6. Izzy #2
With a sigh, I return to scrolling my phone, mindlessly shuffling through emails, anything to distract me. I’m tired, and I can’t seem to focus. I knew I shouldn’t have come to the game tonight.
“I think you might be worried,” he whispers.
I snap my gaze back to his. “If you want to have your brains bashed in, that’s none of my business.”
“He deserved it.” Jack grips the thin woven hospital blanket and pushes himself upright more, twisting his torso so he’s closer to me. “Glad you came tonight.”
The hint of sincerity in his voice, that rough Boston tumble, sharp like a strong whiskey double, pulls my attention. To his eyes, his mouth, the dark stubble shadowing his jaw.
He really is beautiful.
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. It’s like even my body forgets what it was doing because my phone tumbles out of my hand and bounces against the tan linoleum floor at my feet. When I reach to grab it, the doctor returns with Jack’s coach, who fills up the doorway.
“Your girlfriend can stay,” the nurse says, checking his IV.
Jack’s coach adjusts his hat, swiping his hand over his hair, then glares toward the hospital bed.
“Girlfriend?” Jack repeats, as if testing the word out for the first time.
I don’t know his dating history, and don’t want to, but the way he says it, folding his arms across his chest and grinning, makes me want to forget I ever heard the words from his lips.
“Izzy? My girlfriend? I move fast when I find a good thing.”
“No!” I say. “You… I’ll step outside. Don’t want to interrupt… I mean, I don’t…”
“Everything okay?” He chuckles, everyone’s eyes fixed on me as my brain completely short-circuits because Jack Murphy just insinuated I was his girlfriend.
“Fine. Great.” I try to duck around the doctors but get tangled up in the privacy curtain. I battle with the flimsy gray waffle-knit fabric until I’m free and burst into the hallway, searching for a place to hide.
Any place but here. Any room where I’m not stuck with that infuriatingly smug hockey player. Far away so I don’t need to hear that deep chuckle that feels like a rough caress.
Annie and Sloane return with coffee just as the doctor and coach file out of Jack’s room, both looking satisfied enough with whatever updates they got. Annie presses a cup into my hand.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t look convinced, but Ethan’s already heading back inside, so we follow. He’s hovering over his brother’s hospital bed with a frown.
“I don’t need a babysitter. Not my first concussion.”
“That’s the problem, you fucking ass,” Ethan grumbles.
“It’s your second in eight months.” He twirls his keys around his finger, his backward hat faded, wrinkles gathered around his hazel eyes.
“I’ll run to your place and grab an overnight bag, then bring the truck around and meet you all outside.
You’re coming with us for the night. We need to keep an eye on you. ”
“They wouldn’t be discharging me if I wasn’t going to be okay.”
“You heard the doctor. You’re off the ice for at least two weeks. You’re staying at our place for the night. Twenty minutes,” Ethan snaps, squeezing Sloane’s hand before he rushes out of the room.
Ethan Murphy might be a grump, but he loves Sloane in a way that makes me a little lonely. It’s strange to miss something you’ve never experienced before, but that’s what it feels like to be around the two of them. Like I’m missing love.
“I’m fine,” Jack insists, swinging his feet off the bed. His fingers dig into the thin mattress, his knuckles almost white.
I sneak closer so he doesn’t collapse against the floor.
His gaze snaps to mine, as if he knows. His hand moves to his chest, fingers brushing over a fine gold chain I’ve never noticed before. A small shamrock pendant. His jaw tightens.
“Two concussions?” I whisper.
“Part of hockey, sweetheart.”
I hate that endearment, hate the condescending tone that leaks out around his words as he stands and tilts his neck from side to side. I hate more how I notice him wincing, then hate myself for recognizing he’s hurting. Why do I even care?
The girls and I slip out to wait by the back entrance while the nurses start the discharge process with Jack. It’s quieter here, tucked away from the main entrance, just the occasional employee sneaking out for some air.
“Well, this was a night.” Annie turns to face Sloane and me.
She doesn’t fool me though. I hear the soft shake in her voice. She’s only a year older than Peyton.
“He’ll be fine,” Sloane says, as if reading my mind. “Jack is always okay.”
“Don’t let that smile fool you.” Annie spins back around.
For a fall night, it’s surprisingly muggy in the city. The sky is washed out from all the light pollution, a hollow midnight blue hanging over us and the collection of buildings around the hospital.
I tug on Annie’s hand, drawing her back until she’s beside me, then wrap my arm around her shoulder.
“I thought you hated your brothers,” I whisper against her ear.
She pulls away and flashes me a sad smile. “Try being the youngest girl to the three Murphy brothers.”
Annie nudges my shoulder, and we keep walking, skirting the trash scattered on the sidewalk. Traffic from Storrow Drive is a low hum this time of night. Well, it’s morning now. It’s almost two, and my eyes sting from the lack of sleep.
Jack is wheeled out in a wheelchair through a discreet staff entrance, tucked away in the maze of the hospital complex. He didn’t want to deal with cameras, reporters, or the few fans who might have waited to catch a glimpse of him, or worse, get an autograph.
Still, a Boston cop shouts at us out of his patrol car parked tight by the dumpster and waves to Jack.
“Big hit tonight, huh?”
“Yeah.” Jack chuckles, then pushes himself up from the wheelchair, and the nurse pushes it back inside. Annie holds her hand up to Jack—a quick “give me a second” gesture—as she crosses the small lot. At first, I think she’s going to yell at the cop, then I realize she’s flirting with him.
“Still okay?” I ask.
He raises his eyebrows and winces. “I didn’t think I’d be so lucky to see two of you tonight.”
Jack sinks to the sidewalk and plasters the instant ice pack to the side of his face. I sit beside him, the quiet stretching between us before I peek over at him.
“You’re too handsome for black eyes,” I mutter.
“They don’t help my appeal?”
I snort. “Your appeal? You got dropped to the ice like a sack of potatoes, lost consciousness, and forgot what team you played for when you finally woke up.”
He shrugs. “I landed a few good punches first.”
“Hey,” I whisper. “Stay awake. Ethan should be here any second.”
Jack hums in response, his eyes drifting closed for a moment as headlights sweep across us and the truck pulls up. Jack insists he’s fine, but when he stands, he staggers a step.
I catch him, my fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his gray sweatpants, brushing against his hipbone. My heart lurches into my throat when he shoots me a look over his shoulder. Bright-blue eyes, even in the dead of night.
“If you want to sleep with me, you just have to ask, Izzy.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you do anything besides flirt?”
“Sometimes I play hockey.”
“Oh, yeah? What team?”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “Smart-ass.”
Jack leans his head against the door, shoulder brushing mine as I crawl in beside him in the back seat. Annie sits to my right, giddy that she has the cop’s phone number for a date.
“I thought you didn’t care,” he whispers. It’s so low, I hardly hear it over the heater blasting. Then, without waiting for my answer, he tosses some inside joke toward Sloane and Ethan in the front seat.
His hand shifts on the seat between us. I’m sure it’s not intentional, he’s just fidgeting…
But his fingers graze the back of mine, warm and rough. I should pull away.
I don’t.
The truck sways to the left as we hit a pothole merging onto Storrow.
“Watch your head, Jack. One concussion tonight is enough.” Annie yawns, then grabs a sweatshirt from Ethan and wraps it around herself.
“Stay awake,” Ethan reminds him.
Jack doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word, as he hums a raspy “Okay” and slips his fingers into mine. And I keep my hand right where it is, our fingers intertwined the whole way to Merritt Point.