11. Winona
Winona
When you watch the game, be a student of the game.
~ Don Meyer
When I walk into Declan’s house, the game’s on. The sounds of the announcers’ voices ring through surround-sound speakers, making it feel almost as if he’s watching the game in person.
Declan’s sitting on the couch, his leg up on a stack of memory foam support pillows. I stand still, taking him in.
Most days I forget how handsome he is—or I push the awareness down to get the job done.
But today he snuck past my defenses. He’s so intent, his eyes fixed on the screen.
His brows draw in just the slightest. The set of his jaw is determined, but the stubble along his cheeks gives him a rugged, day-off look.
He’s in a white T-shirt, no Thunder logo this time.
It’s stretched across his chest and biceps.
He’s paired that with some light-grey sweat shorts.
I’m not even hiding the fact that I’m staring when he looks over at me as if I just materialized out of nowhere.
“Hey,” he says, turning back to the TV.
“Hey.” I half-laugh to myself.
He went into the practice facility three days this week.
I dropped him off and picked him up. It’s not technically part of my job to provide routine taxi service, but he’d have to ask someone else, and I was available.
I did odd jobs while he worked out and watched his teammates run drills.
Then I circled back around and picked him up.
Yesterday, I didn’t come over. Declan can maneuver around the house a lot more on his own, so I’m down to four days a week of approved care. In the meantime, I also picked up another patient—an elderly farmer on the outskirts of town who had to have a hip replacement.
I’m here to work, so I tear my eyes away from Declan and get busy.
“Don’t mind me. I’ll just be checking how you’re adjusting to your cast.”
“Mkay,” Declan says, his eyes still on the TV. “Run! Run!” he shouts as if the men on the screen can hear him. “Yes! Yes! Watch your left!”
I smile to myself. He’s kind of cute when he gets all passionate.
“You know they can’t hear you, right?”
“I know,” he says, smirking up at me. “It’s … frustrating that they can’t.”
A commercial comes on. Some guy selling insurance.
“I’m just going to check the skin around your cast for irritation, pressure sores, or breakdown,” I say, running my hand around the edge of the cast.
Declan’s focus lasers in on me. I look up at him, but I feel the start of a blush, so I fix my eyes on the job at hand. Which doesn’t help much because my pointer finger is running through the dark hairs on his leg.
I move to his toes on the leg with the broken ankle. Using my fingernail, I poke under each one in turn. “Can you feel that?” I say with each poke.
He answers, “Yes,” each time. When I get to the baby toe, he giggles and his toe curls backward.
“Are you ticklish, Declan?”
“Only a little,” he says, steeling his face into an impenetrable mask.
“I’m massively ticklish,” I tell him. “I’d probably kick my nurse in the face.”
Declan chuckles.
The next commercial comes on. Some football player is selling potato chips.
“Your color’s good. No swelling. No discharge.” I bend down and sniff.
“Did you just smell my foot?” Declan asks.
“We can’t have you getting an infection at the surgery site. I was checking for that.”
“You sniffed my foot,” he says with an amused smirk. “Is that what they teach you in nursing school?”
“Not exactly. But how else am I going to check if you smell?”
“Fair point,” he says, shaking his head and smiling a smile that would make me buy all the potato chips.
“Looking good, O’Connell,” I say.
“O’Connell?”
“It’s a game day. You’re O’Connell.”
“Ahhh.”
As if on cue, the game starts up again. Declan’s eyes move from me to the screen. I don’t take it personally. This is his job. And his team is playing without him. He needs to keep up on what happens while he’s away.
“Do you have enough water?” I ask him. “Hydration is important, especially now that you’re back to working out.”
He holds up an insulated metal flask with a fat plastic straw. Then he takes a sip.
“I’m hydrated.” He glances over at me. “Take a seat.”
I pause, not sitting right away. Technically, I did what’s needed. He’s not on pain pills anymore. He doesn’t need vitals taken. I just needed to check on his mood and the condition of his leg after casting.
“That is, unless you’re off to sheer sheep or harvest corn.”
I laugh. “No. I’m free the rest of the day. I’ve got book club later. That’s tonight.”
“Then take a seat, Winona. Watch a little of the game with me.”
I really don’t think this is a good idea, but a slight thrill runs through me that Declan’s asking me to stay.
Not because he’s Declan O’Connell. To me, he’s not some world-renowned athlete.
He’s just Declan. But he’s not usually so bold about me staying on when there’s nothing he needs from me but companionship.
And maybe that’s just it. He could be lonely.
I take a seat. He looks over at me and smiles.
Declan speaks without taking his eyes off the screen. “Claudette made some fried chicken and biscuits that would make a southern grandma weep with jealousy. If you’re hungry, grab yourself a plate.”
“I just ate,” I tell him. “Maybe later.”
He just nods. Then his attention is sucked into the game. I could stand up and dance around the living room and I bet he wouldn’t notice. I’m half tempted to do just that to see if I’m right.
I watch along. Guys line up facing each other. I get that much. It’s the Thunder vs. Los Angeles. The team name is on the screen: Rams.
“Are most of the teams named after animals?” I ask.
“Not all,” he says. “Jets. Vikings. Packers. Steelers …”
“Hmmm.”
“I like the away uniform. It’s cute.”
“Cute, huh?” he chuckles. “I’ll be sure to tell the guys they looked cute out there.”
His eyes never leave the screen. I try to sit quietly, but I’m not following much. It’s hard to always tell where the ball is. Then, all of a sudden it’s airborne, flying so far, and a guy on our team catches it and takes off running.
I jump up and start shouting, “Run! Run! Go!”
The guy gets tackled by a Los Angeles player and I plop back into my chair.
Declan looks over at me and laughs. “They can’t hear you, you know?”
“Ha. Ha.”
“So, it’s third and ten,” Declan says. “That means a passing play. Their D is going to try to blitz our QB and we’re going to block them so he has a clear route. Hendricks is in my place as tight end. I’m guessing he’ll help with protection and then get into the flat so he’s a target.”
I stare at Declan. His face is neutral, his eyes riveted on the screen. He’s trying to include me—by speaking Greek.
“I understood exactly none of that.”
“Hang on,” Declan says.
There’s action on the screen. The guys on both sides of the line move toward one another. A bunch of men are running straight at the guy with the ball—I think that’s the quarterback, Marcus—but the Thunder guys are standing in the way and pushing back.
One guy shoves an LA player out of the way and then he runs off toward the side of the field. LA doesn’t have anyone over there. Marcus looks around. The men on the LA team are massive and they’re heading right toward him.
I’m sitting on the edge of my chair, gripping the seat cushion. I don’t even know if I’m breathing. No wonder Declan broke an ankle. If those guys hit Marcus, he could get really hurt.
But Marcus sees the guy who ran off to the mostly empty side of the field and he pulls his arm back and throws the ball like he’s a machine. The ball soars through the air. The guy who didn’t have anyone around him jumps up, catches the ball, turns and runs.
And now all the guys who were dead set on getting to Marcus are turning and running after the guy with the ball. He’s faster, though, or he had a lead, so he outruns them. Hendricks. That’s the name on his jersey. That would have been Declan.
One guy catches up with Hendricks and throws himself at him. And Hendricks goes down. A bunch of men in suits and windbreakers on the sidelines have to jump back to get out of the way. Even a guy holding a massive camera almost gets hit.
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah,” Declan turns to me, a wide smile on his face. “Wow.”
He raises his brows like, told you so.
And I can’t disagree. Even though I didn’t really know what was happening, the aftermath of the adrenaline is making my heart pound just from watching that play.
“They did exactly what I thought they would,” Declan says. “And they pulled it off. So now it’s first and ten.”
“It goes backward?” I ask. “From third to first?”
“You really don’t understand football, do you?”
“Barely at all.”
“Well, we’ll get you there.”
We. I don’t really know what makes Declan care if I understand football. It’s his job, not mine. I just sniff casts and tickle toes. He’s the one regularly putting himself in harm’s way for a ball game.
But, despite not knowing why he’s offering, I find myself saying, “Okay. You can teach me.”
The game continues. I watch it and I watch Declan.
He continues to give me play-by-play rundowns in the language of the sport.
Maybe one day I’ll understand it all. I don’t ask him any more questions.
I just watch the men throw and catch the ball, chasing after one another and tackling one another with a force that makes me wince at times.
“Halftime,” Declan announces.
“That means the game is half over?”
“Yes! You got it!” he exclaims as if I passed the licensing exam to become a nurse.
I close my fingers into a soft fist, turn it toward myself and blow across my knuckles, brushing them off on my shirt. “Expert over here.”
He laughs. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’d have thought Patrick or Maeve would have been here.”
“Patrick’s working. He’ll be here next week. That’s how his rotation lands. Maeve doesn’t want the girls running around making a ruckus when I’m trying to focus.”
“Sort of like a certain home health aide asking questions while you’re watching.”
“Totally different. You’re not screaming about Bluey.”