Page 47 of The Rookie's Sister

Now Dad’s health is plunging, and everything feels like a repeat of what happened with my mother. My makeshift office suddenly seems too small, the walls closing in. I shut my laptop abruptly. No more work. Dad needs me. I can’t lose another parent.

The cab ride to the hospital passes in a blur. Chicago’s skyline glides by, hazy in the humidity. Somehow, the thick summer air makes it hard to breathe. My thoughts drift dangerously close to Xavier—his effortless charm at the charity gala, the heat of his hand at my waist. The warmth in his eyes when we met at the park, before everything got so tangled up. The sex.

I force the memories away, annoyed at myself. I can’t afford distractions right now. My priority is getting Dad well, period.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text just as the cab pulls up to the hospital. It’s from Xavier, asking about scheduling issues for Jeff’s practices next week before the opening game. My thumb hovers over the keyboard before changing course and slipping the phone back into my bag. Whatever it is, will have to wait. I have bigger problems to handle.

The antiseptic chill of the hospital hits me as soon as I step inside, raising goosebumps on my bare arms. I should have grabbed a cardigan, but it’s too late now. The smell makes me nauseous, but I ignore it. There’s nothing I can do about that. At the front desk, I confirm I’m here to see Charles Thompson.

“Of course, Ms. Thompson,” the receptionist says briskly, fingers clacking over her keyboard. “I see Dr. Patel informed you about the need for another surgery for your father.”

She hands me a printout with surgery details. Skimming it, I learn the procedure needs to happen next week for the best chance of success. I swallow dryly and manage a faint “Thank you” before heading down the all-too familiar hall toward the elevators.

My heels echo sharply against the linoleum, underscoring my aloneness. It’s just me now dealing with Dad’s declining health, Jeff’s fledgling football career, and my own sports psychology career I’m barely keeping afloat. The temporary arrangement to manage Jeff will last far longer than any of us anticipated.

Buzz. Another text lights up my phone as I step into the elevator.

I hit ignore and lean my head back against the elevator wall as it glides upward. When the doors slide open, I take a deep breath and smooth the anxiety from my face. Time to be strong again. Unfortunately, I’ve had a lot of practice at that.

Holly’s call catches me right as I settle into one of the stiff waiting room chairs. Instantly, I feel bad ignoring her earlier texts. Her name flashing on my phone screen is a relief.

“Hey Hol, sorry I didn’t text back. It’s been a day.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the tension headache building there.

“No need to apologize, just wanted to check in,” Holly says gently. “I heard about your dad. How are you holding up?”

I smile despite myself. Holly always had a knack for seeing through pretenses. “Honestly? I’ve been better. Dad needs another surgery ASAP, which means time off work and even more juggling. And Jeff’s barely keeping his head above water as it is.”

I release a shaky breath, the emotions I’ve suppressed all day hovering dangerously close to the surface.

“It sounds incredibly stressful,” Holly says after a beat. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, Emma, but even the strong need support sometimes. It’s okay to admit when it’s too much to take on alone.”

Her statement hits me squarely in the chest, deflating some of the tension I’ve been carrying. “Yeah. You’re absolutely right, Hol. I may need backup on this one.”

“I’m always here if you need to talk more. But for now, focus on your dad and don’t spread yourself too thin. The rest will work itself out.”

Leave it to Holly to cut through the noise and ground me. “Thanks, I needed that. I’ll call you later, okay?”

After we hang up, I lean forward with elbows on knees and force air into my lungs. Holly’s right—I need to re-center on Dad and Jeff. The rest, including Xavier, will have to wait.

Filled with fresh resolve, I silence my phone completely before heading to Dad’s room at the end of the hall. Inside, I find him sitting up in bed, looking fragile but smiling when he sees me.

“Hi sweetheart,” he says hoarsely. “Come on in.”

I kiss his paper-thin cheek and squeeze his hand gently. “How are you feeling, Dad?”

He pats my hand weakly. “Oh, still kicking. Gave the nurses a hard time about the lime gelatin, though. I wanted orange.”

Despite everything, I huff a surprised laugh. Even laid up in the ICU, his sense of humor hasn’t dimmed one bit. It was what kept us all going through those excruciating months of Mom’s treatment, and then again when the cancer came back. That, more than anything else, eases the icy grip around my heart just a bit.

We chat for a few minutes about small things—the neighbor’s yappy dog, Jeff’s disastrous attempt at making breakfast. Safe topics. But underneath the surface banter, the unspoken words linger.

Finally, Dad squeezes my hand again. “It’s going to be alright, Emma. I’m a fighter, remember? A little surgery won’t stop me.”

My throat tightens at his steadfast optimism. I cling to his words now more than ever. “I know, Dad. And I’ll be right here the whole time. We’ll get you back home in no time.”

The look he gives me tells me that he remembers I’ve said those words before. Said them while sitting next to a frail-looking parent who’s just told me that everything is going to be all right.

But it wasn’t.

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