19. Gideon
GIDEON
The neurologist’s office smelled like disinfectant and ruined careers.
My brain scans glowed blue and green, the screens casting a glow onto the wall of diplomas.
While I sat on the paper-covered examination table, I tried not to analyze the scans.
What the hell did I know? Was the red good or bad?
Because there sure as hell seemed to be a lot of it.
It had been two days since I’d discovered everything I thought I knew about Piper was a lie, and I still felt like someone had reached into my chest and punched my heart.
Dr. Maurice flipped through my chart. My attention flickered from his face to the scans while I waited for him to say something.
“Your cognitive tests look good,” he finally said. “Reflexes are normal. But your balance is still off, and you’re reporting ongoing headaches and light sensitivity.”
“The headaches aren’t that bad.” They were. “And the light thing is getting better.”
His poker face faltered, and for a second, I saw what he was really thinking: bullshit. He didn’t believe me. “Mr. Bailey, I’m going to be direct with you. Your continuing symptoms need to be monitored. I’m extending your medical leave for another month, minimum.”
The words hurt more than taking a stray slapshot in the ankle. “A month? Come on. It’s not that bad. The team needs me. We’re having our best start in years.”
“The team will survive. Your brain might not if you rush back.” He set down my chart. “I’m referring you to a physiotherapist who specializes in concussion recovery. There’s a great one downtown and another good one at the Azalea Bay Club.”
“I live in Rosewood Estates. I might as well get in a few rounds of golf while I’m there. If golf is okay.”
Dr. Maurice looked at me over his round glasses. “Golf is fine. You can do pretty much everything except—”
“Hockey,” I grumbled.
“Skydiving and football are off the list too.” The doctor gave me a little smile. He worked with athletes; he had to know his news was as welcome as finding a water moccasin in my swimming pool.
“Maybe I’ll take up boxing, then.”
The doctor rolled his eyes. “Just take it easy. We’ll monitor your symptoms and see where we’re at in a month.”
“But I’ll be able to play again, right, Doctor?” Going into his office, I had anticipated getting a green light, not a monthlong benching. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized it could be way worse.
He sighed. “I wish I could give you that promise. But I can’t.” He set the clipboard on the table. “Stay out of the boxing ring, learn how to meditate, and enjoy the sunshine for thirty days.”
The assumption that I was a dumb jock who didn’t know about mindfulness pissed me off, but I didn’t want to correct the doctor. I needed the man on my good side.
“Fine. When do I start physio?”
“Lisa Chen at the Azalea Bay Club keeps spaces open for concussion patients. She should be able to get you in tomorrow.”
“What if I can get in today?” Members had priority at the health facilities, and I was a member with a concussion.
“That’s even better.” Dr. Maurice patted my knee. “I’ll see you in a month. Come in sooner if anything worsens.”
Driving away from the clinic, I made myself two promises. One: I was going to be a professional physio patient. The exercises were going to be my new job. Two: Next time, I wasn’t going to tell Dr. Maurice the truth.
The club was less than a mile from my house, but I drove anyway. It was inferno-level hot outside, and the sun’s rays sent stabbing pains into my brain. I parked the Escalade in the member parking lot and grabbed my gym bag.
It hadn’t escaped my concussed brain that I had seen Piper at the club.
At the time, she’d seemed out of place amongst the gorgeous, snooty socialites—in a good way.
Now, her girl-next-door vibe made sense.
As I walked to the building, I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell a single-mom housekeeper could afford a membership at Azalea Bay?
Lisa Chen was waiting for me in the lobby. She was a petite woman with long, dark hair. Her eyes were kind, and so was her smile. “You must be Gideon. I’m Lisa.”
“That’s me.” I shook her hand, surprised by her firm grip.
She led me through the outdoor courtyard, past the golf gazebo, to a quiet building tucked away from the main clubhouse.
The physio space was like all of the other ones, filled with bands, Pilates reformer machines, and balance boards.
The big window next to the stretching mats had a view of the outdoor pool.
Lisa sat next to me on an exercise ball while she asked a million questions about my medical history, making notes on her iPad. When the interrogation—I mean interview—was over, she shut the cover of her tablet and turned her attention to me.
“The good news is you’re young and in excellent shape. The bad news is you’re a professional athlete who’s used to pushing through pain, which makes you a terrible patient.”
I couldn’t argue with that assessment.
The next hour was humbling. Simple balance exercises that should’ve been easy left me wobbling like a toddler on skates for the first time.
Catching tennis balls thrown at moderate speed felt like trying to swat flies after drinking too many beers by the lake.
By the end, sweat was pouring down my face, and my head was pounding.
“Not bad for a first session,” Lisa said, handing me a towel.
“I feel like I got run over by the Zamboni.”
“Welcome to brain injury recovery. It’s not glamorous.” She made some notes on her tablet. “I’m going to suggest something that might help with coordination and sound tolerance.”
“Yeah?”
“Pickleball.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“Pickleball. It’s like tennis, but—”
“I know what it is. What about tennis? Can’t I just do that instead? Pickleball is tennis for people whose knees are shot.” The words came out harsher than I intended. “I’m not ready for the retirement home yet.”
Lisa’s eyebrows shot up. “It’s not a retirement sport. It requires quick reflexes, strategy—”
“It’s tennis with a wiffle ball.” I grabbed my bag. “Thanks, but no thanks. What else have you got?”
“Gideon, I understand your hesitation, but—”
“Do you?” I turned to face her. “Because last time I checked, you weren’t a professional athlete being asked to play grandma sports.”
Lisa was quiet for a moment. “You know what? You’re right.
I don’t understand. But I do understand brain injuries, and I understand what helps people recover from them.
” Her voice was calm but firm. “I’ll see you Thursday.
I’ll book a court. And we’re going to try pickleball whether you like it or not. ”
“I don’t think—”
“Thursday, Gideon. I’ll text you the time.” She was already walking away. “And bring a better attitude.”
I drove home in a shitty mood, my head pounding worse than before.
The house was silent, which should’ve been a good thing, but without Ace bashing around in the kitchen, it was too quiet.
Even Dagger Paws seemed subdued. He stretched and scratched the leather sofa when I walked into the living room, and then curled into a ball and went back to sleep.
The kitchen still smelled faintly of cinnamon and apples. Piper’s care package sat in my fridge, untouched since I’d shoved it in there two days ago. I should throw it out. All of it. Pretend it never happened.
Instead, I found myself pulling out the apple crisp.
The apples were the perfect texture, and the topping had just the right amount of crunch. I hesitated, my hand shaking as I held the casserole dish over the trash can.
Why couldn’t I bring myself to throw it away? I didn’t really even eat sugar.
Piper spent hours in her tiny kitchen, thinking about what I might like, caring about whether I was okay after getting laid out on the ice. And I’d been so caught up in feeling betrayed that I’d never even thanked her.
The plastic lid clattered as I took my foot off the trash can’s pedal and put the dish on the counter.
Then I took a small bite. Then another. I couldn’t stop. I hunched over that glass dish like a wild animal, shoveling the apple crisp into my mouth until half the pan was gone.
The only thing that stopped me from eating the entire thing was a phone call. It was Goldie. I set down the spoon and sat in my recliner before answering. I was pathetic. Sitting in my three-million-dollar house, eating my feelings. The food made by a woman who’d lied to me about everything.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Your head or your heart?”
“Both.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Trust Goldie to cut straight to the point. Ace must have filled her in on the drama with Piper. I didn’t want to tell him, but when he got back from his dinner with his coach and wanted to get into the crisp, I had lost my mind.
Luckily, he figured out that my tantrum was about something deeper than a dessert. I broke down and told him everything. Now, there was no point in lying to my sister-in-law—she knew everything about everything anyway.
“She has a daughter, Goldie. A kid I knew nothing about.” C.C. hopped off the sofa and climbed the legs of my workout pants to take a seat in my lap.
“I know,” Goldie said quietly.
“You know? Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Did she set out to deceive you, or was she protecting something?”
I thought about the look on Piper’s face. Not guilty. Scared.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Maybe you should find out. I got a good vibe from her, Gideon. She’s the only woman I’ve ever seen loosen you up.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Just think about it. You celebrated your goals the other night, didn’t you?”
I had celebrated, but that didn’t have anything to do with Piper, did it?
After we hung up, I sat in my kitchen eating apple crisp and thinking about single mothers who worked long hours and still found time to make homemade food for injured neighbors.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Mr. Bailey, this is Lisa from physio. I’ve arranged a pickleball session for Thursday at 7 AM sharp.
I stared at the message for a long time before typing back.
Me: Fine. But I’m not going to like it.
Lisa: You don’t have to like it. You just have to show up.
I set the phone down and looked at C.C. “What do you think, buddy? Am I being an ass?”
He surprised me with two impressive leaps. One to the chair, the second to the countertop. There, he sauntered to the end to give me a purr-fueled head-butt.
“Yeah,” I said, scratching behind his ears. “That’s what I thought too.”
C.C. sniffed the air above the apple crisp. His bowl still had food in it, and I wasn’t going to start sharing my dinner with a cat.
Or maybe I was. He stuck his nose in the pan, and I let him lick the remnants of the crumble.