27. Beckett
Beckett
I don’t blow up against Philadelphia like I have been in practice since Coach’s little welcome-back speech.
We still win, but I do miss a kick that old Beckett Davis could have made with his eyes closed. Only 30 yards and a seemingly guaranteed point.
I don’t bother looking Coach Taylor in the eye afterwards, seeing as that’s definitely not the Beckett Davis he knows and loves.
It’s obviously not the Beckett Davis everyone else knows and loves, either, because it was enough to start a different sort of conversation online—nothing about how I shattered the hopes and dreams of a nation, but this more nefarious thing, that maybe I’m past my prime.
That I’ve broken my last record, and if I’ve gone from someone who never misses to someone who’s nothing more than a near miss to inconsistent—that’s the death of a special teams kicking game right there.
That I’m uselessly taking up cap space and they should probably trade me while they can still get something for me. They can get inconsistent for a lot cheaper than they can get me.
Kicking is a fickle business, as stupid as it sounds. Guys get dropped and picked up all the time. It wouldn’t have happened to old Beckett.
I’ve been reliable, I’ve been likeable. I’ve been neither of those things at the same time—but I’ve never been useless.
And maybe this new me—whoever he is, because he’s definitely real, this effervescent, complicated, stubborn, and sort of mean but beautiful woman breathed life into him—is just that.
Useless.
I wonder what my family would think of the word.
I don’t think they’d know what to do with me if I wasn’t providing for them in some way.
Maybe all those things I thought I was learning don’t really matter if no one else learns them, too.
Even though I don’t feel like it, I show up for them today. I’m not sure I’m likeable, but I’m reliable and I do it with a grin.
Our mom even comments on it. Both hands find either side of my face, and she gives this exasperated sigh with a tiny shake of her head, like she can’t quite believe it. “That smile.”
It’s about as close to affection as she can show me. I keep smiling at her, and I try to remind myself that she just doesn’t know what to do with me.
I exist in a weird in between for her: not quite a stranger and not quite a son.
“Your brother will be so happy you’re here,” she whispers, voice breaking, and I know enough to know it’s not emotion for me that’s shining through. She pats my cheek one more time before pointing behind her at the lines of tables taking up residence in the hospital atrium.
Red and white balloons—a bit on the nose if you ask me—float just above the tables, anchored down by weights wrapped in silver. Nathaniel and Sarah stand at the registration table, stacking endless booklets.
I’m about to make up an excuse—that it’s hard for an athlete to find time when they can give blood and it won’t interfere with training, which is true but not entirely the reason I’ve never come—when she says this thing that’s meant to be good-natured, but it’s really, really not. “He’s been wanting you to come to one of his drives for so long.”
My eyebrows pinch together. I kind of feel like she took a football and did the kicking, but instead of going through the uprights, it goes right into my stomach.
I used to donate all the time. I’m the same type as Sarah, and she needed regular transfusions.
I try to smile when my brother and sister glance up, but I don’t think it reaches my eyes, and according to my agent, that’s a pretty crucial part of “the grin.”
Nathaniel raises a hand, and my sister smiles wide and says my name like she’s actually happy to see me. They’ve been doing this together for a long time. Sarah can’t donate blood, but she volunteers at the drives.
My brother claps me on the shoulder when he comes to stand with us. “What are you doing here? Looking for your special friend?”
“Are you still seeing that doctor?” Sarah’s voice rises, nothing but a squeak of excitement.
“We’re not seeing each other,” I mutter, palming my jaw and changing the subject because I don’t feel like telling them she says we’re friends but we sleep together sometimes, I’ve never met anyone like her, she’s got my entire heart in her palms, she told me something only six other people on the planet know, and I’ll only ever have pieces of her in my back pocket.
Oh, and she kissed me one time when she was half drunk.
Clearing my throat, I reach forward and tug on Sarah’s hair. “How’s Lily?”
Sarah’s lip quivers and she takes a tiny swallow. “There were fewer eggs than last time, so ... we’ll see.”
She tries to put on this bright smile, but her eyes shine.
I can see our mother in my periphery, wringing her hands and glancing back and forth between us.
I try not to look at her because I’d offer anyway, but I wrap my arm around Sarah and hug her to my chest briefly. “Don’t worry about it. I meant it before. Whatever you need. As much as you need. As many tries as you want.”
Sarah nods softly, blinking up at me. I think she’s about to say thank you—she always does, and she always means it—when Nathaniel smacks my shoulder.
“Speak of the devil.”
I don’t need to follow Nathaniel’s gaze to know—I think the composition of the air in the room changes.
At least the air I’m breathing.
I haven’t seen her since the night she told me the truth—her truth—about her father, the car accident, and her donation. I tried not to make it as big of a deal as I felt like it was—I was a bit worried she’d run away like a startled animal if I told her that it made me want to cut my lungs out of my chest so she could have those, too.
That I think she’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met in my entire life, I wasn’t real before I met her, and I really wish she’d scrap this no dating rule.
Greer isn’t looking at us when she steps off the staircase—the tiny furrow between her brows tells me she’s thinking. Her lips move as her eyes track across her phone, and one hand twirls her braid absentmindedly.
But her eyes flick up and meet mine. She cocks her head, one eyebrow rises, and a small smile plays on her mouth.
I lift my hand, and I sort of think she’s going to ignore me in favour of whatever else it is she needs to be doing, but she starts walking towards us.
“Wait—” Nathaniel’s fingers tense against my shoulder, and I think he tries to step behind me. “She’s not coming over here, is she?”
I cut him a sideways glance. “What is your problem? She’s nicer than you.”
He gives a jerk of his head and takes a measured step away from me. “She yelled at a PGY4 the other day for mixing up her playlists when she was doing a PTA transplant.”
I hate that. Because I know why she did it. How she must have felt and how she would have felt about yelling afterwards.
I sort of feel like running around the hospital and yelling at all the residents until they stop doing things that hurt her.
But she looks just fine when she stops in front of me.
“Dr. Roberts.” I hold out my hand with a grin.
She rolls her eyes, but she reaches out and shakes it anyway. “Beckett.”
My heart pushes against my ribs when she says my name, and I brush my thumb across the back of her hand.
Her eyes narrow and she takes a step back. I feel like throwing her one of those lazy smiles she gets a kick out of, but she turns to my brother. “Dr. Davis. I hope everything has gone well with the drive. I was planning to donate when I finish my shift.”
“This is our mom and sister,” Nathaniel blurts, pointing back and forth between them.
Greer’s lips turn down in confusion, and she blinks, but pivots towards my mom and sister. “Lovely to meet you.”
She holds out a hand for Sarah, and then for my mother.
My mom looks back and forth between us with wide eyes, like she’s waiting for me to tell her she’s just met the mother of her future grandchildren. She does that—has these weird motherly instincts that aren’t really followed through with action.
I spare Greer having to watch her flounder anymore. “Mom, Dr. Roberts is the one who saved me when I was volunteering here. Kept my days interesting.”
“Oh!” My mom’s smile widens. “Are you a pediatric oncologist like Nathaniel?”
“I’m a surgeon. Transplant.” Greer smiles tightly. I can see it all over her now—after she told me all the ways she thinks she’s bad and broken. Trusted me with this insurmountable, heavy thing that weighs her down.
“Saves a lot of lives.” I jerk my chin towards her.
She rolls her eyes again, but there’s the ghost of a smile there.
“Did you go to medical school here in Toronto?” My mom asks, nearing one of her favourite topics: Nathaniel’s commitment to saving children like Sarah.
Greer nods. “I did.”
“Nathaniel went to med school in British Columbia.” Excitement lights her features, and she reaches out, placing a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Sarah went to teacher’s college in Ottawa, and Beckett—”
She pauses, and I think another football hits my chest.
I don’t think she remembers. Or at least, she doesn’t care enough to keep handy facts about me on the tip of her tongue.
Rolling my shoulders back, I try to smile but it feels weird, and even Nathaniel and Sarah look back and forth between our mother and me, like they’re about to answer for her.
But Greer’s voice comes first.
A beautiful, quiet rasp reciting facts about me. But she’s saying more than just that.
You’re real, Beckett.
“Syracuse,” Greer offers, eyes soft and on me. “He went to Syracuse. He studied history, and he specialized in the French Revolution. He finds Napoleon fascinating.”
“Oh.” My mother blinks, a smile forming. But there’s no recognition behind her eyes. “That’s right. I always just think about the kicking and it’s hard for me to remember anything before the league.”
Greer’s eyebrows lift and her mouth pulls into a taut smile. “His professional career is very impressive, too many broken records.”
Her eyes cut down to the pocket of her scrubs, and she pulls out her phone. She glances back up, and she’s not looking at anyone else when she says it. I know the words are just for me. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Sure.” I nod, absentmindedly rubbing my chest. It doesn’t feel like it did five minutes ago. “Go save lives.”
She raises a hand and she’s only halfway to the elevator when I pull out my phone. I can’t have her, not really, but I can’t help myself.
Beckett: Come over tonight?
Usually, I’m waiting for the three dots. But her answer comes in right away.
Greer: Sure. I’ll be there around eight.
I drop my phone back into my pocket, and when I glance back up, my brother and sister are staring at me too intently for my liking, and our mother has moved on to lamenting over the cookies being spread out on a nearby table.
I jerk my chin towards the line starting. “Come on, I don’t have a ton of time before practice, and I know you’ve been dying to stab me for years, Nathaniel.”
They both smile at me, the edges curled with relief that I’m not upset.
It’s not entirely an accurate assessment, but they’ve never really been able to tell much about me anyway.
The only person who really sees me just turned around and went back to the thing that holds her hostage, and I know when I step onto the field later, I’ll be doing the same.