Page 36 of Near Miss

He swirls what’s left in his glass and gives me a grin that feels a bit more like a leer. “And what makes a kicker excellent? Surely there’s some level of precision required there? Or is it as simple as pulling your leg back and taking a swing?”

It’s not. It’s significantly more complicated than anyone gives it credit for. But I grin, sit up, and point to Greer’s almost-empty champagne flute. “Dr. Roberts is definitely going to needanother drink before I start boring you all with visualization techniques and the importance of wind speed.”

Beckett

Samir has three more glasses of scotch during dinner. He places two unfortunate prop bets on kicks I’m going to miss against certain teams once regular season starts, flashing his phone at me like it’s a joke I’m in on.

Greer’s hand tightened around the stem of her wineglass, and I think he might have been afraid she was going to smash it and carve him up to take one of his organs, so he put a disproportionately large bet on me breaking the 66-yard field-goal kick record this season.

I haven’t given much thought to trying to break another record—I’ve mostly been concerned about choking and failing everyone miserably. But the idea that he might benefit if I do makes me think I’ll make up a lie about the wind not being right if Coach gets me to try.

Greer doesn’t say much, offering the occasional comment about research when it’s mentioned, and answering questions when she’s asked.

But her shoulders relax as the night goes on, and there’s this small part of me that hopes I have something to do with that, because more than once, her hand finds my thigh, eyes widening and nostrils flaring, but her forced smile still there when someone says something horribly pretentious.

It became a little game—which of us could grab the other’s hand or thigh under the table quicker, who could keep their face straight.

She sits forward in her chair, chin propped up on her hand, the other dangling a third glass of champagne that’s almost empty, and this really fucking beautiful pink flush on her cheeks from the alcohol. She’s nodding along, listening intently to one of the other doctors at the table talking about regenerative medicine, the first time she’s seemed truly interested all night, when the microphone kicks on.

Another man who looks like he’s probably had one too many glasses of something, too, steps up to the podium on the illuminated stage at the centre of the room, and I already know it’s going to be a cringeworthy speech when he leans forward, tapping the microphone unnecessarily in what might be his version of asking,Is this thing on? He doesn’t wait for laughter that’s never going to come, and starts into a horrifying rehearsed opening line. “Good evening, everyone! What a dinner, am I right? The steak could have put me into cardiac arrest, but I think I spotted a heart surgeon or two holding a sharp knife out in the crowd tonight. Guess I’m in the right place.”

“Oh my god,” Greer mutters under her breath, cutting me a sideways look.

Smiling, I lean in, dropping my hand to her thigh. “This is the best gala I’ve ever been to. Truly. Who knew doctors were more self-important than athletes?”

Her eyes sharpen. She plucks my hand off her thigh and makes a show of dropping it back in my lap. Her lips purse, and she’s about to say something when the announcer cuts in again.

He calls her name and she starts; glancing towards the stage. There’s a small smattering of applause, and she pushes back from her chair.

“You have your speech ready?” I whisper, arching a brow.

“I’ll be back in five minutes, and we can get the hell out of here.” She cuts me a look, finishes her champagne, gathers her dress in her hand, and walks across the room to the stage.

The clapping gets a bit louder, the presenter does some big rigamarole, jogging around her and gesturing to her, and I know she fucking hates it because she smiles and fakes a laugh when they stop at the podium and he makes a big show of handing her an ugly glass plaque.

Even though she doesn’t want to be there, the bright light shining down on her, drawing all this attention to her—it does wonders. She looks beautiful. Hair impossibly shiny, ponytail swinging ever so slightly. Every jut of her collarbones and shoulders defined and on display.

She smiles softly at the presenter before turning and leaning towards the microphone. “Thank you for this. I don’t take for granted what it means to have patients who—”

The sound of glass smashing cuts across the relative silence of the room.

I glance over my shoulder. The waiter scrambles to mop up the wine seeping from a tray of broken glasses across the wooden floor and raises their hand in apology to the table nearest them.

But when I turn back, Greer’s taken a step back from the podium. Her grip on the plaque slackens. She blinks. Once. Gives a tiny jerk of her head. Blinks twice again in quick succession.

She takes a step forward, and the way her dress pulls, I can see her calf wobble. She pushes her hand against her chest and squeezes her eyes shut again. But when she opens them, she blinks again before forcing this smile and stepping back towards the podium. “Uhm—sorry. What was I saying? I’ll just—let’s just keep it brief.”

Greer presses her hand harder to her chest, the skin of her fingers whitening. Her nostrils flare and she tries to smile but it looks like nothing more than a mechanical movement of some muscles. “Thank you. It’s an honour and a privilege.”

And then she turns and practically sprints off the side of the stage.

I think the announcer makes a stupid joke about keeping it short and sweet, but I push back to stand just as she throws open a door at the side of the room and actually does sprint through it this time.

My chair makes a scraping noise against the wood, but no one’s looking at me, and no one’s looking for her. Samir and his friends have their heads down, laughing over something on one of their phones, and everyone else’s attention is back on the stage, waiting on bated breath for whatever terrible joke is coming next.

I’m faster than her—the one time in recent memory I’m thankful for these stupid legs and the stupid muscles in them.

I’m across the room and into the hall before she pulls open another door at the end.

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