21. Cami
Cami
A moan slips up my throat as I roll over and press into the heat next to me. I vaguely recognize the scent filling my nose but I’m too tired to figure out what it is.
Besides, the heat does wonders for the ache in my hip.
There’s a whispered sshh… and I’m pulled in closer to the heat source. The smile on my face follows me back to sleep.
A cry bursts from my throat as pain lances through my pelvis and down my leg.
“Fuck! Sorry.” Strong hands move me around and settle me on my other side. “That better?”
“Hmm…” I can’t form words, my brain is too busy trying to work out where I am and why I hurt so badly.
“Cam? Are you okay?”
Beckett.
Memories come rushing in.
We’re at his house.
In his bed .
My eyes pop open only to find the room dark. “What time is it?”
“Just after five. Do you need more pain meds?”
“Yeah, I think so.” The throbbing in my hip matches the one in my head. “I’ve got a headache now too,” I murmur.
“You haven’t had enough fluids. Your body is trying to repair itself. You’ll need to stay hydrated to make that easier.”
“Can I have a glass of water?”
“Hang on, there’s one on the bedside but don’t move. I’ll get it.”
The bed dips when Beckett gets out and I wonder when we ended up in bed together. I’m still groggy from sleep and pain and while I can remember where I am, what happened, the finer details are hazy.
“Here. Let me help you sit up and hold the glass.”
“I’m not a child,” I mutter.
“No, you’re definitely not. But you are injured and sore and you’ve been moaning in your sleep for the last couple of hours.”
“Oh.”
I feel chastised when I’ve done nothing wrong. Although his reasons for helping make sense and I let him guide me upright.
The water isn’t cold, but it’s cool enough to soothe my dry throat. When I’ve had my fill I lean back against the hand cradling the back of my head. “Thanks. I’m good now.”
“Not quite.” I hear a pop and then he says, “Hold out your hand.”
When I do he shakes two pills into my palm then quick as I can blink, he puts the bottle of pills on the side table and picks up the glass of water again, pressing it against my lips, urging me to drink.
“I need to put the pills in my mouth first.”
“Oh, sorry. Whit has problems taking meds so I taught her to take a mouthful of water first, then tip her head back and drop them to the back of her throat. Makes swallowing them easier when they’re right where they need to go. ”
I’m not sure I’m following what he says but I take a drink then tip my head back.
“Now open your mouth and drop the pills in,” Beckett instructs while placing his fingers beneath my chin to keep my head back.
Doing as I’m told I’m surprised at how easy it is to take the meds. Not that I have trouble doing it the usual way, but still, his trick is ingenious.
“Want more water before you go back to sleep? You’ve only had half a glass.”
My stomach feels rumbly. I know it’s because I didn’t eat much dinner at Nat and Chase’s, and I’ve been popping pills like candy since we left Whitney’s school.
What I want, although not comfortable asking for, is toast. If I’d gone home with Mom and Dad, it wouldn’t be an issue. I’d just get up and go make myself some but I’m in Beckett’s house, under his care, and I don’t want to be more of a burden than I already am.
“What?” He points a finger at my face and circles it around. “What’s that look?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, it’s something.” He places the glass back on the bedside table before leaning over me, one hand planted in the bedding beside my thigh. “Tell me. Now.”
He uses what I’m sure is his dad voice and I have to fight the smile my mouth wants to make.
I’m not his child, he doesn’t need to care for me the way he is, and while I like it—probably too much—I’m determined to take care of myself.
We have a stare off for at least a minute before the low rumble of my stomach makes me give in. “I’m hungry.”
“What do you want? If I’ve got it, you can have it; if not, I’ll see if I can get it.”
“Toast.”
“Toast? You want toast? ”
Nodding, I press a hand to my stomach when it rumbles loudly. “Yeah, some plain toast.”
“Plain toast.” The look he gives me is hard to decipher.
“If you?—”
“Of course I can get you toast. I’m shocked it’s what you asked for, that’s all.”
“What else would I want?”
“Well, Whit asks for homemade chicken noodle soup or mashed potatoes.”
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Yeah, it’s her comfort food. Mama Dot used to make it when Whit was little and had tonsillitis what seemed like every other week.” He shrugs. “I guess for her, a bowl of mashed potatoes is a bowl of love.”
“I’m the same with toast. When I first went to live with Dad and Mom, it was all I could eat because it was all I’d ever had to eat.”
Rolling my lips into my mouth I lower my head. I hadn’t meant to reveal that piece of information. I’ve never told anyone about the years I lived with my biological mother.
Even Dad doesn’t know the extent of the neglect.
“There’s a story there but as you need to rest and you won’t do that well without something in your belly, I’ll leave it alone for now.”
My past isn’t a secret. Hell, most of it was played out in the media like some kind of freak show before Dad put a stop to it. Anyone could find out the details if they dug far enough. “Thanks.”
“We all have a past we don’t talk about.” He pushes off the bed and stands. “Want to eat the toast in bed or down in the kitchen?”
The thought of moving has me cringing but then I think about how stiff I’ll be in the morning and figure getting up and moving around now might help alleviate that. “Kitchen.”
“All right, let me find the slippers you wore home.”
He’s heading for the bathroom before I register what he said and once I do, I’m surprised by the way his words make me feel.
Comfort. Warmth. Contentment.
All things I associate with Mom and Dad.
Things I should not be feeling while lying in Beckett’s bed.
I don’t know if it’s gratitude or genuine feelings sparking the emotions his words evoked. Either way, I need to put the brakes on them.
I can’t get comfortable here. Beckett has barely turned the corner of disliking me and I’m sure if I hadn’t gotten between Whitney and Kenneth, he wouldn’t be as accommodating.
“Come on. Let’s get you that toast so we can get a few more hours of sleep before the day begins.”
“Don’t you need to get to training?” I ask as he helps me up and out of bed.
“No.”
I was right. I’m stiff as hell and it hurts like a bitch. Biting the inside of my cheek I try to keep my whimpers to a minimum.
“And Chase and Natalie are taking care of Whitney for me.” Beckett slips an arm around my waist lightly and urges me toward the door. “I can carry you again if this is too much.”
I guess the tension in my body and the groans I’m unsuccessful at hiding are what prompts his offer. Except I’m determined to make it on my own. At least down to the kitchen. Getting back up here might be a different story.
“I’m good. Need to get things circulating.”
“Hmm…” The sound isn’t agreement and I don’t want to think about it being censure. Whatever it is, he doesn’t comment further and even moderates his steps to match my slower ones.
I feel like an invalid. And I suppose I am at the moment. I’ve never been the best patient. Comes from my foundation years being devoid of care, of my tears and hurts going ignored unless I required a trip to the doctor or hospital.
It takes a good ten minutes, but I’m finally lowering myself onto a stool at Beckett’s kitchen island. I’m exhausted from the effort it took to get here without crying. I might still cry.
“Take a deep breath, Cam. You’re breathing too fast.” Beckett’s hand rests between my shoulder blades. “Suck in nice and slow and let it out the same way. Take your time.”
“The pain meds haven’t kicked in yet,” is my excuse.
“No, probably not. And if you weren’t so stubborn I could have carried you down here and saved you the pain.”
“I prefer determined,” I mutter as I lower my forehead to rest on the counter.
“Don’t go to sleep there.”
“No chance of that. Every inch of me aches with the stabs of a thousand needles.”
“That’s kind of graphic.”
“But true.” I groan, rocking my head on the hard surface while I try to work through the discomfort walking down here produced.
“Maybe another hot bath would help? You can sleep later.”
“I have to go home.”
“No, you don’t. We’ve got over twenty-four hours before we leave for Miami and the season opener. You can rest here until you need to pack.”
“How do you know I’m going?” I haven’t lifted my head so my words are a little muffled by my hair and the counter.
“Everyone is going.”
He’s right. Anyone who wants to attend has a free flight and seat for the game. And those that don’t have seats in the arena have them in the team hotel because Nat has booked out the whole place.
Every room, every suite, even the function rooms which are where she’s having big screens and buffets of food set up.
And after the game, win or lose, the players will return to the hotel to spend time with those who made the trip.
It’s crazy to go to this extent but I get why. To build a team from scratch and have it be a winning one, you need to reward every single person who has a hand in making it happen.
“One or two pieces?”
Tipping up my head, I rest my chin where my brow was and ponder the question, try to gauge how hungry I am. If I ask for one and I’m still hungry, that will be more work for Beckett and keep us out of bed longer. If I say two and can’t eat them…
“It can’t be that hard a decision,” he says with a smirk.
“Two.”
He drops two slices of bread in the toaster then turns and leans on the edge of the counter behind him, his hands gripping the edge on either side of his thighs. “Talk to me.”
“About?”
“Anything. You. Your job. Rogue sportswear. The Rogues. Whatever.”
“We’re the same age.” Why I blurted that out, I don’t know.
“Are we?”
“Yeah, you’re thirty-three. Right?”
“Yes. Thirty-four in December.”
“So you’re older than me by a few months.”
“Oh? When’s your birthday?”
“May twenty-first.”
He cocks his head. “You seem unsure of that.”
I shrug. “Kind of am. Dad had to have records searched to find out because my biological mother birthed me at home and didn’t register me.”
“Your biological…you’re adopted?”
“No. Dad is my dad. Mom is my step-mom because my birth mother refused to sign over rights for her to adopt me.” I sigh. “It’s a long, long, crazy story that I might tell you about some time.”
“When did you move in with your dad?”
“I was eight when the courts awarded him custody.”
“And you’ve lived with him since?”
“Yes. ”
“Thanks for sharing that with me.”
Shrugging again, I look away.
Beckett’s next words have me turning back to look at him. “Whitney thinks her mother died before she was two, and she did, but I’ve never told her how her mother died.”
“I’m sure it’s hard for you to talk about.” I slowly sit up. It feels like I should be upright for this conversation.
“Not the way you’d think.”
“Oh?”
“Whitney’s mother was my high school counselor.”
He leaves the words hanging. And my sleepy pain-numbed brain takes a full minute to understand the importance of his words.
My eyes pop wide and my mouth drops open.
“Yeah, that’s a sordid scandal if ever there was one.”
“But, but… Holy shit, Beckett. Tell me the woman went to jail!” The fury rolling through my pain-ravaged muscles annihilates every other emotion except the need to find the woman who took advantage of him when he was just a kid.
“She did.” He swallows. “And she died there.”