Page 15 of Near Miss

It takes me a minute to recognize him—but it’s a photo of Beckett. Shirtless, hat turned backwards, skin bronzed and practically glowing under the summer sun, standing behind the wheel of a boat.

She’s not wrong. Stacks of abdominal and oblique muscles draw ridges and valleys along his torso.

But he’s not my football star.

“He’s not my football star.” I shove the phone across the table and look back down at my menu.

I’m starving. I was too tired to eat after Beckett dropped me off last night, and I’d only suffered approximately two bites of subpar steak before calling it quits at the bar. I was serious about the E. coli.

“Oh, so you just happened to run into him in the hospital elevator, did him a favour, and he just so happened to be waiting to take you for dinner?” Stella slaps her hand down on the table, eyes wide and expectant.

I roll my eyes and take a slow sip of my coffee, looking at all the families crowded around tables, couples huddled close together in booths, and groups of girls indulging in the well-known bottomless mimosa deal boasted by the restaurant.

Stella taps her fingers impatiently.

I give her a flat look. “His brother works at the hospital. It’s not that weird. He’s doing some volunteering there. Something to do with whatever happened last season?”

She snaps her fingers, pausing to take a sip of her own coffee. Wisps of her hair curl around her face and across the nape of her neck, where they’ve escaped the haphazard bun she’s tied it back in.

Siblings don’t always look alike, but sometimes I think looking at Stella is like looking in the mirror, at the reflection of a freer version of me.

She’s light where I’m dark—auburn hair to my deep brown, and jade eyes that reflect all the beautiful things in the world. Same pale complexion we inherited from both of our parents. But according to our father, she takes after our mother. I inherited the dark hair and forest eyes from him.

Stella drops her cup onto the table without a care in the world. It’s on the precipice of tipping over—droplets of coffee fly up over the rim and escape, splattering over her already worn menu.

“Yes, he missed a very, very important kick.” She snaps her fingers again before leaning forward conspiratorially. “I looked it up after you told me that’s who you had dinner with. Do you want to see it on YouTube? TikTok? He’s been the source of some very unfortunate memes and edits since.”

My lips pull back. I can’t imagine anything I want to see less. “No thank you, Stella. I’m not sure why you would want to watch that either—the source of someone’s public humiliation and pain?”

“Doesn’t that all come with the territory of being a public figure?”

I shake my head, taking a measured exhale and look back down at my menu. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve met Beckett—that I know he’s a real, living person who breathes in oxygen andbreathes out carbon dioxide and feels things. Not some pixelated stranger who doesn’t really exist for me.

“Does that suddenly make it okay? He’s not a ripe carcass on the side of the road for vultures to pick at. This is what I don’t get about sports,” I mumble, glancing back up at my sister. “It seems unfair to shoulder all your expectations, your hopes and dreams for a team to win a trophy, on one person. Who, at the end of the day, is a person just like you—fallible and capable of making mistakes and, you know, feeling?”

“Sports bring people together.” Stella tips her chin up.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have missed the episode where you became a football savant.”

She rolls her eyes, plucking my menu from my hands and stacking it on top of her own. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, and bringing people together can be a beautiful thing. I’m just saying, I think it’s unfair he has to suffer because people were disappointed.” I grab my menu back. I wasn’t done. “And speaking of people suffering, if you’re at Dad’s, please don’t forget to check his medication. It can’t run low like it did the other day. If he misses one dose—”

Stella tips her head back, an exaggerated, high-pitched groan escapes her. “It can lead to acute rejection, chronic transplant damage, and ultimately, failure, if the behaviour occurs. I know. It’s almost like I’ve heard this speech before. I might not have a license to practice medicine, but I’m not stupid. I know he can’t miss a dose.”

I pull my head back, blinking at my sister. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Stella—I wasn’t trying to—I just want to make sure it’s the only one he ever needs.”

She cocks her head to the side and chews on the inside of her cheek. Her voice is barely a whisper, and she’s just a shadow of the life spilling from her minutes ago. “I know what it cost you.”

I swallow, biting down on my lips. I hate it. I hate how deflated she looks. I hate that this thing that happened takes up so much space in our lives all these years later. I don’t want to have this conversation—not again, not here. “Stella—”

“Ladies, I’m so sorry.” Our server practically skids to a halt in front of our table, pressing a palm to her chest like she’s out of breath, the other clutching a notepad. She waves it around the crowded restaurant. “As you can see, we’re slammed. Can I get you started with something?”

Stella blinks rapidly, looking between the two of us and back down to her discarded menu. “Oh, sorry. I haven’t even looked. Can you give us a few more minutes?”

The server’s mouth opens and closes for a minute before she gives Stella a hurried nod, practically sprinting to the next table.

“I don’t know what to get,” I say, more to myself, but Stella claps excitedly.

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