9. Beckett
Beckett
Preseason goes like this: I practice. I play. I score. I hang out with Greer and whatever patients she digs up for me to talk to.
I think she must have more friends than she lets on, because we end up on more floors than just post-op, talking to patients that aren’t hers.
And I don’t think people really look at her like they’re afraid of her.
Impressed with her. In awe of her, maybe.
She doesn’t notice. She’s too in her own little world—with her patients, watching her pager, running off to check on organs and save lives.
Maybe once upon a time they looked at her like they were afraid of her. I could see why—she doesn’t have much to say, maybe because she’s not as concerned with hearing herself talk as most people—and when she does speak, she says what she means.
She doesn’t smile as often as, say, someone like me, who quite literally made a career off a stupid skill and a stupid dimple. But when she does—even those soft, tiny ones I’ve seen her give her patients when their labs are perfect and they can go home, or those big, brilliant ones she’s shown me when an organ becomes available—it’s radiant. They’re all radiant.
She doesn’t give them away for free. Certainly not to people who maybe, once upon a time, thought she was mean or scary.
But they look at her like they might see her a bit differently now. Maybe they’ve realized how rare and special she is. That a thoughtful, funny, entirely too brilliant, generous person lives just behind all the sharp edges of her.
People look at me a bit differently now, too.
Reporters and analysts have toned down on the use of the nickname Near Miss, I haven’t missed a kick all preseason, and all the unfortunate prop bets people were making about how horribly I’d choke on the first kickoff of the season have dried up.
No one’s thrown anything at me in a while—it’s been a nice reprieve.
I’m sure it’ll all come back around again when regular season starts in two weeks and everyone remembers we should be having a nice ceremony to open things up with new banners to christen the stadium.
But I tried to enjoy it while it lasted.
I enjoyed the visits to the hospital while they lasted, too.
But I think that largely had to do with the doctor waiting for me in front of the revolving door—brow furrowed and nose wrinkled in concentration while she texts at insane speeds with one thumb, balancing a tray with two iced coffees in her other hand.
The sunlight hits her and, not for the first time, I think about the fact that she’s beautiful, but she has no idea.
And not like in the movies where the main character finally gets a glimpse of themselves or takes off their glasses and looks in a mirror and realizes they’ve been beautiful the entire time.
I just don’t think she really thinks about herself much.
Greer looks up right when the sun shifts. It catches her eyes—and I’m sure she’d be horrified at the description, but they sparkle. Her mouth moves from this taut, little line of concentration to something softer, not quite a smile, but the corners of her lips twitch upwards and her cheeks go all pillowy.
She raises the tray of coffee instead of waving.
I jog the last few steps to the sidewalk, even though my legs are killing me. I ended up needing an IV for a foot cramp after the final preseason game last night. In both an attempt to make a point to anyone that doubted whether Beckett Davis was still the best and save any of his offense a stupid, last-minute injury—Coach Taylor had me kicking way more than usual.
I hold out a hand. “You should really let me grab those. You’re doing me the favour, after all.”
Greer raises her eyebrows, drops her phone into the pocket of her scrubs, and takes her coffee from the tray. “Well, your final day has come. You can get them the next time you make a public mistake and need me again.”
I groan, clapping my hand above my heart before grabbing my coffee and tossing the tray in the garbage can by the door. “You wound me. You wouldn’t be talking like that if you saw the game on Saturday. I’ll have you know I was phenomenal. Six successful field goals. That’s almost a record. You’re telling me it’s been, what”—I glance down at my watch to see the date—“almost three weeks of this, and you still haven’t watched a game?”
“No.” She cuts me a sideways look as she steps through the revolving door. She waits for me to follow, arms folded over her chest, one hand clutching the coffee, like I’m taking too long, before she answers. “I caught the end when I was finishing my shift. My dad and sister had the game on.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, grinning. “They big fans?”
Greer makes a noncommittal shrug of her shoulder, her braid swings across her back, and she starts walking towards the elevators. “My dad is more into fictional shows about dragons than he is into sports, but my sister knows you’re sort of volunteering here with me, and she was a big fan of the Gatorade commercial.”
A laugh catches in my throat, and I kiss my fist before raising it in the air. “Gatorade commercial coming through clutch, as always. I take it you’ve seen that, then?”
She shakes her head, practically ignoring me in favour of answering whatever page or text came through on her phone. “No.”
“You’re not the least bit curious?”
“No.” She sticks out her elbow to touch the elevator button, and I drop against the wall with another exaggerated groan.
She’s still looking at her phone, thumb flying across the screen and teeth chewing on the end of her straw.
“I would have thought you would be. What with the inquiring scientific mind and thirst for knowledge you have.” I widen my eyes, teasing. “You ran away pretty quick to your appointment. You didn’t even see the opening credits or the first slow-motion, up-close shot of my abs.”
She flinches. Eyes pinched closed, her phone slips in her hand, but her reflexes probably rival mine and she catches it before it falls. Her nostrils flare and I see her take this deep, measured breath before she cuts me a sideways look. “Don’t flirt with me.”
I cock my head. “Hey, you okay?”
Greer blinks, before turning and giving me another flat look. “Yes. But talking about your Gatorade commercial incessantly really seems to compromise the whole ‘just business’ thing we’ve got going on. It’s your last day, don’t ruin it now.”
I eye her for a minute before the elevator dings and I follow her in. I know what Nathaniel’s talking about now—I’ve seen it a few times—where she just sort of shuts down. She flinches randomly or takes this big inhale and needs to steady herself for a minute. Sometimes she’s short when she responds, but it always passes and she always looks apologetic after.
I ask her if she’s okay each time, and she always says fine or breezes by the question like nothing happened to begin with. I go along with it, because Beckett Davis is affable and easy to get along with, even though the idea that something hurts her—that maybe I’ve done something to upset her—makes me feel a bit like someone hurt me.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “You’re right. Who do you have for me today? My very last day of PR damage control, as Nathaniel calls it.”
She hits the button for the fourth floor. Pediatrics. “Theo’s still here.”
“What?” I blink. I’ve seen Theo every week since preseason started, but he was supposed to be discharged. “Is everything okay?”
She shakes her head, biting down on the straw. “He’s fine, but some of his levels just aren’t steady enough for me to feel comfortable discharging him.”
“Is he still not peeing enough? He was telling me last week his urine needs to be in the acceptable range before he goes home. We need that up to about 1.5 ccs, right?”
She tips her head back, laughing—this throaty, beautiful noise she doesn’t make all that often either. “You’re right. We do. You can come away from this exercise with more than an improved image—newfound knowledge to impress your teammates with.”
“Sadly”—my lips tug to the side—“my teammates don’t care much about urine output.”
“It sounds as though they need to get their priorities in check.” Greer’s voice is dry, she gives me this sideways glance, and I think there’s the ghost of a smile there.
It’s another thing I don’t think she’s aware of—I don’t think she’d say she’s a particularly lighthearted person, but she’s funny and I think she tries really hard to make me smile in this place that I used to hate.
She wrinkles her nose, eyes shimmering in this sort of sad way, and points with her almost-empty coffee cup when the elevator door slides open. “Your last day awaits.”
I won’t miss the hallways here—all the ducks and cartoon clowns and other weird things taped to the walls that probably scare the children more than help them.
But I’ll miss these elevator rides. The anonymity of this elevator. The coffee that’s much better than hospital coffee should be. This girl.
It feels a bit too much like I might be overstepping the business line to tell her that, so I grin and follow her down the hall for the last time.
Greer gets paged when I’m halfway through helping Theo with his fantasy draft. He doesn’t even spare her a second glance, but I do.
Her eyebrows knit, eyes move across her phone at rapid speed, and she holds up her hand before practically sprinting out the door.
I thought she was gone—that it was the last time I’d see her in here like this, but she stopped, grabbing the doorframe. “I’m sorry. I need to go. Theo, your parents said they’d be by this afternoon. I’ll be back to talk to them, I promise.”
He grunts noncommittally, eyes focused on his draft.
Greer raises a hand to me. “Beckett. I’ll see you around.”
And then she’s gone.
It was fairly anticlimactic as far as goodbyes are concerned. I’m not really sure what I was expecting, because this is the end of whatever this was—not even an arrangement really, but the steady presence of someone who just ... seemed to maybe like me for me.
I only make it as far as my truck when I break the business-only texting rule.
Beckett: I didn’t get to properly thank you for letting me tag along the last few weeks. Can I take you for a real dinner to say thank you? Tonight? No questionable steaks from sketchy bars, I promise.
I have no idea where she ran off to—whether she’s even going to answer. But my phone buzzes when I pull into my parking garage.
Greer: Sorry. Can’t tonight. I’m on call.
I hate that.
Beckett: What about there? Been a whole three weeks and I haven’t tried this allegedly palatable hospital food.
She types, those three dots popping up and disappearing a few times before her answer comes through.
Greer: Fine. As friends. Come back around 7. I’ll be done with evening rounds then.
Beckett: A business dinner, if you will.
Greer: Goodbye, Beckett. See you at 7.
I can hear her raspy voice, and I can even imagine what she would look like if she was standing in front of me: lips pursing into a thin line, right brow raised, gemstones for eyes, rolling them before she answers.
The way she’d emphasize the word friends .
I’m not entirely sure where her commitment to business-only dealings comes from, but I don’t really remember the last time I had a real friend.
Especially not one like her.