Twenty-Four – Morgan
Twenty-Four
Morgan
I was done. A weary carcass, defeated by a grueling week, picked too clean even for vultures to bother with. I lay in a heap on the living room couch Friday evening, Tenny snuggled against my stomach like a hot water bottle.
My inbox and phone had a pest infestation. An influx of new patient requests had flooded in after my fellowship location was publicized online, and the suspicious—sometimes outright hostile—looks from certain football staff and players had only grown worse. I spent what little free time I had at the training center reassuring Reyhan, Landon, and the rest of my allies that everything was fine.
I only hoped Alijah didn’t notice anything unusual at tomorrow’s game. He’d only just calmed down about the social media nonsense.
Next week had to be better. It just had to be.
Kelsey paused her dinner prep to bring me a lidded tumbler of water. “Status check.”
“Neck pain, headache,” I mumbled, eyes drifting closed, unable to withstand the textural aggravation of her houndstooth sweater.
“Anything out of the ordinary?”
I shook my head and took a long sip of water. “No, it’s just…not a good day.”
“You’ve said the same thing every Friday for a month now.”
“And I’m fine again every Saturday morning, aren’t I? Just need to sleep.”
Her lips thinned, but she didn’t push back. “Think you can eat? ”
My gaze wandered toward the kitchen, skimming over a pile of shipping boxes on the dining table—probably more Beaufeather’s orders, ready for their new owners—to the breading station she’d assembled on the island. A flattened, raw chicken cutlet lay abandoned in a shallow pool of egg yolk. As appetizing as asbestos.
“Not really. Sorry, Kels.”
“Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll bring the cavalry.”
After a few more fortifying sips of water, I retreated to my bedroom, shedding my human skin along the way. I became a bra-free, pajama-coated slug, burrowing under the covers with my trusty old shoulder heating pad. The recessed ceiling lights were dimmed to just shy of complete darkness, and I was utterly devoid of the will to move. Tenny cuddled against my hip, radiating warmth, while Kip settled into a watchful loaf at the foot of the bed.
Kelsey appeared with my evening pills and set a tray of reliable nibbles within easy reach—saltines, cheese cubes, banana slices, grapes. I forced down a few crackers to settle my stomach before swallowing my pills with copious amounts of water.
“Would opening your packages make you feel any better?” Kelsey asked, taking the empty water tumbler from me.
My unwieldy head lolled to one side as I squinted at her. “Huh?”
“The boxes on the dining room table. They’re all addressed to you.” Kelsey paused, tapping a finger against the side of the tumbler, inadvertently sending a pounding echo through my skull. “You didn’t order anything?”
All I could manage was a dissenting grumble.
Kelsey returned with my refilled water and scissors, then made another trip to fetch a stack of four boxes. Uniform in size, each bore a printed label bearing my name and address—but no return details. Not suspicious at all.
“Maybe they’re an early birthday present,” she said, slicing into the first box. “Or care packages from Jacobi.”
Or a bomb, timed to explode in five seconds and put me out of my misery, I thought as I cranked the heating pad up to high.
Kelsey pulled back the cardboard flaps and studied the contents, her expression thoughtful. “You’re sure you didn’t order anything? Because these are nice . And your style.”
A veritable buffet of Northport-themed cold weather essentials soon covered the bed. All of them were high-quality, sized appropriately, and in keeping with my minimalist leanings—and best of all, without a single Captain Tusker logo larger than three inches in diameter .
There were well-insulated quarter-zip pullovers, fleece-lined hoodies, retro-style sweatshirts, a quilted puffer jacket, and a waterproof anorak coat. Butter-soft sweaters and cardigans. Knit hats, fleece headbands, scarves, and gloves, all in solid navy blue or forest green.
The lone exception was a forest green and white striped scarf. Cute without being cloying, it was perfect for homecoming or a bowl game.
As Kelsey opened the last box, she stifled an amused hiccup with her fist. Her eyes sparkled with silent laughter as she glanced between me and the box’s contents, then slid it next to my thigh.
“You sure you didn’t buy all this in an insomnia-induced fever dream?” she teased.
The first thing I saw was a stuffed horn. A narwhal horn. Attached to a shapeless gray fleece lump. I recognized it, much to my chagrin. It was one of those ridiculous, body-length hooded narwhal onesies—an exclusive offering from the university bookstore, all the rage this semester.
Rory had one. He swore it was perfect for curling up in bed during a study session or on a blustery day, sipping something warm, eating snacks, and watching trash TV.
Atop the fuzzy monstrosity sat an envelope with my name printed in familiar blocky handwriting. Warmth—distinct from the heating pad—bloomed across my cheeks.
After rejecting Cal twice, I didn’t deserve such a thoughtful gesture. Not when he’d been even busier than me lately, juggling budget reviews, patient consultations, and endless demands from the Redwing executives. Not to mention helping me reply to Owen’s lengthy missives.
When had he found the time for this?
The envelope contained a brief note on thick cardstock embossed with his monogrammed initials, CVC III , and an itemized receipt.
I can’t help you keep the fuzzballs hydrated, but figured I could knock this item off your to-do list. You can reject my goodwill but not the clothes. Exchange items if you need to. Returns limited to narwhal loungewear. Reimbursement welcome.
At the bottom corner, instead of a signature, he’d written his username for a money transfer app.
How typical. Of course, he’d anticipated my instinct to reject such a generous gesture and preemptively blocked my avenues of escape. Returning everything would be the pinnacle of stupidity. Ninety percent of the pieces were exactly what I’d have chosen—if I’d ever remembered to shop for winter gear in the first place.
And tomorrow’s home game? The forecast promised wind and rain. I didn’t have anything suitable to wear, and Cal knew it.
Kelsey pulled out the narwhal onesie, letting it unfurl to its full repulsive length. She shot me a mischievous smile, glancing sideways at the note.
“Remind me again… Why aren’t you making out with this guy on the regular?”
“Don’t start.”
“Just calling it like I see it. He knows what type of clothes you like and what size you wear. You’re compatible when it comes to work stuff.” Kelsey folded the onesie and began gathering the other clothes. “And he’s not deterred by your prickly hedgehog routine. Seems perfect to me. Worth the risk of an actual date—or at least a few more kisses.”
“Kels—”
“It all smells like you did after that not-entirely-business dinner. All of it. That means he bought everything in person, Morgan. And it wasn’t a rush job.”
Fresh out of protests and utterly drained, I rolled onto my side, pulling the heating pad tighter around my neck. Ready to fade away, buoyed by the muscle relaxant coursing through my system. The vise of my headache was oddly comforting, a warped cocoon against emotional vulnerability.
Where thoughtful men couldn’t reach me.