Chapter Thirteen #2
Crew looked at me.
“I told him no.”
The room went very still.
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I told him I can’t leave Saturday night.”
My heart hit once.
Hard.
“Crew.”
“I said I can be back by Monday morning. I’ll make the meetings. I’ll handle anything remote before that. But I’m staying through the Fourth.”
Tom looked at him with something fierce and proud.
I felt exactly nothing.
No.
That was a lie.
I felt too much, which my brain interpreted as system failure.
Crew’s voice stayed steady, but I could hear the pressure under it.
“Coach pushed. I told him my father is in observation, the veterans center roof work starts tomorrow, and I have commitments here through the Fourth.”
Commitments.
Here.
Not me.
Good.
Safe.
Disappointing.
Stop it.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He said family comes first, but leadership means communication.”
A tiny, hysterical laugh almost escaped me.
“Sounds like your coach and half of Honeybrook have been working from the same theme.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Is he mad?”
“No. Annoyed. But not mad.”
“You sure?”
Crew’s mouth curved slightly.
“I know what Coach Gordon sounds like mad. This was controlled inconvenience.”
“Ah. A cousin to cheerful tyranny.”
Tom pointed weakly. “Mrs. Paxton.”
“Exactly,” I said.
Crew looked from Tom to me.
Some of the tension left his shoulders.
Not all.
Enough.
“What about Monday?” Tom asked.
Crew sat in the chair beside the bed.
“I’ll leave early. Drive back. Make the afternoon meetings.”
Tom’s eyebrows rose. “Drive?”
“It’s manageable.”
“It’s long.”
“I know.”
Marin stared at him.
He had not looked at her for that part.
Interesting.
Also irritating.
“How long?” I asked.
Crew’s eyes shifted to mine.
“Long.”
“That is not a number.”
“Marin—”
“Hours, Captain Problem.”
His mouth closed.
Then, obediently, “Six and a half if traffic is decent.”
“After a weekend of hospital stress, parade stress, fundraiser stress, and emotional property damage?”
Tom muttered, “Emotional property damage.”
Crew looked at the floor.
“I can do it.”
“Did I ask if you could?”
“No.”
“What did I ask?”
“How long.”
“And what is the next sensible question?”
His eyes lifted.
“Whether I should.”
“Look at you.”
Tom smiled faintly.
Crew did not.
“I’m not making you solve my travel.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I’m not.”
His brow tightened.
“I’m pointing out the obvious before you turn self-punishment into a route plan.”
Tom made a low approving sound.
Crew gave him a look.
Tom closed his eyes innocently.
I continued, “You can sleep Sunday. Leave Monday morning if safe. Or get someone to drive with you. Or take a train. Or ask your emotionally unsupervised teammates to be useful.”
Crew stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head once.
“Nothing.”
“No, that was a face.”
“It was a grateful face.”
Oh.
Well.
That was inconvenient.
“Don’t have those before noon,” I said.
His mouth twitched.
Tom chuckled, then winced.
Crew and I both looked at him.
“I’m fine,” Tom said immediately.
“Do not redefine the word again,” Crew warned.
Tom held up one hand.
The doctor came in before we could turn concern into a full committee meeting.
Dr. Patel looked more rested than anyone in the room, which felt unfair. She reviewed the overnight results. No heart attack. No stroke signs. Labs suggested dehydration and an electrolyte imbalance, possibly worsened by medication timing, heat, and not eating enough.
Tom looked personally betrayed by the phrase not eating enough.
I looked at him.
He avoided my eyes.
Coward.
Dr. Patel wanted additional monitoring through the morning and possibly discharge later that afternoon if repeat labs improved and he remained stable. Follow-up with his primary doctor. Hydration. Regular meals. No overexertion. Avoid standing too quickly. Go back immediately if symptoms returned.
Tom nodded like a man who intended to obey exactly thirty percent of that.
Crew looked like a man planning to enforce one hundred.
I looked like a woman willing to weaponize baked goods.
Dr. Patel left us with a packet of instructions and the promise to return after repeat labs.
The room exhaled.
Tom leaned back.
“Well. That was dramatic.”
“You collapsed,” Crew said.
“Briefly.”
“Briefly collapsed is still collapsed.”
I crossed my arms.
“You skipped meals.”
Tom’s eyes flicked to me.
“I was busy.”
“Being busy is not protein.”
Crew looked at me.
The corner of his mouth moved.
That line again.
From the veterans center.
Tom noticed us noticing the line.
His smile became extremely annoying.
“Look at that,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking I need breakfast.”
“Amazing pivot,” Crew said.
Tom winked.
The nurse brought breakfast at eight fifteen.
Tom was offended by the eggs.
I threatened to text Mrs. Bell.
He ate the eggs.
Crew ate the toast Tom refused.
I drank coffee from the hospital cafeteria, which was only slightly less criminal than the family lounge coffee. Talia arrived at nine with real coffee, clean clothes, and the Captain Problem apron still in a garment bag because Mrs. Paxton had “lost perspective due to fundraising trauma.”
Sutton came up with her, carrying phone chargers and a bag of fruit.
The sight of Sutton Reyes in a hospital doorway should not have made me emotional.
It did.
She was Wilder’s girlfriend, Crew’s team chaos manager by association, and apparently a woman who could make silence feel organized.
“Morning,” she said softly. “No one else is coming up. Wilder is downstairs practicing non-intrusive remorse.”
Crew rubbed his forehead.
Talia handed me coffee. “He is doing laps around the vending machines.”
Sutton nodded. “Quiet laps.”
“Mostly,” Talia added. “He apologized to a soda machine.”
Crew looked tired enough to laugh or cry.
He chose neither.
“Thanks.”
Sutton looked at Tom. “How are you feeling, Sergeant Donnelly?”
Tom straightened slightly.
“Better now that someone addressed me respectfully.”
I gasped. “I have been keeping you alive since yesterday.”
“You threatened my eggs.”
“They deserved it.”
Sutton smiled.
Then she looked at me.
Not nosy.
Not soft.
Just direct.
“I’m glad the roof got funded.”
“Me too.”
“And I’m sorry the internet got awful.”
I shrugged.
A bad habit.
Crew saw it.
Sutton did too.
Great.
Everyone was getting observant.
“It did,” I said. “But people corrected.”
Sutton nodded. “That matters.”
“It doesn’t erase it.”
“No.”
I liked that answer.
No forced lesson.
No cheerful bow around a bruise.
Just no.
Talia handed Crew a coffee and gave him a look.
“Drink before Marin notices your tragic under-caffeination.”
“I heard that,” I said.
“I know.”
Crew took the coffee.
“Thank you.”
Then Talia turned to me.
“Bakery update. Plumber fixed the line. Sanitization service is coming at noon. Mom says ceiling tile replacement tomorrow morning. You can reopen tomorrow afternoon if inspection sign-off happens.”
Relief loosened something in my spine.
“Good.”
“Also apron batch three closed. Deposit funds cleared. Mrs. Paxton is at the veterans center waiting for the roof company and using the phrase privacy-forward again.”
I winced.
Sutton frowned. “That sounds illegal.”
“Emotionally, yes,” Talia said.
Crew’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at it and looked relieved.
“Roof company is confirmed for one.”
Tom closed his eyes.
A smile appeared.
Small.
Tired.
Worth everything.
“Good,” he said.
There was that word again.
Good.
The room settled around it.
For the first time since the phone call last night, I felt the day might not collapse under us.
Naturally, that meant Mrs. Paxton called.
Talia answered because I refused to allow committee energy near a hospital monitor.
“Hello, Shirley.”
A pause.
Talia’s face changed.
Not bad.
Complicated.
“What?” I asked.
Talia listened.
Then looked at me.
“Channel Seven wants to do a short roof-funded follow-up at the veterans center when the crew arrives.”
“No,” Crew said immediately.
Talia held up a hand.
“She hasn’t finished.”
Crew’s jaw tightened.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
There was anger there.
Protective.
Tired.
But he waited.
Good.
Talia said into the phone, “Okay. Text me exactly what Lacey requested. No, Shirley, not vibes. Words. Send words.”
She hung up.
Tom looked amused.
“I like her.”
“Talia likes being terrifying,” I said.
“Everyone needs hobbies.”
Talia’s phone buzzed.
She read the message aloud.
“Lacey wants to film the roofing company arriving, the donation board, Mrs. Paxton making a short statement, and if Tom is still hospitalized, she wants to say the work is starting thanks to community support. She does not need Crew or Marin on camera.”
Crew looked at me.
I looked at him.
No us.
No hearts.
No hand.
Just the roof.
My chest eased.
“That’s fine,” I said.
Crew nodded slowly.
“Fine.”
Talia typed the approval.
Then added out loud while typing, “No shots of Webb & Whisk unless separately approved. No mentions of The Viral Bet. No couple framing. No private medical details. Do not make me come down there.”
Sutton looked impressed.
“Strong.”
“Talia missed her calling as a benevolent dictator,” I said.
“Not missed,” Talia said. “Delayed.”
By late morning, repeat labs improved.
Dr. Patel said Tom could likely go home that afternoon if he continued eating and walking with assistance.
Tom announced he was willing to accept release under protest.
Crew called Mrs. Bell and Eddie to coordinate. Sutton texted Wilder that Tom was improving, which led to the team sending one quiet group message:
Spitfires: Glad you’re improving, Sgt. Donnelly. We’ll keep the roof chaos outside.
Tom read it three times.
Then said gruffly, “Good kids.”
Crew looked away.
I pretended not to see his eyes shine.
At noon, Tom fell asleep again.
Talia went downstairs to feed the waiting hockey chaos. Sutton went with her, saying she needed to make sure Wilder had not adopted a vending machine.
Crew and I were alone again.
With Tom.
With daylight.
With Monday coming.
I stood by the window, looking out at the parking lot.
Crew sat beside the bed, his phone in his hand but screen dark.
He had told me about the coach message.