Page 51 of The Rookie's Sister

“That’s good to hear,” she says. “We were thinking it would be great if you could announce your involvement publicly today. It would do wonders for the early interest in the event, and it’s not bad PR for you either.”

The request makes me uncomfortable. The last thing I want is for this to turn into some publicity stunt, especially before Charles gets his surgery. “Is there any way we could hold off on that? I have some personal reasons for keeping this under wraps for now.”

She pauses, clearly weighing my request. “I understand, but the sooner we announce, the better for everyone involved. However, if you need some time, we can respect that.”

“Thank you, Ms. Williams. I promise it won’t be long,” I say, relieved.

“We’ll hold you to it,” she replies before we end the call.

I slump back into the couch, staring at the ceiling. The web I’ve woven around myself is complex, fraught with ethical and personal dilemmas. As I sit there, it hits me: I’m not just doing this for Charles, or for the hospital, or even for my image. I’m doing it to figure out what really matters to me—and who really matters to me.

TWENTY-THREE

EMMA

The discordant beep of monitors and hushed voices of the ICU greets me like old friends as I step into my dad’s hospital room. Morning sun slants through half-closed blinds, casting zebra stripes across his blanketed form. His eyes are closed, head tilted back on the pillow, but a faint smile plays at his lips.

I pause in the doorway, chin quivering at the sight. He looks so small and fragile framed by all this machinery, like a fallen bird cradled in a child’s palms. Hard to believe this is the same man who tossed a pigskin with me in our backyard every Sunday, his laugh booming louder than thunder.

Before tears can spill, I paste on a bright smile. “Morning, Dad. Brought you the crossword from today’s Trib.”

His eyes flutter open, crinkling at the corners when they meet mine. “There’s my girl.”

I settle into the chair by his bed, smoothing the newspaper across my lap. Dad’s hand inches toward mine where it rests on the sheets. His skin is tissue-thin, mapping the blue highways of his veins. But his grip, when it comes, is still strong.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask, thumb grazing his knuckles.

“Better, now that you’re here.”

A lump wells in my throat. I duck behind the newspaper so he won’t see me furiously blinking back tears. Focus on the words, I tell myself. Just get through this visit. You can fall apart later.

I’m scanning the clues for 1 Across when Dad says, “Remember this?”

I peer over the top of the page. He’s holding a dusty photo album I haven’t seen in years, running a thumb over the cover.

“Where’d you get that old thing?” I ask, curiosity temporarily diverting my sadness.

“Jeff brought it for me. Want to relieve the good times, back when things were simple?”

I abandon the crossword and scoot my chair closer, nostalgia warming my chest. “I haven’t seen these pictures in ages.”

Dad cracks open the album across his knees. A flutter of polaroids spill out—me as a gap-toothed kid in oversized football pads, Jeff’s chubby fingers covered in birthday cake. The memories unspool like an old movie reel, flickering moments from our childhood.

“Look at you two.” Dad shakes his head, grinning. “Thick as thieves.”

He points to a photo of Jeff and me, sitting on the front stoop, helmets askew, football cradled between us. I’m maybe seven or eight, skinny as a sapling. But the defiance in my raised chin rings familiar even now.

Dad flips through a few more pages, lingering on pictures of Jeff’s peewee football games, my ballet recitals, our crowded breakfast nook on lazy Sundays. He pauses on one of me as a teenager, frowning down at a textbook, lower lip between my teeth.

“You always were an old soul, even back then,” he muses. “Too serious for your own good.”

I give a wistful half-smile, remembering those awkward years all too well. How I lost myself in school to avoid the confusing maze of adolescence.

Dad tilts his head, regarding me with those soft brown eyes that seem to see straight through to the heart of things. It’s a look I know well. One that says he’s piecing together a puzzle only he can see.

My stomach clenches. All at once, this visit feels different. Loaded. Like a gathering storm. The assurance from our conversation before is an oddly distant memory.

Dad closes the album gently and fixes me with that piercing gaze. “What is it, Emma?” His voice is a velvet rumble. “Something’s been off with you lately. I can tell.”

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