Page 41 of In My Hockey Era
Chase huffs a laugh, throwing an arm over his chair.“Oh, he’lllovethat.Keep going.”
I shoot him a glare before turning back to the girls, offering a polite, “Appreciate it.”
They exchange a look, the blonde biting her lip like she’s deciding something.Then she leans in a little closer.
“We’re actually staying just a few blocks from here,” she says, trailing a finger along the edge of the table near my hand.“If you’re looking for a… fun way to celebrate that goal.”
The meaning is clear.No games, no small talk.An open invitation.
Once, I might’ve been tempted.
Instead, I find myself thinking of a different woman entirely.One who steals my fries without asking, who argues with me about books, who looked at me like shesawme when I showed up at her door with burgers.
I shake my head, offering a half-smile.“Appreciate the offer, but I think I’m calling it a night.”
The brunette’s eyes flick to Chase, who lifts his hands.“Don’t look at me.I’m the designated babysitter.”
The blonde pouts, then shrugs like it’s no big deal.“Your loss.”
They wander off toward another table, and Ollie chuckles into his beer.“What, you suddenly not into road trip adventures?”
Chase raises a brow.“Yeah, whatisup with you?Normally, you’d be at least a little interested.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, not answering right away.
Because the truth is, I haven’t been interested inanyone elsesince Lucy Quinn stormed into my life with her sass and her snark.
I take a slow sip of my beer, then set the glass down.“Guess I’ve got my eye on a different girl these days.”
16
BUBBLE BATHS & BOLD DECISIONS
Lucy
Ihate this nursing home.Hate the smell of death that clings to the walls, and the blank looks of the elderly people sitting in wheelchairs in the main living room.I hope I never end up in a place like this—wasting away, waiting for death.
Those are my thoughts as Ethan and I hurry down the tiled corridor, rushing past a series of rooms with TVs playing soap operas and daytime game shows.
“This is Marta,” a nurse tells us when we reach room 204.“She hasn’t woken up today.”
A frail woman with a halo of white hair lies motionless in her bed.She’s dressed in a pink nightgown with a lace border.
“Marta, can you hear me?”I ask, my voice loud and firm.
No response.
I take her blood pressure—it’s alarmingly low, and count her pulse—which is fast.Her eyes are closed, her fists loosely clenched.The smell of a soiled diaper fills the air.
A medical assistant in orthopedic shoes hovers near her bed and an assortment of prescription bottles litters her bedside table.
The hum of the florescent lights overhead is the only sound.
I get the earie feeling that today will be Marta’s last day on planet Earth.Sometimes I’m wrong about these things, but more often than not, I tend to be right.
“Let’s move her,” Ethan says, readying a sheet we’ll use to lift her onto our stretcher.
We transport her to the hospital and I sit with her in the back, watching her the whole way.Her pale eyelids and her wrinkled skin.She’s someone’s mom, probably a grandmother… I wonder about the life she’s lived.I usually don’t let myself think about our patients as people—its easier to detach that way.But here in the back of the ambulance, it’s so quiet and still, it’s hard not to.
