall to my room. It’s still early, but she’s right, rest is always beneficial, and since the chills and shaking have all but disappeared, I’m hoping for a restful night’s sleep.

“I love you,” she says from the end of the hall just as I duck into my room.

“I love you, too.”

Before going to bed, a shower is in order; I let the hot water stream over my aching body, relieving the tension in my muscles. Slipping into bed in nothing but my boxer shorts, I pull the blankets up to my chin and burrow into my bed, relishing the cool fabric of the pillowcase against my cheek. In the silence of my room, I listen for the sound of the front door opening, and Emma’s car engine starting, but before long my eyelids grow heavy and I slip off to sleep.