Chapter 19
Gillian
Sometimes I wish my life were like a spy drama.
I could really use a series break right now.
Mouthwashhavemercy, even a commercial break would be appreciated.
“Wait,” Octave Choquette, the young, French rugby player I get the feeling Hennington specifically sent to me for an ulterior new business motive, “you are saying I need to be wearing my,” his warm nude shaded finger crudely gestures at his wide-open mouth, “all the time while practicing?”
“Yes.”
“And playing?”
“Yes,” escapes in an exasperated sigh in spite of all my efforts to remain professional.
“You need to have your gumshield or in – your case – smart shield on at all times you are on the field.” Pulling off my gloves is done in tandem with continuing.
“Not only does it protect your teeth, your smart shield uses the sensors that are installed to alert your medical team of your potential head trauma in real time.” The objects are discarded in the nearby trash along with my mask.
“Thankfully, right now what we’re dealing with is subluxation rather than luxation, which typically involves a shorter heal time; however, if you choose to not protect your teeth or face during the heal time, we will move from subluxation to luxation or worse.
” Confusion crinkles his large forehead forcing another heavy breath out of me.
“You currently just have a loose tooth instead of one that’s loose and out of place. ”
“Oh,” he grunts in understanding.
“This likely occurred doing your last game-”
“J'ai été plaqué par Durand,” he exclaims at the same time he punches his fist into an open palm to aid in translating.
“Gonna guess that means…hit?” His nose scrunch leads me to amend. “Tackle? You were tackled?”
“Oui.” Octave quickly rolls his hand around in excitement. “Yes. Yes, I was…tackle.”
“Okay, well when that happened, your tooth was knocked loose; however, there is no need for a dental splint at this time. It should be able to heal on its own with you eating a soft diet and keeping up good oral hygiene.”
Another twitch of disorientation is presented.
“Gentle brush,” I act out, “floss,” it’s mimed next, “rinse,” fake swishing and spitting is shown, “and wear.” My finger jabs itself at the teeth I am bearing. “Your.” A second is executed. “Mouth.” And a third. “Shield.” Irritation struggles to stay out of my tone as I rise to my feet. “Oui?”
He sheepishly nods. “Oui.”
“Addy, my assistant, will be in with your homecare instructions and follow up recommended scheduling.”
“Merci.” Octave warmly grins during his English translation. “Thank you, Doctor Blanc.”
“Of course,” is retorted prior to my exiting the room.
Unfortunately, the plan to hide in my office for a mere moment of reprieve is immediately thwarted courtesy of April who needs a minute to quietly vent about the teenage ballerina that doesn’t understand how it’s possible for us to know she’s bulimic and what exactly the legal course of action is that’s she’s required by law to execute.
Post her is Becca who is very uncomfortable with the barely legal water polo player that keeps making crude gestures at her, which leads to me having to have a very loud, very stern, conversation regarding ethics of my practice that ends in him storming out.
And just when I think I’ve finally landed the ability to catch my sanity Sybil reminds me that I’m covering the Dalvegan game tomorrow night while she assists.
Like that had slipped my mind.
Of all the fucking things I could possibly forget, that isn’t one of them.
I haven’t physically seen my boyfriend in person since the Friendsgiving nightmare and have barely received more than our daily text check ins since they started the road campaign.
And our daily check-ins?
Painfully. Short.
Like here’s thirty seconds of a trailer to see if you want to give this show a shot type of short.
Tomorrow will be the first time we’ve even been under the same roof.
Which isn’t my fault!
Okay.
It isn’t completely my fault.
But like…
Maybe it is?
Maybe it isn’t?
Maybe I’m totally in the wrong.
Or maybe he is.
Ugh.
This absolutely qualifies as a phone a bestie debate; however, I don’t want to talk about this shit with Aly or Kira – who we managed to convince that night that we weren’t fighting when we clearly, we were.
Or were we?
Are we?
Frustration lands on my shoulders at the same time I dramatically flop into my office chair.
I want a coffee.
I want a peppermint mocha with homemade whip cream and crushed candies on top.
I want someone to bring it to me because they know it’s cold outside and I’m too busy to leave and would really appreciate a pick me up because it’s my winter favorite.
And by someone I – of course – mean Jukes.
Coffee is one of his love language dialects, and I haven’t heard it in days.
When he’s been on the road in the past, he’d wake up extra early to sip a cup with me while I got ready for work or was on my way in, so we still had that part of our routine together; however, lately, we haven’t.
He’s had extra goalie practice.
Or footage review seshes.
Or gone to breakfast with Wahl.
Coffee together has become at most an afterthought he attaches to his good morning and have a good day text.
I hate it and this and that I’m pretty sure it’s all my fault.
“Here.” Rhonnie unexpectedly places an LMC cup on the edge of my desk close to my Dalvegan Dragons charity calendar and nieces as well as nephew’s school photos.
“You could probably use a shot of tequila, but this is the best a bitch can do for now.” She waits until my gaze lifts to hers to add. “You. Look. Rough.”
“Thanks,” sassily escapes alongside me reaching for the beverage. “For the coffee. Not the insult.”
“Mmmhm,” she brushes off without hesitation, “go on and call him.”
“Call who?”
“You know who.”
I do know who, but how does she know who?!
I haven’t mentioned we’re fighting or disagreeing or breaking up…Ohmygod are we breaking up?
Is this shit like a spinoff of ghosting?!
Haunting?
Is that a thing?
Fuckme.
Why am I so bad at all of this?
Is this why I haven’t had a relationship last this long…practically…ever?
I used to wonder if it was because no one wanted me, yet now I’m thinking maybe I’m just awful at this coupling…relationshiping…partnering?
“Your twin,” Rhonnie huffs on an eye roll.
“We’re not twins.”
“You might as fucking well be,” she rebuts while watching me lean back in my chair. “Only my ovaries have a closer relationship than the two of.”
It’s impossible to sneer and snicker in tandem.
“Call. Him.” Her maroon scrub covered figure slowly begins to back out of the room.
“He can help with whatever,” one manicured nail is rolled around in my direction, “this is.” When Rhonnie reaches my office door, she adds, “You’ve got an unexpected gap in your schedule for the next twenty minutes. Make good use of it.”
“Gap? How did that happen?”
“Not entirely sure how that 6’6, dark chocolate, Applecourt, Michigan native, dribbling delight’s new patient paperwork got deleted off the server…
” The sight of her freshly painted lips pursing together receives more light chuckles.
“But I need to get back out there in case he has any questions or fantasies featuring an older woman who can teach him a thing or two about a thing or two.”
Another louder set of laughs precedes my front desk lead shutting the door with her on the other side.
Maybe I should call M.
See what he thinks.
Although, what he thinks or being worried about what he thinks is a huge part of the problem, so perhaps that’s counterintuitive?
A long, unhappy groan barely gets buried behind a sip of the beverage I was brought, and the lack of soothing it provides pushes me to retrieve my cell from my desk drawer to give her suggestion a shot.
It’s hard not talking about this shit.
We talk about everything.
From when he had his first “melted ice” dream to getting bullied by coaches to thoughts of worthlessness upon retiring, we legit talk about it all.
Er.
Almost all.
Thayne’s identity is one of the only things I’ve ever kept to myself.
Albeit I won’t be keeping it a secret much longer.
Especially not after all this.
A single video chat ring occurs before my brother’s face is in frame where I can see him shaking his head. “How are these the same boys I coach on the ice?”
There isn’t time to comment.
M immediately shifts the camera for me to see them clumsily bouncing around a soccer ball, the point being to keep it in the air for as long as possible.
Grinning is instant, but when I catch a view of Thayne openly laughing, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, the expression falls to the pit of my stomach right alongside my aching heart.
Is this separation not killing him?
Is he over me?
Is this over?
Am I about to become a real-life 112 heartbreak anthem?!
M flips the phone back around and mirthfully grouses, “How do they have no balance on dryland?”
I try my hardest to smile again.
“Talk,” my big brother airily demands prior to sitting completely at attention. “Something’s very wrong.”
Letting my mouth crack open releases a small, familiar sound.
“Don’t try to lie to me, Gilly,” M sweetly scolds. “I can tell when something’s off.”
I force the expanding knot down the back of my dry throat. “You got a sec?”
“I’d make one if I didn’t.”
“M.”
“We’ve got a small delay in plane maintenance which is why the boys are fucking off in that field, and I have plenty of time to hear about whatever has my little sister not sleeping lately.”
“How do you-”
“Same way you know.” His head tilts firmly to one side. “Now, talk.” Eagerness to help swiftly spreads through his stare. “You clearly need an apple.”
The reference to an assist has me bashfully nodding. “I do.”
“With work? I mean I’m not a doctor like you, but I know some doctor shit.”
“You know some doctor shit because I’m a doctor.”
“And because I know how to use the internet.”
“Which worked out super well for you, when you thought you had tremors caused by mercury poisoning from having salmon three times in one week instead of the outlandish amount of energy drinks you had started consuming to keep up with your new coaching responsibilities.”
My brother twitches an amused glare.
“Relax, it’s not work ish.”
“Ship?”
This time there’s hesitation to my nodding.
“You two drop the gloves?”
“Not physically.”
“Of course not physically, otherwise the pigeon would be dead and buried in the Sunshine Bend woods by now, aye.”
The corner of my lips helplessly kicks upwards.
“What’s the tilly?”
“Um…” fiddling with the edge of my cup is done to distract from the pending awkwardness, “you.”
“Me?!” A grunt of disbelief is thrown out. “What about me?”
“He…thinks…I’m…purposely…putting off…you two…meeting.”
“You are,” M instantaneously concurs.
“Excuse you!”
His dark trench coat covered shoulders innocently bounce. “It’s the truthskies, baby sis.”
“It’s not-” Cutting myself off is accompanied by attaching my gaze to his on a hiccup. “But see-”
He shifts his eyebrows to the sky.
“I just…” another hiccup springs loose.
M obnoxiously leans forward with two fingers from his free hand cupping his ear.
“Ugh,” I huff and slink further down in my chair, “fuck, fine. Yes. Yes, I have been putting it off, but for good reasons!”
Another sarcastic expression is tossed at me.
“They have been! In the beginning it was super new-”
“And then it wasn’t.”
“You weren’t home-”
“And then I was.”
“You had family ish-”
“And you are part of my family too.”
“Then barn fires to put out-”
“I’m always gonna have fires to put out, Gilly,” lightly chortles my best friend.
“Comes with bein’ the bench boss.” He shakes his head in amusement and disapproval alike.
“You’re making excuses.” I don’t even manage to think about arguing.
“You’re making excuses to me…about me…which tells me you’ve been the doing the same and worse to him. ”
My lips guiltily press together, suppressing the lie building sound exposer.
“Circumstances are never gonna be perfect, Gilly, and you trying to wait until they theoretically are is just your way of further pushing off the inevitable of us meeting likely ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t love the bud like you do.”
“Please don’t love him exactly like I do,” I good naturedly tease while toying with my jukebox necklace. “That’s not my type of porn.”
“Dude on dude?”
“Bro on my dude.” Small sniggers can’t be stopped. “That’s wincest and never been my double click preference.”
“Mine either.”
More chuckles are exchanged, luring my entire frame to relax and the ball of apprehension clogging my cords to dissolve.
“Time to nut up, aye,” M casually commands.
“Time to put us in the same room with a round of wings and brewskies and let us faceoff.” Yelling in the background is promptly followed by him announcing, “Plane’s ready.
I gotta go. But…” He points a firm finger into the camera.
“We’re on a four-day homestead starting tomorrow, so we’re gonna make this shit happen.
Pick a date. A place. Confirm with him. Text me the deets. Got it?”
Reluctance to cave is hard to ignore.
“Gillian.”
His use of my full name tied to the tone has me sticking my tongue out before surrendering, “Got it.”
“Atta girl,” he laughs. “All the love.”
“Me too.”
Our call ends yet again leaving me with the undeniable, ugly truth.
They’re right.
I’ve been avoiding the sitch like a cavity I swear I can just live with despite how miserable it makes me, and it’s time to put an end to it.
It’s time to do the super hard thing and let M finally know that I’m not just banging one of his players.
I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with one.