Page 23 of Near Miss

My father. My sister. My friends.

Myself.

I justify this one as a white lie, though. A fib, maybe. Because we might not exactly be friends—but we were friendly, and even though I don’t know Beckett Davis terribly well yet, I know he doesn’t deserve that.

I never bothered to ask what kind of coffee he liked in return—so I’m standing in front of the hospital, squinting against the late-afternoon sun, clutching two perspiring iced lattes in either hand, staring at the pedestrian exit from the parking garage, waiting for him to appear.

And he does.

Beckett jogs up the steps—golden all over. Except for the mop of chocolate hidden under a backwards hat. Not a nondescript one today, but one with the number nineteen stitched there. Thigh muscles tense under linen shorts that fall a few inches above his knees, and those muscles in his forearms, finely dusted with hair, somehow look even more impressive today.

He grins when he sees me—and I think it’s a real one. He lights up, and even though they’re hidden behind sunglasses, I imagine those green eyes do, too.

Beckett raises a hand, like he’s trying to make sure I see him. General good looks aside, I’m not sure how it would be possible to miss someone as effervescent as him.

“Dr. Roberts.” He’s still grinning, and he stretches out a hand for me to shake, but I raise the plastic cup. His eyes cut down to the latte that probably isn’t a latte anymore because of how quickly the ice melted, and he glances back up, one eyebrow lifting behind his sunglasses. “For me?”

“For you,” I confirm.

He flexes his fingers, and they brush against mine when he grabs the cup.

It’s just a touch, but it lingers against my skin. Against me, against the lines around my heart, and it feels nice.

But then it brushes across the right side of my ribs, and it feels more like this nefarious thing that’s going to take something from me.

Beckett cocks his head, dimple digging in. “To what do I owe this surprise? Did you see my triumphant return to preseason football? Now you’re sucking up to me so you can say you knew me when I was downtrodden?”

I roll my eyes and watch as Beckett smiles—seemingly becoming this lighter version of himself, bringing the straw to those full lips like he doesn’t have a care in the world, even though I’m starting to suspect he has too many.

A drop of perspiration rolls down the plastic straw, and I stare at it for a moment, the way it looks poised right below his lips, but I blink, and my eyes snap back up to his.

He looks at me expectantly.

“Sorry, I didn’t even know you had a game.” I shrug one shoulder, taking a sip of my own latte and clamping my teeth down on the straw. “Did you ... kick well?”

Beckett snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, yeah. I kicked well. Three field goals. And a spectacular kickoff, if I do say so myself. SportsCentre even referred to it as a ‘startling comeback.’”

I wave my hand around, like I could possibly gesture to the way he’s carrying himself differently, how much happier he seems. “That’s really important to you?”

“Playing well?” He pulls his sunglasses off, narrowing his eyes when he tips his elbow towards the revolving lobby door. “Of course it’s important. It’s what I’m paid to do.”

I shake my head, glancing up at him as we step through the door together. “No. What other people think. You don’t play for you?”

He pauses, a confused sort of look crossing his face—brows furrowed, jawline somehow softer, and lips almost in a pout withthe straw still poised there. “Huh. No one’s ever seen through me quite like that before.”

Dropping into a brief curtsy, I raise my eyebrows at him. “I was the star of my psychiatry rotation.”

“Were you really?” He looks amused, eyes all alight and even though his legs must be killing him—he’s walking like he’s all so much lighter.

I snort, reaching out my elbow to hit the button for the elevator. “No. That’s my sister’s department.”

Beckett holds out a hand so I can walk in the elevator first. “Oh? Is she a doctor, too?”

Shaking my head, I chew on the straw again. I can practically hear her—telling me that sort of behaviour is indicative of a deeply anxious, unsettled soul. “No. Stella’s a social worker. She loves people. She’d spend all day talking to anyone about anything.”

“And do you ... not love people?” Beckett kicks one foot against the wall of the elevator, tilting his head as he leans back against the mirrored wall.

The straw still sits there, right on the precipice of his lips.

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