Page 65 of Puck Block

“They can’t afford it, Ford.” She pales, and my spine straightens.

What?

Taytum’s voice is clouded with a sadness that pulls me in closer. “The pump that everyone is so certain I need for better insulin absorption and because you think I’m careless.” She looks at me through watery eyes. “My parents can’t afford it. They can hardly afford my insulin now, let alone a pump. So, if I mess with my dosing just enough to throw off my readings, then Dr. McCarthy won’t recommend the pump, and it’ll at least save some money.”

Christ. “I thought it was covered by insurance?”

Taytum shakes her head. “They’re still fighting with insurance to cover my medical bills from last summer, and the deductible is insanely high because it’s private insurance.” She nibbles on her lip. “They’re behind on everything. I found out when I went to refill my insulin prescription, and the payment wouldn’t go through.”

The more Taytum explains, the more my heart pounds. “Like how behind?”

She turns to me, and her chin wobbles. “Like tried three different credit cards until one went through to cover the full price of my insulin for this month.”

Shit.

When I was younger, I used to think Jay and Mary-Ann were millionaires. As a child who came from poverty and ate off-brand SpaghettiOs every night because it was all my mother could afford, I thought their four-bedroom, two-bath house was a mansion. They both worked hard and continuously helped my Aunt Jo pay for the hockey gear I needed when she couldn’t afford it. I know now, as an adult, that they were never millionaires, but they did okay. Taytum and Emory never went without anything they needed, and they extended their generosity to me as well.

To know that they can’t afford Taytum’s medicine is a low blow.

The guilt is tenfold, and I quickly try to recall what I have leftover in my savings account from the odd jobs I did as a teenager and how I can discreetly slip it into their bank account with no one ever knowing.

Taytum sniffs, and I eventually pull her into my shoulder. “Does Emory know about this?”

She flies backward and quickly wipes her eyes. “No, and do not tell him. Knowing him, he’ll quit the team so he can get a job and pay for it.”

That was my first thought too, but I’m realistic enough to know that now, more than ever, going pro is even more important than before. The cost of her insulin or a pump would never be an issue again.

I glance at the clock on my dash. I’ve gotta get to practice soon, but I’ll be damned if she climbs out of my car under the impression that I’m okay with her messing around with her insulin to throw off the readings.

“So, basically, your solution is to not take the medicine that keeps you alive so Dr. McCarthy will think the dosage isn’t stable enough to switch you to a pump?”

“No,” the answer draws out of her mouth slowly, and I know it’s because she’s trying to come up with a more justified reason. Except, there isn't one. She knows it, and I know it.

“I’m still taking my insulin…” She looks away. “Just not the right amount every single time.”

I twitch. “Well, that’s not good enough.” I’m slowly becoming more and more irritated over this issue. I know she thinks she’s doing everyone a service by keeping the cost as low as possible, but doesn’t she understand that she’s gambling with her life by doing that? “That’s why your blood sugar is all over the place. It’snot being regulated by the medicine because you’re not taking the right dose.”

“I have it under control. Why do you think I took a drink of that guy’s beer the other night?”

My jaw aches from clenching my teeth. Silence fills my car, and somehow, it’s even more tense than before.

“Do you have a better option?” she asks. “I thought about seeing if Angie would let me pick up some shifts at The Bex since all the other jobs are taken, but I don’t think a few shifts here and there will be enough to cover one pen of insulin, let alone four. And don’t even get me started on the pump! Do you know how much it is? And then we’d have to somehow keep it from Emory because he’ll wonder why I’m working, and then he’ll tell my parents, and they’re already concerned that I’m wearing myself thin and not staying on top of my health…and… and…”

Taytum is spiraling, so I squeeze her knee to steal her attention. “Take a breath, Tay.”

Her mouth shuts, and she’s breathing like she just ran a marathon.

“We will figure it out, alright? I have some money in my savings and–”

“Ford, I can’t expect you to pa–”

I send her a look that shuts her up. “Take the right amount of insulin, Taytum. Or I’ll tell them what you’ve been doing.”

She tightens her lips and surveys my face to see how serious I am. I want to be on her side, and I want to be the one she trusts, but if I have to threaten her, then so be it.

I unlock the door, and her hand falls to the door handle. In an attempt to clear the air, I look her in the eye and try to reassure her. “We’ll figure it out. You and me, okay? When are you due for more insulin?”

“I’ve got about a week until I need to fill the prescription.”

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