Chapter One
SIDNEY
Four Years Later
I’m about ten seconds away from losing my mind.
There’s no breathing technique or meditation visualization that could get me through the absolute meltdown I’m in the middle of. I didn’t know it was possible to feel both sympathy and utter annoyance at the same time.
But I am living proof it could happen.
The crying in my back seat takes on a new level of devastation as I pull into the hospital parking lot. I cringe at the high-pitched wail and grip the steering wheel tighter to fight through the auditory torture.
It hurts, Uncle Sid. Ohhhh, it hurts so much.
I know, Moose, I know. We’re almost there, and I promise the doctors will make the pain go away.
I’m dying. This is the end.
It’s not, Harper. I tell her with all the confidence I can muster.
It’s not, I then whisper to myself. Her sniffles from the back let me know she doesn’t believe me.
This pain is just temporary. The words are out of my mouth before I know I’m saying them.
Shit, I hated using that phrase, but my brain isn’t working on all cylinders at the moment.
I’m spewing crap to Harper in order to keep her calm and me relatively sane.
I know it hurts, but we’ll have a doctor look at it, and they will make it all go away.
Harper’s little face scrunches up like she’s tasted something bad, pausing her crying for a couple of seconds so her disdain really hits home. That look is like a punch to the gut.
I don’t even believe the words coming out of my mouth. I’m repeating the crap my old Juniors coach used to yell at me in the gym—which is terrifying.
Pulling into the hospital’s parking lot, I come to a stop at the parking barrier.
Five fucking dollars for half an hour? I spit, absolutely thrown by the hourly price. Robbery. What the actual fu—
My arm is gonna fall off! I’m never playing with Heather P. again! She’s a monster!
Frantically, I undo my seat belt and lean through the window to try and press the big green button which is supposed to spew out a parking pass. I’m an inch away, my hand bobbing up and down as I try to reach just a little more. Just a little farther. It’s not working.
I swear to God, I curse, bringing my upper body back into the car. I can already feel a bruise forming on my abdomen. Opening the car door, I stomp a foot down and contort myself once again, finally close enough now to touch the green button.
I start muttering nonsense words to Harper, trying to keep her calm as I press the button…then press it again…then press it again. I swear I’m seconds from breaking into tears too, when the machine finally beeps and flashes green. The metal arm rises, and a ticket is printed out.
I want and need Harper to be okay, but I also really, really want this visit to be the fastest one on record. This day just kept getting worse and worse.
I release an agitated sigh as I rip the ticket from the machine. Looking up at the concrete ceiling for patience, I take a deep breath. There’s no time for me to do any of my breathing exercises but I can take a moment to get my agitation under control.
When I feel a little less out of control, I swing myself back into the driver’s seat—and yelp with pain.
My ass hits something sharp, and I have to clench my jaw shut to keep the string of curse words I want to scream into the void back.
Gliding my hand angrily under my ass to find the offending object, I come up with a broken crayon.
Jesus, how the hell did that end up on my seat? All the crayons were in Harper’s backpack. How do kids make so much mess in such a short period of time?
A honk behind me has me jumping in my seat and brings me back to reality.
Channelling my last shred of mental strength, I put the car in drive again and pull into the first open parking spot I can find.
Harper is still sniffling as I unbuckle her and hoist her into my arms, careful not to bump the arm she’s holding protectively over her chest. Her head instantly goes to my shoulder, looking for comfort.
At least that’s what I’m hoping she’s doing and that she’s not rubbing her snot all over my sweater.
I speed walk to the ER doors, weaving in and around cars, bumpy sidewalks, and other people. I only get side-eyed once, but I think that’s mostly due to the Toronto Nighthawks sweater I’m wearing, not because I’ve been recognized.
I don’t want to have to deal with a fan at the moment when all my attention needs to be on Harper.
The automatic doors open, buzzing their welcome. I barely have a moment to get my bearings before the noise of the crowd consumes me. My eyes dart all over the place, trying to figure out which way I need to go.
Okay. It’s okay, I say out loud, mostly for Harper’s benefit, but I need the reassurance too. Hurrying to the right, I enter a large waiting room. There are rows of chairs with people waiting, various looks of pain, annoyance, and boredom on their faces.
The receptionist’s desk is tucked into the far corner, glowing under fluorescent lights that buzz like they’re one power surge away from giving up. I make a beeline for it, Harper clinging to me tighter the closer we get.
Hi, I say, out of breath. Panic and relief swirl in my chest. We finally made it. Help is on the way. My niece fell off a trampoline at a birthday party, and her arm’s…uh…doing something it definitely shouldn’t be doing.
There’s a beat of silence as the receptionist ignores us. My eyes scan the Plexiglas barrier that’s around the desk. Am I missing something? Do I need to ring a bell or take a number somewhere? Fuck me, this is torture.
I know I’m a little distanced from the common person’s experience, what with having a team of medical professionals at my fingertips as a professional hockey player, but damn. Does the system have to be so complicated?
The receptionist finally looks up, eyes flicking from Harper to me, then back again.
Her expression shifts in slow motion, boredom morphing into suspicion, then recognition.
She’s not going to take pity on me. Oh no, she doesn’t look the type, but she must see the utter desperation and panic in my eyes and decides to hold her tongue.
Silently, I give her a small nod of thanks.
We’ll get her checked in, she says, but her gaze lingers a second too long. I don’t break eye contact. I can’t back down from this.
I offer her a tight smile and shift Harper higher on my hip. My back strains in protest. Perfect.
The receptionist hands me a clipboard thick enough to qualify as a non-disclosure agreement. Fill this out, please. And we’ll need her health card.
Yes, yep. I take the clipboard and pen with my one free hand like a circus performer balancing spinning plates. No problem.
Moving slowly away from the reception area, I sit in a discoloured plastic chair that has all the ergonomic support of a medieval punishment device.
I cringe as the seat moans under my weight, and I suddenly feel eyes on me, judging me as I make a noise in the otherwise hushed room.
As quickly as I can, I duck my head. Harper curls into my side, sniffling, tiny breaths hitching every few seconds.
I flip to page one.
Name. Easy.
Harper Leah Rose Crane-Mayfield.
Address. Date of birth. Social.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Easy.
Relationship.
Wait. What? Relationship? She’s nine. Why the hell would she be in a—oh. Relationship to me.
Got it, got it, got it.
Uncle. Delusional uncle who thought he could help out his sister and brother-in-law for one afternoon by taking his niece to what he considered a low-stakes event. Colossal mistake.
Children’s birthday parties are not for the weak. I thought I was physically, mentally, and emotionally strong. I was wrong. Very wrong. Kids have a way of spotting your insecurities from a mile away and commenting on them for all to hear. With a goddamn smile on their face.
The turds.
No wonder my sister laughed in my face when I told her it was no problem. She failed to tell me that birthday parties are a form of torture, and no amount of alcohol or ice cream cake can make it worth it.
Harper was originally supposed to miss this party because Dani had her final Master of Science exam, and Phil was back in Calgary, taking care of his mother after a nasty fall. My niece, who is usually the definition of go-with-the-flow, had thrown a major fit over not being able to attend.
Cue the hero uncle. Me.
I thought I was saving the day. Giving back to the family I love but don’t see as often as I like due to my travel schedule. Instead, I was setting myself up for lifelong trauma. I will never forget the sound of Harper’s scream of pain.
I shiver just thinking about it.
I scribble random nonsense that’s probably legally questionable on the rest of the forms and move on. I need to get these forms filled out fast so that someone can look at Harper’s arm.
Medical history? Allergies? Surgeries?
Why do children have so many boxes? How do parents just…know all this? I don’t think I could even recall all my information.
Dani’s in her exam for another hour, and I didn’t want to freak her out. I’m already going to get the scolding of a lifetime from her, so there was no point in fast-tracking that event.
I am positive, though, that if Harper were allergic to anything or had a medical event in her short nine years, I would have been aware of it. I may not see my family often, but that doesn’t mean we don’t talk. And overshare.
There’s no way Dani would have let me babysit Harper at any point without telling me this information.
Taking a deep breath to build my confidence, I check off No to all three questions. I breathe out, relieved. Harper glares up at me with her watery eyes like she knows I’m failing as an uncle.