Page 4 of The Rookie's Sister

Jeff rubs his neck, nervously shifting. “Thanks, man. Emma’s been on me about the technical stuff, but it’s something else to get tips from the star receiver.”

I puff up a little, pleased with myself. “I’m all for a strong team. We’re in this together. And hey, tell Emma to ease up. You’ve got potential; you don’t need a drill sergeant.”

Jeff’s smile blossoms, his shoulders lifting. “Will do. She can get a little intense, but she means well.”

“Intensity’s in the blood, I guess,” I say, giving him a friendly slap on the back.

As I pivot back toward the field, I catch Emma in my peripheral vision, pacing with her phone pressed to her ear, her gaze concentrated on Jeff. But then she looks up, her eyes scanning until they find mine. Her face is a canvas of subtle emotions, difficult to read.

For a fraction of a second, our eyes hold each other, a spark igniting somewhere deep within me, an electric current with no prior warning. And then she looks away. It’s as if the charge dissipates, but its afterglow lingers, a confusing blend of warmth and agitation.

What was that? A glitch in the matrix? No way. Must be the adrenaline.

Helmet back on, I join the huddle, forcing my focus back onto the field. But Emma’s face—a collage of unspoken words and veiled looks—remains, imprinted on the back of my mind like stubborn ink.

Practice winds down, but as I savor the satisfaction of another session owned, a shadow falls over me—Holly, the assistant coach, her face pulled taut with concern. “Xavier, you spoke to Jeff, right? Did he say anything about his dad?”

I freeze. “His dad? Nah, didn’t mention anything. What’s up?”

“I overheard Emma on the phone. Her dad’s been rushed to the hospital. Sounded like it wasn’t just a routine check-up.”

And there it is, a brick thrown into the tranquil pond of my thoughts. This is what Emma was dealing with, alone, on that phone call. Unless, of course, she’s not alone, and there’s some guy out there holding her hand through it all. I shake off that thought, focusing on what’s in front of me.

I thank Holly, but my words are mechanical, my thoughts already rushing ahead.

In the locker room, as I remove my pads and jersey, Emma fills my mind. Whatever cosmic pull I felt before gets eclipsed by a greater force—concern.

The stakes have shifted.

THREE

EMMA

The sterile smell of antiseptic hits me like a wall as I step into the ICU’s hushed halls. My heels click too loudly against the polished floors, echoing in the heavy silence. A few nurses glance up, offering tight smiles that don’t reach their eyes before returning to their clipboards and monitors.

I feel like an imposter here in my sweat-stained blouse and wind-tousled hair, woefully out of place among the solemn medical staff in their crisp scrubs. As if I’m playing dress-up in a world meant for adults.

Dad’s room is at the far end, right by the nurse’s station. I pause in the doorway, peering in. An oxygen mask, the steady beep and hiss of machines marking time like some ominous metronome, obscures his face. Tubes and wires snake under thin sheets.

My heart sinks. This fragile patient surrounded by equipment barely resembles my robust father. Charles Thompson has always been larger than life—a force of nature not easily contained. Seeing him diminished ignites a spark of fear in my gut.

Fear that I haven’t felt since the day Mom told us that her chemo hadn’t worked.

As I step inside, Dad’s eyes flutter open. Despite the oxygen mask, I can see his crooked smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, sunshine,” he rasps. “Was wondering when you’d get here.”

I’m at his side in seconds, my fingers slipping into his. They feel fragile, delicate as autumn leaves about to crumble. “I came as fast as I could.”

Dad manages a feeble squeeze. “Heart gave me a bit of a scare is all. No reason to have you speeding through red lights.”

My grip tightens on his hand, unwilling to let go. “The hospital made it sound like you were auditioning for a soap opera death scene. Why didn’t you call me?”

Dad raises an eyebrow, his trademark you’re-being-overdramatic look that would have annoyed me in any other situation. “Miss Jeff’s practice for me? Your mother and I raised you better.”

I open my mouth to argue, but snap it shut just as quickly. Even laid up in a hospital bed, Charles Thompson is as stubborn as a mule.

Dad gently pries his hand from mine, patting my wrist. “Now I don’t want you fussing over me. I’ll be right as rain in no time. It’s Jeff who needs your focus now. The future face of football.” Dad’s tanned face glows with pride.

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