Page 24 of The Rookie's Sister

I hit send and immediately question my sanity. What am I doing, continuing pulling her into this web, this game with Rachel? I can’t afford to lose focus, not with Jeff’s career on the line, not with my reputation at stake. The team is at stake.

But as I pocket my phone and head for the exit, I realize I can’t ignore the truth any longer. Emma has become more than just a convenient arrangement, more than a game. She’s become someone I don’t want to lose. And that terrifies me more than any opponent on the field.

I shake off the thought, trying to steady my racing heart. “Focus, Johnson,” I mutter to myself. “One battle at a time.”

But as I step into the sunlight, I can’t shake off the feeling that I’ve just set multiple battles into motion, battles that I have no idea how to win. And the stakes? They’ve never been higher.

ELEVEN

EMMA

The buzz of my phone against the wooden desk jars me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen, my stomach doing a little flip when I see Xavier’s name flash across it.

An unexpected event has come up. It’s tonight - feel like playing the doting girlfriend again to make my ex jealous?

I chew my lip, contemplating. After that charged moment on the running path yesterday, I know I should keep my distance from Xavier. Step carefully into the fake girlfriend territory. But the reckless part of me - the part that came alive under the heat of his lips - tingles at the idea of being close to him again.

Ah, what the hell. It’s for Jeff’s benefit, after all. One more fancy party won’t hurt me.

I type back an affirmative, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in my chest as I hit send. We’re playing with fire, Xavier and I. But the rush of it is addicting, like a hit of adrenaline straight to the bloodstream. Just have to remember it’s all pretend. Strictly business.

My phone buzzes again, making me jolt. A smile spreads across my face, thinking it’s him. But it’s the hospital’s number flashing on the screen, not Xavier’s. My adrenaline spike fizzles.

“Hello?”

The nurse’s voice filters through, laced with sympathy. “Ms. Thompson? I’m so sorry, but your father’s condition has taken a turn. The doctors strongly recommend we operate.”

My pulse stutters. I was afraid this might happen, that the medication would stop being enough. But the timing couldn’t be worse.

I force steadiness into my voice. “Of course, do whatever you need to do.”

After finalizing details, I hang up and grab my things, emotions churning. This was always a possibility, I remind myself. But the thought of him going under the knife twists my insides.

By the time I arrive at the hospital, my nerves are nearing their fraying point. But I steel myself and push through the doors into the too-bright, too-sterile lobby. The nurse at the front desk recognizes me.

“He’s stable for now,” she says gently. “The doctor will speak with you about the procedure.”

I nod, throat tight, and make my way back to Dad’s ward. The rhythmic beep of machinery and murmur of voices fills the hallway. Inside Dad’s room, the harsh overhead lights accentuate his pallor, his sunken cheeks. But his eyes brighten when he sees me.

“Hey sweetheart.” His voice is raspy but warm. “Come on in.”

I paste on a smile and perch next to the bed, clasping his wrinkled hand in mine. I have a sudden flashback to similar circumstances when my mother underwent her double mastectomy. She made it out of surgery fine, but the cancer had already spread. She was gone less than six months later.

I force the negative thoughts away and focus on the here and now. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, well enough, considering the circumstances.” He pats my hand weakly. “Don’t you worry about me. How are things with your brother and the team?”

My thoughts involuntarily flicker to Xavier - those penetrating brown eyes I’ve unexpectedly come to crave. I shove the image away.

“Good, really good, actually. I think Jeff has a real shot at starting if he keeps working hard.”

“I’m proud of you.” Dad’s eyes crinkle. “I always knew you’d take care of him when I couldn’t.”

I squeeze his hand, emotion clogging my throat. We chat lightly about Jeff’s practices, the doctor’s reports, idle things to keep the mood upbeat. But an undercurrent of gravity simmers beneath our conversation. We both know what’s at stake. I don’t have to tell him where my thoughts went only minutes ago. I can see the echo of those memories in his eyes.

A soft knock interrupts us. Dr. Klein enters, chart in hand, his expression sober.

“Emma, Mr. Thompson, good to see you both.” He shakes our hands before launching into a rundown of the planned procedure for tomorrow morning. As he speaks, my thoughts threaten to spiral into dangerous territory. What if something goes wrong? What if this is the last actual conversation I have with my father?

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