Page 137 of Well Played

I shrug. “I was sick a lot when I was younger. Ear infections and fevers mostly. Strep throat, too. I couldn’t get the booster on time. My mother forgot to bring me back when I felt better. Then I had to catch up on other vaccines, and somewhere along the way, I came into contact with the chicken pox. And then there was no point in getting the booster.”

“That sucks.” He sounds as disappointed as I feel.

“Yeah, it really does.”

“What can I do?” His voice is soft and velvety again as he comes over and rubs my arm.

Stay with me. Forget how I look right now.

“You’re already doing it.” My voice cracks.

13

Nico

“I’ll be back.”I leave Summer’s room surprised to find a laminated “quarantine” notice slapped on the outside of her door. That’s just great. This shit is contagious. I’m not worried. I live alone, and I never had chickenpox as a child, so I should be fine. I don’t want to carry it to Mom, though.

I feel so damn helpless. I wish I could do more to make Summer comfortable. I’m not used to seeing her look so lost and vulnerable. It sucks that she has no family here.

When I broke my leg skiing in the mountains and needed surgery, my mother brought dinner to my apartment every night for three weeks. Even though I assured her I had plenty of food and it wasn’t necessary. But if I needed anything, I knew she was only a phone call away.

I head to the nurses’ station and play the part of fiancé. “Is the cafeteria open?”

“Sorry, it closes at three on the weekends. We have some crackers and juice if you’d like.”

“That would be great.”

Seeing a doctor heading for Summer’s room—if you can call the eight-by-ten cell-like area they have her in a room—I rush to follow behind him. It’ll be easier to get in with my hands full of graham cracker packs and mini juice containers if the door is already open.

The doctor turns and gives me a strange look. I imagine he wants to know if he can kick me out.

“I’m Summer’s finance,” I explain, emptying the contents in my hands on the tray next to the bed. Boy is that phrase coming out with ease. “Do we have the results of the CT scan? The ordering doctor worried that she might have preseptal cellulitis.”

He looks at Summer as he answers my question. “The results show significant swelling of the soft tissue on the right side of her face and forehead as well as above her eye. No worries, though.” He smiles. “We’ll get you fixed up in no time. First, I have some questions for you.”

I probably should respect her privacy and leave as he’s asking her personal questions, but this is a quick way to learn some pertinent information. Recreational drug use? No. Alcohol history? Social. STDs? None. Not that I expected anything different, but this confirms it.

I keep my eyes focused on the doctor as he types, but I can’t help but steal a glance at Summer out of the corner of my eye. Her face is redder than an overripe strawberry.

The questions continue as the nurse comes in with the cup of ice and straw I requested. Summer’s so focused on not looking at me, I don’t think she has a clue what I’m doing.

Pouring apple juice into the styrofoam cup, I listen as the questions continue. Allergies? None. That’s a good one to know. Medications? Again, none.

“Here you go,” I whisper, offering Summer the cup of juice. She takes it and looks at me with questions in her eyes. At leastin the one I can see. “It’s late. You need to drink, or you’ll be dehydrated.”

Summer sips as Dr. Whatever-his-name-is explains the importance of the IV medication for the next fourteen days.

Fourteen days?Shit. That’s a long time.

She gasps. I hope it’s her own issue with the timeline and not because she can read my disappointment. Not because of our league games. The hell with that. The second I heard she had shingles I understood we were going to have to forfeit the rest of the season. Even if it clears up in a couple of weeks, she won’t be up to playing for at least a month.

I stroke her arm as she complains to the doctor. “I can’t. I don’t have any extra clothes with me, and I don’t have my computer bag. I need to log in and work.”

The doctor looks my way. I nod, letting him know I’ve got it taken care of, and he explains one more time that they need to get the swelling down and try to mitigate the damage to her optic nerve.

“I already put in for a room; now it’s a matter of waiting for one to become available,” the doctor says before leaving.

14

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