Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Breslin POV
L ight flashed and flickered. The heat of her breath on my skin, her palms smoothing over my chest. She cupped my face and her mouth met mine. I tasted her. Her lips, her tongue. Everything about her ? —
A different kind of heat settled against my waist. Her feminine core teased my lower abdomen as the rest of her, her breasts, her bare skin, pressed closer. My erection urged these useless arms to hold her, envelop her. The desire to crush her against me and never let ? —
“Breslin . . .”
Pain split through my skull. I groaned and the very willing female body that I desperately hoped was about to use me for her pleasure . . . paused.
For her pleasure? What?
Blue-green eyes stared into me. Familiar. Known. Her look pulled at the aching muscle in my chest. “Breslin, I want you.”
Warmth fluttered even as my body tightened, ready to bury my length inside her.
“Only you.”
A pounding drum wrecked my brain, and chased the vision of her away. No. Why? Wait, is she still here?
I opened my eyes, but nothing was familiar. White sheets. A mess of machines collected in the corner of the room. I checked my arms. They were bare. No IV. Just one of those terrible hospital gowns. The drum in my head beat faster, louder.
Why am I here? I needed to leave.
And go where? Dammit, but my head was a mess of fog and blank space . . . and her . I knew her, know her. But, fuck it all, where was she?
The hospital room was quiet. And empty. My mother’s last days weren’t like that. Shit. Fuckin hospitals. That’s it, I’m out of here. I don’t give a ? —
My head swam as I gained my feet. I grabbed the arm of the bed and waited for it to pass. My stomach lurched, I closed my eyes and willed the world to stay still.
“When I find him, I’m giving Henry a piece of my mind. He’s got no God damned sense in that withered head of his.” Dotty's voice sounded far away. “Someone needs to take a baseball mitt and tag him out of?—”
“Ma’am? Ma’am. Is he your son?”
“My what? What the hell are you talking about? My son’s a county judge in—” A breath, and then a syrupy-sweet: “Grandson. He’s my grandson. Are you Cooper’s doctor?”
“Uh. He's fine. All vital signs checked out. Complaining of a headache and vertigo, so we were waiting to release him . . .”
I sat down on the edge of the bed. The ringing, splitting sound overtook my focus. I laid down on my side and closed my eyes.
“. . . run some follow up tests . . . Just keep an eye out.”
“. . . nothing strenuous. Supervision.
I closed my eyes and heard her call my name again. “Breslin . . .”
There's only you.
I woke up to a full room. Eberhardt and Schorr stood at the door conversing with a guy in a lab coat—no doubt the doctor. Dotty moved closer to the small group, hovering for a moment and nodding.
She struck at Coach with her . . . cane?
“Ow!” Schorr recoiled. “Dammit Dotty, I told you?—!”
“Woops. Don’t always have control of my limbs these days.” She shrugged. “Could be late onset Tourette’s.”
I ran a hand over my forehead. She was a damned handful. Why was she even here? How was she here?
“He wake up yet?” Jimenez poked his ugly mug into the room. A hand gripped the edge of the door and threw the panel aside. Fendleman muscled Jimenez out of the way as he entered.
Sender the soccer-man and his friend with the spiked hair stood from the chairs in the corner.
“Ow! Dotty!” Eberhardt whined. “This is bordering on assault.”
“Grow a pair, junior. Besides, I have an in with the sheriff, so go on, report that you were beaten up by a frail old lady.”
“Let's not hit people,” the doctor said. “I'd hate to take away something essential.” He held up Dotty’s cane. “Wait, did you buy this in the gift shop?”
“No.” Dotty pulled it back into her arms.
The doctor looked at her over the top of his glasses. “It still has a tag.”
I bit back a groan. I needed a way out of here.
“Hey, hey! Look at that. The runner up candidate for MVP has rejoined the living.” Jimenez made some wild gesture toward me.
I considered whether I could borrow Dotty's cane. Get me out of here.
Fendleman grabbed Jimenez around the neck and put him in a headlock. “You're all mouth and legs. Gonna tell coach you need to run more laps.”
“Everything ok?” Spiked hair dude fist-bumped Fendleman.
“Thanks for helping out with the hardheaded fish, there, Lee.” Fendleman nodded in my direction.
“Thought his head wasn't hard enough.” Sender glanced at me and shrugged.
I flipped him off. The guy had the nerve to smirk. He took a seat at the end of my bed, and started talking like we'd been in the middle of a conversation.
“Rem filled out the paperwork and submitted it to the college. She said to get a copy of the doctor's report so she can add it to your file.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“She drafted a new concussion protocol plan. She'll have it for you Monday when you check in. Good thing you don't have any games for a few months.”
Eberhardt moved to my bedside. “Jimenez, go grab Dotty a chair, please.” He called out over his shoulder.
“On it.” He bounded out the door.
“How you feeling?” Eberhardt placed his hand on my shoulder.
“I just want to go back to the dorm and sleep.” And if I'm lucky, I'll get to finish my dream about that girl . . .
“Not until you're cleared to leave under appropriate supervision. We had to file an incident report with the NCAA. Schorr attempted to notify your dad.”
I closed my eyes and waited for some emotion to bite or sting, but my insides were some kind of whirling storm off in the distance. “Doesn't matter. I’m eighteen and he kicked me out.”
Eberhardt's fingers tightened on my upper arm. “Father-son relationships are always complicated at this age. But?—”
“Mine’s not. He’s out of my life.” I wouldn't look at Coach. “Pretty simple, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, sure.” He let out a long breath. “At a minimum, you'll need to update your emergency contact info.”
Sender crossed his arms. He'd apparently returned to standing at the end of the bed. “If only it was that easy.”
Oh, right. He said his father's a major asshole. Someone pounded on the door. Eberhardt moved to open it.
“Your coach seems annoyed.” Sender spoke in a low voice. “But your dad’s not coming. Is he?”
“No chance.”
“Mine wouldn’t either. Would just tell me to suck it up—or call me a child. Or both.”
“Sounds about right.”
Sender continued despite the buzzing in my head. “He’s a legend in his own mind. The Van Sante name’s on a plaque outside Striker Stadium, and he doesn’t let me forget it.”
“Dude, not only are you the wettest blanket I ever met,” Jimenez groused as he re-entered the room, carrying a padded chair. “And I’ve spent far too much time with the poster child for anger issues, over here. But you’re like a loser example of the whitest privilege I’ve ever seen. Do you have to carry around your ego in a backpack?”
“Was told to keep him talking. What the fuck's your problem?”
“Ok, ok, Jimenez, Van Sante, go back to your corners.” Coach moved to stand between the two.
“Don’t need your help. We’ll take care of our own.” Jimenez snarled.
“Bite me, asshat.” Sender shot back, but moved away.
Geez, and I was a worse attitude problem than these two? But Coach had already turned away.
“Where's Dotty? Dammit, she can't just wander around here.” He pivoted, glancing about. He rubbed at the back of his head.
The door wedged open and Jimenez stopped glaring at Sender and practically bounded across the room to greet his girlfriend. He pulled her into the room. She looked at me and frowned. “How's your head?”
“Fine.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re as stubborn as she is. I wonder if that’s what she sees in you.”
She? A flash of that wicked hot dream danced before my eyes. The chick about to ride me. God, I hoped she was real.
“Heh. If you ever figure it out, let me know. I sure as hell can't think of anything.” Jimenez chuckled like he was a comedian.
“What was it you said to me? 'You suck like a Hoover, pana'.” Hah, I remembered.
“I drove in the winning run.” He leaned toward me while pointing at himself. “And I get the girl. If that's sucking, I'll take it.”
“He has a point.” Sender was back.
“See, even soccer-man gets it.”
“He does suck.” Sender shrugged with a bored look on his face. “But he also has a point.”
“You know what, Van Sante, I'm gonna come teach you how we play soccer in Dominica. You and your punk-assed perra?—”
“Ok, ok. You checked on your friend.” Hilda pulled on her boyfriend's arm, steering him toward the door. “Coop says he's fine. I came to get you so you could take me to dinner and celebrate.”
Jimenez shot a last glare at Sender—who didn't seem at all bothered. Arms crossed, he leaned against the foot of my bed and yawned.
“I know a few things about asshole fathers.”
If my head wasn't ready to split open, I might’ve asked. As it was, I just wanted to go back to that dream.
“You're not supposed to do that.”
My eyelids lifted at the same time Sender hauled me upright. He hit the button on the arm of the bed, tilting my upper body—just enough to prevent me from lying down. And going back to her .
“Why are you still here?” I glanced around. The place was empty, again. Or had it always been?
“Remi. The trainer. She asked me to help out.”
“You did. I'm sure coach and Fens will stop by.”
His eyebrows lifted. “They've been by. You don't remember?”
“Uh. Yeah.” I did remember, didn't I? “They said they'd come back, I mean.”
“So your dad's not coming. The doctor said you need supervision, though. Got a girlfriend or someone to stay with you?”
Not a real one. The words flooded my mind, but what the hell did that even mean? I groaned. My brain needed to work. Everything was so confusing.
“Didn't think so. We're not allowed to leave you alone.” He sat down as if to demonstrate the point.
It struck me, then—not like a mechanical bull to the head, but, I was completely on my own. Mom wasn't on her way here. My father, even though they’d notified him, we weren’t on speaking terms.
In ten years from now, hell, even five years . . . Who would be here if I?—
“How far away is home?”
I shrugged. “This is it. College. Hospital. Wherever I sleep, I guess.”
“Yeah, I told my old man off, too.”
“It’s complicated. I guess. Maybe it’s really as simple as: we’ve never had anything in common.”
“I wish that were my case. This is my dad’s alma mater. He sends his checks addressed to the athletic program.”
“He played?”
“National championship. Left wing. Being here, I’ve managed to survive months at a time without hearing that story every day.” He grumbled and rolled his eyes.
“Go pro?”
“Ambition was there. Played in some European leagues. Then he met my mom and retired early. Regretted it, though.”
“My mom . . . She, uh, died. About eight months ago, now. Right around the time of the high school championship tournament. Became a living nightmare. Still is.”
For a long moment, the room fell quiet, as if it were . . . surprised by the news I'd shared. Was that the first time I said all of that out loud? What was it about head injuries that made me chatty?
“Sounds rough.”
Something other than the standard “I'm sorry”. “Yeah. Sure.” She hadn't been sorry, either. Right?
“It's sad because of all the things she'll miss. But, I'm glad she lived.”
“Mine did, too. Been years, now. Some autoimmune thing I never understood.” Sender stared at the floor.
“Fucking sucks.” I held my tongue before I said I was sorry.
“My asshole father remarried my freshman year. Somehow, my brother and sister were just OK with it. I hated . . . everyone. Family’s always been difficult. Used to think it was all my father's fault. But lately I’ve had to admit that I haven’t helped anything.”
I sighed. “I just realized . . . when you asked me if anyone, like a girlfriend, would check on me. I don’t have a family, anymore. I suppose it happens eventually. Just seems sudden.”
“We’re never as alone as we fear. Someone told me that once. But you do have to make room for people, and invite them in. Learn to be a friend. Put others first sometimes.” His mouth tilted. “My freshman year, I wanted to prove something. I don’t even remember what. I was just angry. About everything. Anything.”
“Seems like that changed.”
“Got injured. Met Remi. She thought I was such an asshole. I kinda was. But I at least knew, or figured out pretty quickly—I didn’t want to miss my chance with her.”
“Even if it means babysitting a fucked in the head baseball player in the hospital on a Sunday.”
“Still Saturday.” He wagged a finger at me. “But you’re catching on.”
“You gonna go pro? Do better than your old man?”
“I figure I can play for a few years, but I’m looking for my backup plan. Can't stay young forever. And I want to be a better man every day. Not just break some records on the field.”
“Hm. At least your dad understood the sacrifices.”
“Yeah, sure. Only he didn’t see them as choices.” He shrugged. “I was expected to make them. Even as I began to see a different world with my own eyes.”
“Trainer girl’s hot.”
He met my gaze. “Off limits.”
I chuckled. A bit. My head didn't like the motion. “Always liked blonds better anyway.”
“Keep it that way.”
I rubbed a hand over my forehead. My fingers slid over the fading wound. “Is the doctor coming back or what?”
Sender shrugged.
“This sucks. I don’t even remember what happened. Not . . . really. Just that Jimenez was supposed to hit long. Then he bunted. Like a fuckin prick.”
“You scored the winning run. Isn’t that all that matters?”
“Yeah.” Then why does it feel like . . . something’s missing?
The doorknob turned and inched open. Sender stood and crossed the room.
“This infernal, heavy God damned door! How’s an old lady supposed to throw it open in disgust?”
I groaned. My heart beat a last flutter in my throat before settling back in my chest. Sender opened the door for Dotty, making the mistake of chuckling when he did so.
“Took you long enough.” She smacked him in the chest.
He glanced at me, an actual expression on his face. “This your grandma?” His lips twitched like he was holding back laughter.
“No. She’s . . . What the hell?” An entire clump of people like a human traffic jam stood in the hallway. The doctor came back into the room. Schorr and Eberhardt followed. Sender propped open the door. I did not need a whole audience. I just needed my instructions from the doctor and a ride to the dorm.
Dotty sat down beside my bed and tapped the back of my hand twice. “There there. You’ll be fine.”
“What are you doing here?”
Dotty turned around. “Where the hell is she?”
“Who?” My brain was a mushy fog.
“You know.”
Schorr patted my shoulder. I glanced up. Eberhardt nodded. “We’re getting you out of here. Just need a couple of signatures.”
“Coop can stay with me.” Schorr fidgeted with the hat in his hands.
“Nothing doing.” Dotty shook her head.
“Why the hell are you even here? I thought when your last son graduated, I was done with the Vachon’s brand of crazy.” He groused.
I closed my eyes and wished this whole thing, minus the win, wasn't real.
“Coop’s going back to his dorm. And I will personally ensure his wellbeing.”
“Oh, here we go.” Schorr groaned. “How're you gonna do that, Dot? You’re like seventy-two if you’re a day. Daft old bird.”
“Let’s take this down a notch. He’ll be fine in his dorm. Fens and the other guys will check in on him. It’s better for him, and neither of you have any actual room in your residences,” Eberhardt said.
“You mean where they keep me while everyone just waits around for me to kick over?” Dotty smoothed hair from her face.
I met her gaze. “You’re being overly dramatic.”
“Sure, sure. But I wasn’t planning to have him hang out with me.” She pivoted in her chair again and looked at the door. “I swear that girl. It doesn’t take this long to drag your shit in here. I told her to give it to that idiot Schorr.”
“I’m right here.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s probably Remi.” Sender peered out into the hallway.
Dotty glanced over her shoulder. A loud huff. “Dammit, Henry. Where’s that blonde pain in my ass Coop just wants to get frisky with?”