Page 12 of Near Miss

He loves his sister, just like I love mine.

And mine might be right. I might feel things a bit too much. I know what it’s like to be forced to live or exist somewhere that hurts you, and I might have made that choice willingly, but he didn’t.

Even though I certainly don’t have time to shepherd Beckett around the hospital, I offer anyway.

“You could come back, if you wanted.” I drop my head against the vinyl booth, taking a sip of my beer. “Unfortunately, Jer will probably be discharged tomorrow, but I’ll have a whole new cadre of patients for you to try and woo back over to your side later this week.”

“Yeah?” Beckett’s eyebrows come together, and he leans forward, dropping his palms to the table. “Alright. I might take you up on that. Law of averages, right? One of my fans is bound to end up on your table.”

I tilt my head. “I’m not sure that’s how that works, but sure. We’ll go with that. Just give me until the end of the week, ifyou’re going to keep coming back. I’ll see if I can clear it with my chief.”

He nods, grinning again. “Your chief. Is that like your coach?”

“No.” I snort into my beer. I think I’m overtired. It’s not even funny, but my cheeks start to burn with a smile.

“Ah, well.” He shrugs. “My coach wants to supervise one of my regular practices Wednesday, so the time moved. Not something he usually shows up to, so later this week works for me.”

I’m about to ask a question because it’s not out of willful ignorance or an attempt to be so above something popular that I don’t know anything about football, I just don’t have a lot of time.

But our server comes back, smiling expectantly.

Beckett looks back down at the menu, drumming his fingers before tapping it. “Fuck it, I’m getting the steak.”

He looks back up at me, and he winks, like he doesn’t realize he’s probably one of the most beautiful people someone has ever seen in real life.

The server looks to me, pen poised over her notebook.

I hadn’t really looked at the menu. I press my head into the booth and wave my hand around. “I guess I’ll have the steak, too.”

Beckett holds up his palm. “Here’s to protein.”

I roll my eyes, but I meet his hand with mine. “To protein.”

He smiles at me, and it feels real—like his muscles twitched upwards in spite of themselves. Like his brain sent all his neurons firing to tell him that this was a nice, safe, happy moment. That he could relax.

I smile back, and that feels real, too.

Beckett

The steak wasn’t good, and the protein probably wasn’t worth the risk.

Greer took two bites of hers before she wrinkled her nose, pushing the plate to the side.

But the company was nice.

It was refreshing to talk to someone about something other than last season, how I dealt with all the memes, TikToks, general national hatred, whether I was working with a mental performance consultant, and what my strategy was for this season.

She didn’t ask me anything about football, she mostly just listened to me. And I definitely talked too much, but it sort of felt like I was a whole, real person again after a really, really long time.

Trees boughed down with leaves, lifting in the breeze, looking a bit like they’re ready for fall, obscure most of the two-level bungalows lining her street.

“This is me.” She points to one just ahead. It’s almost identical to every other one, except for the wide, white wooden arches wrapping around the porch.

I nod, pulling up alongside the sidewalk. “Nice place.”

“Oh, thanks.” Greer glances at her porch, illuminated by one single light mounted in a brass sconce beside the door. “It’s just a rental. But it’s nice. Spacious. Lots of exposed brick, a great kitchen and bathroom. And there’s a big balcony around the back that’s got a ton of privacy.”

“Spacious and private? What more can you ask for?” I toss her a wry grin and put the truck in park.

---