Page 8 of Near Miss

He’s not wrong. I’ve broken the record more than once. Two separate practice kicks: 67 yards and 69 yards, respectively. But there was nothing at stake then. I palm my jaw. “I know.”

“I want to switch up your long field goals and points-after-touchdown practice. Wednesday afternoon so I can be there. I planned on using you a lot this season, and I don’t like when my plans change.” He looks back at the screen, the game tape still rolling, and I take that to mean I’m dismissed. “Darren let me know you’re doing some press at the hospital. That ends when regular season starts, got it?”

I nod, pushing up from the armchair and I get halfway across the office before I turn back to him. It’s a childish question, but I’m not exactly sure what the future holds for me here.Or anywhere, really. “What if people still hate me by the time regular season rolls around?”

He doesn’t bother looking at me when he says it. “Then you better start making fucking kicks and scoring points or you’ll be out on your ass with only that stupid grin to keep you warm.”

We both know it’s not that simple, but it feels like it might be.

I’ve only ever really been two things my entire life: reliable and likeable.

And now I’m neither.

Hospitals don’t look any better in the daytime.

At least not to me.

They’re busier, and I think that just gives the illusion that they’re a bright place where good things happen.

And good things do happen in them. But whenever I step through the doors, I can only ever think of the bad.

The volunteer badge hanging around my neck feels more like a noose than anything. I could pretend that’s what’s weighing me down when I cross the lobby towards the elevator, eyes firmly glued to the floor and my face half hidden under a nondescript black hat. I ditched the one with my last name and number—all the information identifying me as someone people hate—and left it on the console of my truck when I got here.

I’ve been dreading this little positive press exercise since Yara came up with the idea. My least favourite place and a sea of people who are already unhappy.

The elevator is mercifully empty, and I press the button repeatedly, like that’s going to make the doors close any quicker. My sister, Sarah, told me when we were kids that the closebutton is just for show, and it was one of those glass-shattering moments for me.

I really wish it wasn’t true, because I see someone coming towards the elevator, her head down, completely oblivious—and even though I want nothing more than to be alone, I can’t help myself from reaching out a hand to stop the doors from shutting.

She slides in, one hand lifting in thanks, dark hair swinging in a slicked-back ponytail, and her eyes stay glued firmly to her phone.

She’s in a different colour of scrubs today, but I don’t forget anyone. It’s part of the reason people like me so much.

But I don’t think it’s very hard to remember someone. At least not someone like her.

“Dr. Roberts. Nice to see you again.” I grin and hold out my hand—I can’t help myself from doing that either—but I’m a bit hopeful she might shake it this time.

She startles, looking away from her phone, fingers tensing against her coffee cup. Green eyes narrow on my hand before they flick up to my face. She cocks her head, and her ponytail swings across her shoulders. One eyebrow kicks up, she drops the phone in the pocket of her navy scrubs, and she reaches out to meet my hand with hers. “Oh. Dr. Davis’s brother. The one who doesn’t sleep well at night because everyone hates him.”

I pull my head back and my grin fades, but it’s replaced with the real one. “How do you know I don’t sleep well?”

“Your brother has a big mouth when he’s nervous.” The corners of her lips twitch, and her cheeks soften. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to an actual smile on her. The flecks in her eyes come alive and I think a part of me does, too.

She drops my hand and I wish she hadn’t. She tips her head, eyes assessing, before continuing. “I don’t know if that big mouth happened to pass on my message, but I don’t hate you.”

He didn’t pass on the message. But I nod, wishing he did. “Seems like there’s a thinly veiled insult in there somewhere.”

“There isn’t,” she answers, turning away from me and pulling her phone out again. She’s not looking at me, but she points to the illuminated elevator panel, leaning forward and finally pressing a button. The number eight lights up. “Your brother’s probably on six. You pressed four.”

“I’m not here to see Nathaniel. I’m uh—” I pick up the volunteer badge hanging around my neck and shake it. “I’m here for some positive press. I’m not sure if you heard, but the whole city, and most of the country, hates me. No real plan on how I’m supposed to achieve that, but I thought I’d go to pediatrics for visiting hours. I’ve been told I do a great impression of Chase fromPaw Patrol. Maybe I’ll do story time.”

Her eyes cut to me. “And what are the kids supposed to do about that? They don’t control the news cycle.”

I grin, crossing my arms and leaning back against the mirrored panels lining the elevator. “Maybe they’ll be so taken with the impression, they’ll put in a positive word with their football-loving parents.”

She snorts. “How do you know they love football?”

“Everyone loves football.”

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