Page 25 of Near Miss

Theo starts talking loudly about the start of the season—and I remember what Beckett said. That he’s only here until regular season starts.

I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I think I might miss him when he leaves.

Beckett

Preseason goes like this: I practice. I play. I score. I hang out with Greer and whatever patients she digs up for me to talk to.

I think she must have more friends than she lets on, because we end up on more floors than just post-op, talking to patients that aren’t hers.

And I don’t think people really look at her like they’re afraid of her.

Impressed with her. In awe of her, maybe.

She doesn’t notice. She’s too in her own little world—with her patients, watching her pager, running off to check on organs and save lives.

Maybe once upon a time they looked at her like they were afraid of her. I could see why—she doesn’t have much to say, maybe because she’s not as concerned with hearing herself talk as most people—and when she does speak, she says what she means.

She doesn’t smile as often as, say, someone like me, who quite literally made a career off a stupid skill and a stupid dimple. Butwhen she does—even those soft, tiny ones I’ve seen her give her patients when their labs are perfect and they can go home, or those big, brilliant ones she’s shown me when an organ becomes available—it’s radiant. They’re all radiant.

She doesn’t give them away for free. Certainly not to people who maybe, once upon a time, thought she was mean or scary.

But they look at her like they might see her a bit differently now. Maybe they’ve realized how rare and special she is. That a thoughtful, funny, entirely too brilliant, generous person lives just behind all the sharp edges of her.

People look at me a bit differently now, too.

Reporters and analysts have toned down on the use of the nickname Near Miss, I haven’t missed a kick all preseason, and all the unfortunate prop bets people were making about how horribly I’d choke on the first kickoff of the season have dried up.

No one’s thrown anything at me in a while—it’s been a nice reprieve.

I’m sure it’ll all come back around again when regular season starts in two weeks and everyone remembers we should be having a nice ceremony to open things up with new banners to christen the stadium.

But I tried to enjoy it while it lasted.

I enjoyed the visits to the hospital while they lasted, too.

But I think that largely had to do with the doctor waiting for me in front of the revolving door—brow furrowed and nose wrinkled in concentration while she texts at insane speeds with one thumb, balancing a tray with two iced coffees in her other hand.

The sunlight hits her and, not for the first time, I think about the fact that she’s beautiful, but she has no idea.

And not like in the movies where the main character finally gets a glimpse of themselves or takes off their glasses and looks in a mirror and realizes they’ve been beautiful the entire time.

I just don’t think she really thinks about herself much.

Greer looks up right when the sun shifts. It catches her eyes—and I’m sure she’d be horrified at the description, but they sparkle. Her mouth moves from this taut, little line of concentration to something softer, not quite a smile, but the corners of her lips twitch upwards and her cheeks go all pillowy.

She raises the tray of coffee instead of waving.

I jog the last few steps to the sidewalk, even though my legs are killing me. I ended up needing an IV for a foot cramp after the final preseason game last night. In both an attempt to make a point to anyone that doubted whether Beckett Davis was still the best and save any of his offense a stupid, last-minute injury—Coach Taylor had me kicking way more than usual.

I hold out a hand. “You should really let me grab those. You’re doing me the favour, after all.”

Greer raises her eyebrows, drops her phone into the pocket of her scrubs, and takes her coffee from the tray. “Well, your final day has come. You can get them the next time you make a public mistake and need me again.”

I groan, clapping my hand above my heart before grabbing my coffee and tossing the tray in the garbage can by the door. “You wound me. You wouldn’t be talking like that if you saw the game on Saturday. I’ll have you know I was phenomenal. Six successful field goals. That’s almost a record. You’re telling me it’s been, what”—I glance down at my watch to see the date—“almost three weeks of this, and you still haven’t watched a game?”

“No.” She cuts me a sideways look as she steps through the revolving door. She waits for me to follow, arms folded over her chest, one hand clutching the coffee, like I’m taking too long, before she answers. “I caught the end when I was finishing my shift. My dad and sister had the game on.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, grinning. “They big fans?”

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