Page 111 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 30
Brock
FOUR HOURS LATER,we’re landing at O’Hare. The jet got us to Chicago as quickly as it could.
The flight north wasn’t easy. Kaylee cried the whole way. “It’s all my fault. I should have brought him with me.”
Ellie folds Kaylee into her embrace. “Honey, that wouldn’t have worked. Dogs have a hard time in a plane’s cargo hold.”
Turning into her mother’s shoulder, Kaylee breaks down into sobs.
Not that I have anything to comment about. I’m barely holding on. If anybody’s to blame, it’s me. I should have brought him to Charleston. Except, I couldn’t. As close as he’d grown to Kaylee, separating them would have been cruel.
There’s no luggage to retrieve at O’Hare. We hadn’t packed a thing. As soon as Ellie had hung up with Ruth, I’d contacted the South Carolina Wolves. If anybody would know how to lease a jet, it would be them. But they did one better. The owner of the team lent me his.
Outside the airport, the Lincoln car the team reserved waits for us. Much as I want the driver to tear through traffic, he can’t. It takes a full hour to arrive where Butch is. The Windy City Emergency Animal Hospital is one of the best in Chicago with a sterling reputation so Butch’s in good hands. But knowing there’s only so much a vet can do, I brace myself for the worst sort of news. As soon as we walk in the door, we’re met by Ellie’s mom.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Ruth embraces Kaylee which, of course, sets off a rush of fresh tears from her. “I should have done a better job of watching over him.”
“Nobody blames you,” I say. Ruth had stopped at the house to check in on Butch and feed him. But when she’d opened the door, he’d taken off like a shot into the middle of the street. A driver hadn’t seen him in time and struck him head-on.
“Thank you, Brock, for saying that. I know how much he means to you.” With a free hand, she reaches out to Ellie. “How are you holding up, honey?”
Ellie grasps her mother’s hand and swallows hard. “I’m fine. The baby’s fine. How’s Butch?”
“He hasn’t—” Kaylee interrupts, her lips trembling, a world of hurt in her eyes.
“He’s hanging in there, sweetheart.” She disentangles herself from Kaylee and points to the receptionist. “This is Carmen. She’ll take you to where he is.”
As I walk past her, she hugs me as well. “I’m so sorry, Brock.”
I nod. Can’t say a thing past the lump in my throat.
The surgery suite where Butch’s recuperating is pristine, but the chemical smells sicken me. It’s not anything new. I’ve been around hospitals before, but because it’s associated with my best bud, I want to upchuck, especially after I spot my big, beautiful boy. He’s lying on a table, his chest barely moving, bandaged around his middle, and a mask covering his snout. If all that wasn’t enough, two legs are wrapped in white, and an intravenous infusion flows into him through a needle stuck into an un-bandaged leg.
As soon as we come into the room, the vet listening to his heart glances up. “Are you Butch’s family?”
“Yes. Yes, we are. I’m Brock Parker. This is my wife, Ellie, and our daughter Kaylee.”
He hangs the instrument around his neck and walks toward us. “I’m Dr. Burns. Ms. Tate”—he nods toward the woman monitoring the infusion—“is one of our veterinary technicians.”
Their names barely register. “How is he?” I ask.
“He has very serious internal injuries. And, as you can see, two broken legs. We’ve performed surgery. Given him a blood transfusion.”
“He’s not suffering, is he?” God, please let him say no.
“No. He’s getting an intravenous drip of morphine and ketamine to deal with the pain.”
“Is he going to make it?” Kaylee asks, her face ravaged with grief.
The vet’s gaze bounces to me, a question in his eyes. I nod. Might as well get the bad news out of the way.
“I don’t know,” he says to Kaylee in the kind tone he must have used a thousand times. “He’s strong, well-fed. We’re doing as much as we can. The rest will be up to him.”
“When will we find out if he . . .” She can’t say it out loud. Doubt any of us could.
“Within twenty-four hours, we’ll know.”
