by Amy Daws
My brow furrows at how he addresses me, but since the nurse is standing only a few feet away, I decide to ignore it. “It went really well. Your ACL accepted the graft. Your knee should feel great in a day or two, just like we said. You can start working out with the PT tomorrow. It should feel pretty normal. Just avoid football until we pull the graft out in a month. By then your ACL should be fused back together and you’ll be good as new. Really, it all went perfectly. From the procedure to the broadcast, everyone is buzzing about how this will be changing recovery time for ACL tears in sports medicine. It’s exciting. Dr. Prichard is talking to your family in the waiting room now.”
“Great.” He slow blinks a couple times and stares at me with a hard look in his eyes. “Glad I could help you get ahead.”
I frown as he looks away and can feel the nurse’s curious eyes on us. I shrug as if I don’t have a clue what he means by his remark, but deep down I can tell something’s wrong. “Well,” I begin awkwardly, “you helped a lot of people get ahead, I’d say. We’re very grateful. I’ll let you get some more rest. I will check on you again soon, Cam.”
I reach out and touch his shoulder, mindful to not appear too personal, and he doesn’t even look at me. I turn to leave and hear him quietly say, “Bye, Dr. Porter.”
I look back and he closes his eyes as if he’s closing the door on something so much bigger than this moment. I have no clue what’s going through his head, but my only hope is that I can get a better handle on him later. Or better yet, when he’s out of the hospital.
A while later, Belle finds me in the cafeteria throwing away the remnants of my lunch. “Hey! I heard surgery went well. How was your goodbye?” she asks, adjusting her tray on her hip.
“My goodbye?” I ask, setting my tray on the conveyor belt.
“With lover boy. I saw a nurse pushing him out the back exit door a little bit ago. I suppose to avoid all the paparazzi and media crews. I assumed you already spoke to him? Arranged your first date.” Her eyes flash with a dirty look in them.
My face crumples. “Prichard said he wasn’t getting discharged until after three o’clock.”
“Well, he must have changed his mind because Camden was definitely leaving just now. He was in street clothes—”
I don’t even let her finish before I take off, moving through the hospital as fast as I can, not caring if I look like a lunatic. This probably reeks of desperation, but after his chilly demeanour in post-op this morning, there’s no way I’m letting him leave on that note.
I head to the back area of the hospital where they deliver the hospital beds because I know that’s where they’ve released VIPs before. I burst through the large metal door and squint as my eyes adjust to the London daylight.
“Looking for someone?” a voice asks. I swerve around to find Camden sitting all alone in a wheelchair alongside the building. He’s hiding back in the shadows, dressed in a zip up hoodie that is pulled up over his head. His legs are bare in a pair of athletic shorts with a cloth fabric bandage wrapped around his right knee.
“I was looking for you,” I reply breathlessly. “I didn’t know you were getting discharged so early.” I walk over so I can see his face better, and he looks off to the side as if he doesn’t want to make eye contact.
“Same-day surgery. All a part of that magical procedure you performed on me today.” He turns back and his blue eyes are icy cold. I think I preferred the no eye contact thing.
“Are you waiting for a car?”
“Vi had to drive around because some paparazzi was following her.”
“And the nurse left you out here alone?” That’s against hospital policy and I immediately want to ask what her name is.
“I wanted to be alone.” He pierces me with a look in his eyes as if he’s trying to convey more than what we’re talking about. “Don’t worry about me.”
“So…that’s it then?” I ask, the words feeling odd and sticky in my mouth. We’re finally outside the hospital, breathing fresh air with no one around to overhear us. This is what I wanted, so why does it feel so awkward?
He looks at me, his face hard as stone. “Did you expect more?”
“I mean…I guess. I thought…” my voice trails off. How do I put into words that I had hoped we could have sex sometime soon.
“Let’s not drag this out.” His words are sharp and clipped and final. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out when things shifted between us.
Steeling myself, I say, “I’m just surprised. I thought we had an arrangement.”
“Things change,” he adds with a careless roll of his eyes. “It’s not really that shocking.”
My jaw drops as he continues looking at me as if I’m nothing more than his doctor. As if I didn’t risk everything by kissing him and sleeping in his bed with him.
Gosh, I’m such a fool for believing that he even liked me. A brief flicker of irrational anger toward Belle crashes over me. “Stop downplaying your appeal, Indie. It’s unappealing.” The only thing unappealing is me continuing to let this tosser look at me as if I’m nothing.
I adjust my glasses and retort back, “You know what…it’s fine. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea. There’s a chance this could have ruined my career, and for what? A footballer? You’ve probably had more rides than the London Eye.”
“Oh, real original,” he sneers.
My voice trembles with anger. “Better than a pun.” Then a moment of silence stretches out between us, both of us leaning in, eye-fucking each other with quiet rage. This entire exchange is childish and juvenile, but bloody hell, does it feel good on some deep, dark level.
“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Porter.” He turns his wheelchair to look away from me, and my anger flatlines at his formal address.
Our little affair is truly over before it even started. I’m left blanketed in the shame of everything I risked for someone like him.
When I first met Camden, he was warm and playful. Charming even. I escaped into a secret world where I was wild and carefree and broke all the rules. I laughed a lot.
Now, he’s cold and indifferent—exactly everything I thought a player might be.
“I’d say it was nice to meet you, too, Mr. Harris, but I’m not sure it was. I’ll see you in a month.”
And just like that, I red card myself back to the real world.
“ALL RIGHT, THAT’S IT. It’s been four days. You have to do something.” My brother Tanner doesn’t bother to knock before his heavy steps bound into my room. He stops quickly and wrenches open the blinds.
“It smells in here,” Booker says quietly, his nose scrunching up as he props himself on the doorframe. “It smells like stale tears and crushed dreams.”
I roll my eyes and squint at the onslaught of light. The bright London daylight pours in behind Tanner, giving him an eerily similar silhouette of Big Foot.
I roll over, shove my hands beneath my pillow, and bury my face in darkness again. “Go back to the casting set of Planet of the Apes and leave me be,” I groan. Despite my desire to be alone, Booker’s amused laugh pleases me.
“Ha ha…Great hairy joke. At least your brain hasn’t reverted back to ape status quite yet.” He pulls the duvet off me in a dramatic fashion. “Cam, all you’ve done since you got home is sleep and physical therapy.”
“That’s called healing. What more do you want?” I ask, glowering at him over my shoulder. My knee isn’t bothering me at all. Truthfully, I’ve been working out in our gym after the therapist leaves and it feels completely recovered. It’s almost like it was never injured, which I wish was the case.
I’ve been in a funk ever since I left the hospital. Not because of what happened or didn’t happen with Indie, even though I’m almost embarrassed of myself for caring about that situation as much as I did. No girl gets under my skin like that. Not even a doctor.
Instead, I’m going stir-crazy without football in my life.
“The doctor said, aside from football, yo
u can go back to things as usual. You skipped dinner at Dad’s today. No one skips dinner at Dad’s.”
Booker chimes in, “Vi made Swedish pancakes.”
“With lingonberry jam,” Tanner finishes, his tone obvious.
Damn, I love Vi’s Swedish pancakes. Then I remember that if I had gone to dinner, I would have had to talk, and I’m avoiding the whole talking thing in general. My first conversation with my dad did not go well since he failed to ask me how the surgery went. He just wanted to know how soon I thought I would be able to play after the second surgery. I can’t predict the fucking future so I’m not sure what he wanted from me exactly.
“You need fresh air. You need some food that’s not chicken and rice. You need to get laid. Booker and I are leaving right now for our last match, but I swear I’ll skip it if this is how you’re going to be while we’re gone.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I grumble, rolling over and sitting up to hit Tanner with a death stare. “Why don’t you just leave me a honey-do list before you go like a proper footballer’s wife.”
“Great. We haven’t Hoovered in weeks, so go ahead and start there. Then…I don’t know…maybe read a book or something. I haven’t seen you touch this one since the hospital.” He pulls the novel out of my duffel bag that’s remained packed since I got home.
“You want me to read?” I ask. “What does that have to do with football?”
“Nothing. I don’t give a toss about football right now. I care about you. You’re acting weird and depressed or something. I actually considered buying you a puppy today for Christ’s sake.”
I look at Booker and he nods in confirmation. “What the hell would I do with a puppy?”
“Walk it. I don’t know. Ask Vi. She’s the one with a dog. I just want you to stop being weird and mopey. It’s making me feel awkward.”
“Give it here,” I groan, taking the book from his outstretched hands. “If I read this, will it make you go away?”
“Yes. It will.” He smiles like a dope and bats his eyes happily. In a high-pitched falsetto voice, he adds with a shake of his pointer finger, “And I want a full book report once you’ve finished.”
I roll my eyes as both Tanner and Booker continue watching me, evidently expecting me to start reading right in front of them. I crack the book open. “There. I’m reading, now get out. Go kick some arse, but don’t score any goals and show me up, all right?”
“No promises,” Tanner says, smiling broadly. “Someone has to keep the Harris name in good standing while you’re on holiday.”
“Suck my balls,” I grumble.
“On that cheery note, I’ll see you when we get back in a few days. Call if you need anything, but I think Vi is bringing you lunch tomorrow, so consider yourself warned.” He walks over and kisses me on top of my head, his nappy beard tickling my face.
“Get away from me, you freak.”
“Later, Broseph,” he beams as he hustles out, shoving a quiet Booker ahead of him.
It bothers me to not be going to the match, but not as much as it would bother me to sit on the sidelines and not play. Plus, if I go to the match, I’ll be expected to talk to the press. I’m not ready for any of that until I have my follow-up surgery and can start training at full throttle again. I need to lie low for the next month or two. Then we’ll see how things turn out.
As I thumb through the pages, the familiar scent of paper and ink wakes a part of my brain that’s been dormant the last few days.
I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember, and writing in the margins makes me feel like an active part of the story. I highlight plot points and underline areas that might be symbolic to what’s coming. I think I love puns so much because of the double entendres they can represent. Plus, I’ve always thought it might be something my mother would have appreciated about me.
Last year, Vi gave our brothers and me a bunch of poetry our mum had written. She was a full-blooded Swede so some of it had to be translated. She and our dad met while she attended University in London. Gareth told me once that he remembers Mum yelling at Dad in Swedish when they fought. I would have liked to have heard more, but pulling memories about Mum out of Gareth is more difficult than pulling teeth. Reading her poetry made me feel connected to her, though. Her poems were chock-full of symbolism and clever rhymes, not terribly unlike puns.
I start rereading my margin notes to familiarise myself with where the plot was headed last I left off. An unfamiliar script stops me in my tracks.
“What the hell?” I whisper and turn the book sideways to get a closer look.
It’s not that the woman did not know how to juggle, she just didn’t have the balls to try.
I touch my fingertips to the inked pun inside my treasured book and know instantly it had to be Indie who wrote it. After our bit about puns, there’s no one else it could have been. Did she do it when she left my room that night?
I recycle the words over and over in my mind, attempting to look for the hidden message within the phrase. That’s what I love most about puns. They aren’t just funny one-liners; most are full of symbolism. I know she’s trying to say something more than what’s written here.
I check the time and note that Indie should still be at work right now. After my harsh brush-off, I’m not sure she will be receptive to a phone call or a text, though.
Plus, mysteries are easier solved in person.
My well-rested brain kicks into overdrive. Before I realise it, I’m sliding my legs into a pair of jeans and throwing on a T-shirt.
Maybe my redheaded distraction still has some potential after all?
“IT’S TEQUILA SUNRISE TIME, baby!” Belle hoots, chasing me out the door of the hospital and into the unseasonably warm spring evening. She throws her arm around my shoulder and pulls me to her. “Stop moping now, Indie, darling. We have finished our nine-day stretch and we’re going to Club Taint as planned. We’re going to have a wild time.”
My lip curls. “My own bed sounds better right now.”
“No!” She halts me in my tracks and turns me to face her. “I let you mope these last few days at work, but now you’re done. You’ve earned the respect of the resident staff and most of the attendings. You should be feeling on top of the world after the week you’ve had. We need to celebrate!”
“I know,” I reply with a sigh, even though Prichard has been acting cold toward me ever since we finished Camden’s surgery. I keep trying to convince myself that maybe he wasn’t trying to kiss me in the OR, but his mood shift begs to differ.
“Who cares about that wanker, footballer Camden Harris? He’s probably gay. That’s the only logical conclusion.”
“He’s not gay,” I reply, horrified as the memory of his firmness creeps to the forefront of my mind. I can’t believe I groped him like that.
“Bisexual then. Who cares? He probably wanks off to images of football for God’s sake.” She turns, linking arms with me, and continues walking down the side of the hospital where we have to split off in different directions. “The Penis List is still a solid plan. You won’t convince me otherwise. We’re going to find an even better player tonight. One who’s much less needy. Footballers are dramatic pansies anyway. Let’s go for a rugby player. Or maybe one of those underground fighters. You need a bloke you won’t be inspired to break the rules for and then get to know him.” She pierces me with her dark eyes. “This is happening, Indie. We have five days off. Now is our time.”
I exhale at the knowledge that fighting a determined Belle is useless. Deep down, I know she’s right. The whole scene with Camden was horrid. It reminded me of a time in primary school when I explained that the poem Autumn by Emily Dickinson wasn’t about the changing of the seasons, but about death and the decline of Christianity. Everyone laughed, even the teacher.
I’ve just always seen things differently and still do. The way he was so aloof and brushing me off outside the hospital after everything we talked in depth about is ridiculous. I can’t
let him or anyone revert me back to that guileless, insecure girl ever again. That’s not who I am anymore.
I force a smile and push my black-framed glasses up my nose a bit. “You’re right,” I agree. It’s time to move on from Camden, and I’m ready for a night out with my best mate. “I’m sorry and I promise I won’t let one stupid arsehole spoil our Tequila Sunrise time.”
“Too right!” she sings, breaking away from me to head toward her flat in the opposite direction. Walking backwards she shouts, “Go home. Shower. Shave your wobbly bits…Do whatever you need to do to get tarted up and ready for our night.”
I turn the corner, still watching her retreat and frown when her face falls. “Indie…look out!”
Smack. I run right into a large hard object. I let out an embarrassingly girlie yelp and hunch over to grab my aching knee. I wince at the searing pain and glare at the metal pedestrian sign. The bastard has a lot of nerve being stuck in the concrete so firmly. As I release a slur of expletives, a pair of helpful warm hands wrap around me from behind.
“Holy fuck,” Belle says. Her voice sounds far away, though. If they aren’t Belle’s hands on me, then whose are they?
I turn around and find myself in the hands of The Penis Prodigy himself: Camden Harris. The setting London sun is bathing him in golden light, turning him into a beautiful bronze, god-like wonder.
“Are you kidding me?” I groan, looking down to rub my knee.
“Are you all right?” he asks. His deep voice is soft and low, vibrating through my body with concern as he hovers over me with his hands on my back.
I shuffle away from him as he tries to inspect my knee. “I’m fine,” I snipe. “I don’t think I’ll need The Wilson Repair.”
He huffs out a laugh. “If you did, I know a good doctor.”
I hobble over to a nearby bench and silently curse the universe for making me look like such an arse at this particular moment. Camden tries to help me sit, but I reject his assistance. “What are you doing here? Something wrong with your knee?”