Page 108 of Play the Last Card

Another item of Scott’s.

I ignore the sharp pain to my chest when I pull it on and down over my eyes. I’m thankful he left it, for more than it being helpful to just hide my face.

The fact that I was likely to be in the background of multiple news outlets’ sports reports this evening looking like this was another thing that I need to file away to laugh about with Katie in the future. When it’s less painful.

I keep my head down and slip down a corridor to the left. Thanks to Nan, I know this hospital like the back of my hand, and thanks to Pops’ stories, I know that they have a suite of private rooms for VIP patients. If Scott is anywhere, he’ll be there.

“Sorry, miss. Can’t let you back there.” A large, stern looking man stops me at the main doors. I imagine this security guard looks similar to the one Katie barreled through back at the stadium.

Despite knowing my eyes are puffy and red, that I’m practically drowning in the sweatshirt I’m wearing, and I’m seconds from sobbing all over the poor man, I do my best to give him a confident smile. “Uh, Ivy Booker. I’m on the list to see Scott Harvey.”

The security guard blinks, staring down at me as understanding crosses his features. He glances at his phone, most likely to the approved list of names and nods.

“Of course.” He puts one large hand on the door to open it for me but stops. “Uh—will you let your Pops know we’re praying for him to pull through? My old man is a huge fan.”

Another sob crawls up my throat but I manage to gulp it down again. The image of Pops this morning when I visited him—in bed, and pale,and barely able to manage a laugh without coughing afterward—floods my vision. I blink a few times before looking back to the guard. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. I will pass it on.”

Tears are threatening to spill over again and I do my best to keep the weak smile I managed just moments ago on my face. The guard nods, not saying anything else, and pushes the door open. I slip through.

The noise of the reporters and hustle of the main lobby dies significantly. It’s calmer, but not really all that much quieter. Replacing the reporters are team officials, coaches and assistants, members of the PR team roam around with phones to their ears and iPads under their arms.

No one looks up at me.

In fact, as I take a few steps down the busy corridor, it seems no one takes any notice of my quiet entrance. Feeling like it may be best to keep it this way, I edge down the hallway ensuring to stick close to the white walls. I’ve only taken a few steps before a few people shift, moving past me as they keep their phones to their ears, clearing the path for my eyes to find him.

Scott’s sitting up, legs thrown over the side of the hospital bed in a small recovery room. The doors are pushed open so I have an uninterrupted view of him. His fingers are filthy. There’s mud on his neck and caking around his hairline. But at least he’s out of the mud stained uniform and in a clean set of sweats. I freeze, eyes roaming him carefully.

He’s okay.

He’s fine. He’s sitting up. He’s moving.

The words repeat in my head over and over again as I watch the physiotherapist and doctor examine his arm together. They start taking him through the basic shoulder rotation exercises.

I watched him do them time and time again in the living room while I cooked dinner and he stretched out his muscles on a mat while I took the opportunity to unload my entire day with the kindergarteners onto him.

In the gym, on a day he opted to join me for a workout instead of going to the Broncos facility.

In the bathroom, wearing only a towel and standing behind me, watching intently as I cleaned my teeth or brushed my hair or did something completely mundane yet never getting bored and looking away.

He’s okay.

I wrap my arms around my middle, holding myself back as the urge to go to him washes over me with the power of a tsunami.

I want to check him over myself. I want to run my hands through his hair, mud and all. I want to check his shoulder, his arm. I want to kiss him and press myself into him. I want him to wrap his arms around me and tell me himself that he’s okay. I want to lose myself in him and never be found.

Watching him, assessing him from a distance, it’s not enough.

Not enough.

I broke us.

I broke us and because of that, halfway down the corridor and pressed against the wall is as far into his world that I can allow myself to come anymore.

My world tilts when he looks up and I get lost in the green kaleidoscope.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, my chest heaves and my lungs fill with air. I’ve been underwater from the moment I made him walk away from me. Again.

Colors have dulled and sounds have muffled and everything I’ve touched has felt rough.

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