Chapter 4
Roxanne
Out of all the people I could have crossed paths with within the halls of Mass General, Caleb Donovan was the last person I expected to run into.
Figuratively and literally.
“Damn it,” I curse, more upset at the fact that every item in my bag has spilled over onto the floor than I am of the small scrapes and bruises my knees have suffered with the clash.
“Fuck. Sorry,” he says apologetically.
“It’s fine. I should have been paying more attention to where I was walking,” I reply dismissively.
“Yeah, you should have.”
He did not just say that .
Annoyed at his response, I crane my neck back to stare daggers at the man hovering over me, but I lose all track of thought when my gaze lands on his face.
Up to this point, Caleb Donovan was just a name—a figure I briefly glanced at on the news, nothing more. But now that I’m on my knees, staring up at his tall frame, I can’t help but take full stock of him, the somber image permanently engraving itself in my mind.
His brown wavy hair falls effortlessly over his forehead, framing his exhausted yet striking face—a canvas of youthful perfection, with chiseled cheekbones that cast delicate shadows across his smooth, olive-toned skin. His eyes, the lightest shade of green I’ve ever seen on a person, hold a weight of sadness that is at complete odds with his other breathtaking attributes. The curve of his lips is tinged with a hint of melancholy, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even the lines of his strong jaw seem to carve a path of unspoken sorrow. And yet, despite the sadness lingering in his features, there is a beauty so stunning that it takes me a minute to remember his insolent remark.
“You don’t have to be rude about it. You didn’t see me either,” I snap before lowering my gaze from his, but not fast enough to avoid seeing the slight crinkle of guilt in his brow.
“Fuck,” he mutters before he lowers himself to my level, quickly helping me gather all my belongings from the floor. “You’re right. Sorry. This place… it… just gets to you, you know?”
My forehead creases at his uncoerced confession.
From Lenny’s description of Caleb, I half expected him to be this pompous jerk with no regard for anyone’s feelings but his own. However, the man who is now on his hands and knees helping me put away my belongings doesn’t strike me as someone who only cares about himself. He looks genuinely sorry for his outburst, doing everything he can to make it right.
But then again, first impressions can be deceiving.
“I get it. Hospitals aren’t exactly a breezy field trip,” I retort with a sympathetic tone.
Caleb doesn’t say anything, preferring to keep his head hung low as he picks up the last of my things.
“Thank you,” I say after I’ve tucked everything back into my bag.
Again, he doesn’t reply, preferring to surprise me by extending his hand to help me get up off my knees.
I hesitate for a split second before I gingerly place my hand in his and let him pull me up.
I only realize my mistake as I stand just mere inches away from him, my heart falling to the pit of my stomach when confronted with the absence of light in his eyes.
No warmth or life in him at all.
A sad sight to see in someone so young.
I have an urge to ask him if he’s alright since it’s apparent that he’s not, but I lose my chance to do so when a nurse stops right in front of us.
“Hi,” she greets, directing her smile at Caleb. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“You have?” he asks, his eyes widening in alarm. “Is everything alright with—”
“One of my colleagues said you were here,” she cuts him off. “Would you mind giving me an autograph? It’s for my boyfriend.”
Suddenly, the sullen man before me disappears, and in his place, a carefree counterfeit arises.
“Of course. What’s his name?” Caleb asks with a forced grin as the nurse quickly hands him a pen and a trading card to sign.
“Tom.” She giggles excitedly. “His name is Tom.”
“Lucky Tom.” He winks at her flirtatiously.
I stand there speechless, watching the whole absurd interaction go down.
It’s as if he’s morphed into another person.
I had never met someone who wore their suffering so transparently and yet managed to effortlessly camouflage it at will. One second, he looked like the world held no joy for him, and the next, he’s acting as if he’s right as rain, thrilled to placate complete strangers in their need for his time and attention.
The whole scene is so upsetting that it feels like I’m witnessing the very death of his spirit.
“There you go.” He smiles once more, displaying a practiced grin that I suspect he has rehearsed countless times in front of a mirror to mask any hint of distress.
“Thanks! Tom is going to freak when I come home tonight with this.” The nurse beams at him. “I… um… can I get a selfie with you, and maybe a hug, too?” she asks, batting her eyelashes at him, no longer thinking about her boyfriend.
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Caleb relents, his fake smile stretching as he engulfs her in a side hug, allowing her to snap the photo with her phone.
His cheerful disposition fades slightly as the bothersome nurse unashamedly bows her head to scrutinize the picture for Instagram-worthy quality. But as soon as she lifts her head up at Caleb, his all-American winning smile is once again stitched tightly to his face.
It’s oddly troubling how well-versed he is at hiding his true feelings at the drop of a dime.
“You good then, sweetheart?” Caleb asks, doing a miraculous job of hiding his annoyance.
“I sure am! Thanks a bunch,” she replies excitedly, skipping happily down the hall with her prize.
It’s only when she turns the corner that his face falls.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, disgusted by what I just witnessed.
“Huh?” he mumbles, his gaze shifting to me with a look of confusion as if he forgot that I’ve been standing here all this time.
“I said that you didn’t have to do that. Not only was it extremely unprofessional on her part to approach you for an autograph, but it was also in bad taste. This is a hospital, for crying out loud. If you’re here, it’s for a reason. You shouldn’t have been put in such a position.”
“What do you know about it?” he retorts with a snarl, displeased with my opinion on the matter.
“I know that everyone is entitled to their privacy. Just because you’re a public figure doesn’t give people permission to harass you whenever they want.”
He blinks at me once, then twice.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he finally replies crestfallen. “I’m not entitled to shit. Not anymore.”
“That’s not true,” I begin to interject but am rudely interrupted by his sardonic laugh.
“But it is. I signed away any right I had to privacy years ago. They own me.”
“No one owns anybody. No one is entitled to your time or energy if you don’t want to give it. You can always say no. You’d be surprised how liberating that small word can be.”
“No…” he chews on the word as if it had never once crossed his lips.
We both stand in the middle of the busy corridor, staring at each other as he acquaints himself with the new-found word. However, the hopelessness that resurfaces in his stellar gaze is truly concerning.
I know that look.
I’ve seen it one too many times in my own reflection.
“Are you—”
“I should go,” he mutters before I’m able to finish my sentence. “Sorry about bumping into you like that.”
“That’s okay.”
He offers me a weak smile and then walks away, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, the slump in his shoulders bearing the heavy weight of all his despair.
I stand there watching Caleb leave, amazed that no one sees his pain as they pass him by.
Mind you, he doesn’t make it easy to spot.
In fact, I’m not sure why he let me take a peek under the veil—allowing me to witness his grief—when he looked so determined in portraying that all is well in his world to that godawful nurse.
Or maybe the only reason why he was unable to shield his misery from me was because I’d recognize that type of suffering from a mile away.
Like an old friend waving back to me, I’d know its face solely by memory.
After all, not so long ago, despair was all I knew.
Only after Caleb has completely disappeared from my view do I finally turn around and head in the opposite direction. But with each step I take, I’m unable to rid myself of the unsettling feeling lingering from the entire encounter.
The whole thing was… troubling, to say the least.
It brought back feelings that I no longer have room for in my life.
Feelings of anguish and loneliness.
Of crippling desolation.
Devastating feelings that I miraculously was able to overcome but haunt me just the same.
Relief suddenly washes over me that Caleb Donovan isn’t a permanent fixture in my life and that our ill-timed encounter was just that—a one-off occurrence.
As I make my way to the underground parking lot of the hospital, my thoughts about Caleb are momentarily interrupted by the familiar ring of my phone. I instantly smile when I see my dear friend Trent’s name flash on the screen.
“Long time no see, stranger,” I joke since it’s been a hot minute we’ve talked.
Between winning our division, the sale of the Boston Guardians, and Rex leaving for Texas, I’m surprised he has enough time to spend with Piper, his girlfriend, let alone have time to check in on me.
“Hey, Roxanne. Do you have a minute?” he asks with that no-nonsense tone of his that says this call isn’t an old friend wanting to catch up with another, but a boss calling one of his employees for a quick convo.
“Actually, I’m just about to get into my car. Can I call you back once I get to the office?” I ask, pulling out my car keys from my bag.
“Actually, this is kind of important, and it can’t wait.”
“Hmm. Sounds ominous,” I taunt lightly while sliding into the front seat of my car. “Tell me. What do you need?” I ask once I’m completely tucked away inside the car to ensure some privacy.
“First of all, did I ever tell you what a remarkable job you did with Wilder? He has really come into his own this year. No doubt, thanks to you.”
“Trent?” I interrupt.
“Yes?”
“You’ve never been one for flattery nor beat around the bush about anything, so don’t start now. Just tell me what you need.”
“I need to ask you a favor.” He lets out an exhale.
“I think we’ve already established that much. Question is, what kind of favor are we talking about?” I ask, my hackles rising as to why he’s stalling.
Trent isn’t the stalling type. He always speaks his mind, uncaring who may have a problem with it. He’s never measured his words with anyone, let alone with me, so this sudden hesitancy not only feels out of place but is also unsettling.
“Trent? Out with it already. What kind of favor?”
“The kind of favor you won’t like,” he explains with an uncharacteristically guilt-ridden timbre in his voice. “I’m sending a new player your way, and I need you to rearrange your work schedule to make him your top priority.”
“And who is this player that suddenly needs such attention?” I ask, already fearing the name that’s going to leave his lips.
Don’t say it.
Don’t say it.
Don’t say it.
“Caleb Donovan. I need you to start counseling him… like yesterday.”
He said it.
“No.”
“Excuse me? Did you just say no to me?” Trent mimics, surprised by my answer.
“Correct. That’s exactly what I said. No. Do you need me to say it again?”
See, Caleb? It is that easy.
“Roxanne,” he starts to argue, but I interrupt him again before he says something that will change my mind.
“I’m not the right person for the job. Ask someone else.”
“Actually, I think you’re the perfect person,” he retorts with determination.
“Trust me, I’m not,” I reiterate with the same steel conviction.
No matter how Trent spins this, I am not taking Caleb on as a patient. I know what I saw today, and… it frightened me. No way would I willingly offer myself to be around that type of pain again. I refuse to revisit such agony for anyone’s benefit. Not for Caleb, who I barely know, and definitely not for Trent, a man I considered to be one of my closest friends—something that I’m now doubting, considering his audacity for making such a request.
Trent should have known better than to ask me for my help. Then again, it does explain his initial resistance.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you were up to the challenge, Roxanne. You’ve been in his shoes. You know exactly what he’s going through. And the kid needs someone to guide him through this. But what he needs most is a fucking break,” Trent explains frustratedly.
I almost laugh at his use of the word ‘kid’ to describe such a man.
Yes, Caleb might be young—probably in his early twenties if I was to venture a guess—but pain like the type he’s carrying around has a way of maturing you well beyond your years—a fact that Trent seems to be oblivious to.
“He’s spiraling. Every day that he doesn’t get the professional help he needs is another day he gets worse.”
“I agree with you. From what I’ve read online and in the papers, he does need help,” I explain, omitting the fact that I just had a front-row seat to his star goalie’s depressive state. “But I’m not the one who will give it to him. What he needs is grief counseling, and that’s not my area of expertise.”
When the line grows silent, I bite down on my bottom lip, refusing to say anything more than that.
No should have sufficed.
No should have been enough of an explanation on why I don’t want to be Caleb’s therapist.
“Roxanne,” Trent finally says, with an eerie calm in his voice. “You know grief. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying it’s not your area of expertise. You’re more than qualified to help him. More so because you came out on the other side whole. All I’m asking is for you to give him the chance to do the same.”
Whole.
What a word to describe such an accomplishment.
No one comes out whole after losing someone they love.
A piece of them will always be missing.
I’m nowhere near whole, nor will I ever be.
Nor will Caleb.
“Trent—”
“The kid is in self-destruct mode right now, and if he doesn’t get a handle on his shit, then he’ll force my hand,” Trent warns solemnly.
“You wouldn’t,” I blurt out, shocked by him resorting to manipulation. “You wouldn’t dare suspend a man who is going through what he is now. The Guardians’ fans will eat you alive if you even consider doing such a thing. You wouldn’t do that. You’re not that heartless.”
“That’s just it. I might not have a choice. Need I remind you that Preston is the new owner of the team? He makes the rules now. And since he doesn’t have the same connection with the players as I do, he sees things differently. Practically. He won’t think twice about suspending or even firing Caleb if it means it will guarantee the club wins the Stanley Cup this year. So even though you might think me callous in asking you for such a favor, I fear that you’re the kid’s only shot.”
“That’s a lot of pressure to put on me.”
“Like I said, I know you can handle it. So what do you say?”
I’m about to reject his request again to show that he can’t manipulate me into doing something I don’t want to, but he then says the one word I never thought I’d hear coming out of his mouth.
“Please, Roxanne? For me? I owe his brother that much.”
Damn it all to hell.
Why did he have to say please?
Trent doesn’t say please to anyone.
“Can I think about it?” I hear myself ask.
Rocks sling to my stomach when the line goes silent again.
“Trent?” I repeat. “Can you give me some time to think about it?”
“I need an answer by the end of the day. Don’t disappoint me,” he says before hanging up.
If it were anyone else, I’d be annoyed with how he ended our conversation, but I’m used to Trent’s abrupt behavior.
If he needs an answer by the end of the day, that means the club’s new owner must be breathing down his neck. If I turn Trent down, who knows how Lawrence Preston III will react.
If?
What do you mean if?
Of course, you’re turning him down.
You can’t …
But just as I start arguing with myself about the enormous mistake of taking on such a patient and what it would do to my own mental health, I catch a glimpse of the man himself walking into the underground parking lot, completely lost in thought as if in a trance.
With his head hung low, I watch him walk over to a car, completely unaware of my presence. I find myself holding my breath when he reaches his car and doesn’t get in. Instead, he just stands there, staring at his feet. It’s only when he wipes the tears from his eyes that I see he’s crying. I swallow dryly as I watch him lift his head up to stare at the ceiling, mumbling something that I’m unable to hear. He then punches the hood of the car with all his might, letting out a wail so guttural and loud that I feel it piercing through my chest and strangling my heart.
Pain—deep-rooted, searing pain.
He’s in agony.
A misery I know all too well.
Trent was right on two accounts—Caleb is spiraling, and I know exactly what that feels like.
That helplessness.
That guilt.
It rocks me to my very core witnessing it from the outside.
I can’t help but wonder if perhaps I would have made better choices if I had someone to help me through it. Maybe I wouldn’t have been stuck in such a state for as long as I had been.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Caleb Donovan needs an anchor. Someone to pull him back from the rolling tide of pain when it gets too much.
The only question is… can I be his anchor?
Am I strong enough to dip my toes in such dark waters and have the right frame of mind to pull him and myself out in time? Do I even dare return to such a place without letting such misery engulf and drown me again?
No.
I’m stronger now.
I am.
I must be if I’m entertaining the idea of helping Caleb.
Before my insecurities and self-doubt come into play, I pick up my phone and throw a quick text to Trent.
Me: I’ll do it.
Trent: Thank you. I owe you one.
I don’t reply and pocket my phone instead, preferring to watch Caleb lose all composure, thinking the shadows of the hospital’s parking lot will be enough to hide his pain. Little does he know he’s got an attentive audience in me. I refuse to leave him alone while he is falling apart like this. I feel a sense of commiserating obligation to stay with him at his frailest hour, even if from afar. The unyielding tug at my heart compels me to reach out and offer him comfort. Yet, I force myself to remain unseen, a silent observer of his private struggle.
I don’t dare move.
Instead, I continue to watch him from a distance, kicking his car with raw pain etched on his face. His cries of agony echo through the empty parking lot, the sound piercing through the stillness in the air. Tears stream down his cheeks, his body trembling with emotions too heavy to bear. As he collapses to the ground, his fists pounding against the pavement, my own eyes start to water, recalling how such grief has the power to consume a person whole. Silent tears cascade down my face at the heartbreaking display of such human vulnerability.
Time ceases to exist for both of us.
And yet, I still don’t move.
Not even an inch.
Because if I do… if I get out of this car and run to him, he’ll raise that mask he wears so well and throw up walls so high that no one will ever be able to climb their way through.
And right now, the shield he’s fond of pulling up will only do him harm.
He needs this.
He needs to let himself feel.
All of it.
Even if it breaks him.
Even if he gasps for air as his agonizing cries threaten to strangle his windpipes.
He needs to break.
Because only when he’s hit rock bottom will he accept my help to build him back up.