Challenge

by Amy Daws

  She tucks her hair behind her ears and says, “I suppose it’s nice you guys are related, and that you have family around who cares about you enough to punch you in the face over some girl.”

  She’s fixating on this girl. I’m torn between being honest with her and telling her that she was the girl, or letting her stew with curiosity.

  Before I can decide, she continues, “I never had that.” She frowns down at the table. “I never even had a pet. I wanted a gerbil once, but my gran said no because I wouldn’t be around long enough to take care of it.”

  “That’s no good,” I reply, the corner of my mouth turning up at her memory.

  “Yeah, you know, my gran died two years ago and I realised at her funeral that I never hugged her. She raised me and I never hugged her my whole life.” I watch Indie in eerie silence as she rubs her pointer finger over the rim of the glass bottle.

  “My parents came home for the funeral and I spent three days straight with them, which was so weird because it was awkward, as if I didn’t know them and they felt like strangers. When it was time for them to go, I drove them to the airport because they had to get back to work…I remember getting out of the car and wanting to make sure I hugged them. I had this desperate need to hug them…because, you know, they were getting on a plane, and you never know when a plane could crash and the only people genetically wired to love you unconditionally are going to go down in flames.

  “So I went to hug my mum and she stopped me in my tracks like this.” She reaches across the table and grips my biceps. She looks at the physical representation like she still can’t believe it. I can’t much either. “Then she said, ‘Indie, I think I’m getting a cold. Better keep your distance.’”

  The weight of the words suspends in the air as she releases my arms with a sad smile. I’m frozen, unmoving, and still feeling the harshness of her grip on my arms.

  Shaking her head, she tips the empty beer bottle onto its side and rolls it along the bumpy ridges of the wooden picnic table. “Who keeps their daughter at arm’s-length like that? At the time, I tried to believe that she cared enough to not want me to get sick. But when I was driving home, all I kept thinking was, ‘What kind of mother doesn’t hug their child at the airport?’ Hugging at the airport is such an epic moment. There are YouTube montages of awesome hugs at airports. There are homeless men who hold up signs that say ‘free hugs,’ and they aren’t worried about getting sick.”

  She nods a few times before her eyes snap to mine. “I bet you a million pounds I bury my parents before I hug them.”

  I feel like I was just shot in the face. Like a million times. Or kicked in the ribs after they’re all broken and I’ve been bleeding internally for hours.

  She frowns and looks over her shoulder. “Where’s Belle with those drinks?” She moves to get up from the table and I reach out for her hand.

  “No more drinks,” I beg, my eyes stinging.

  She grimaces and then looks at my hand on hers. I don’t know if she doesn’t feel the tears falling down her face, or if she just doesn’t want to acknowledge them. “It’s Tequila Sunrise time. You know how important that is to me, Cam.”

  “I do, but let’s go dance instead.”

  She contemplates the idea. “Dancing is part of the approved list of items for a Tequila Sunrise worthy activity,” she says, bobbing her head thoughtfully.

  I don’t wait for her answer. I stand up and make my way around the table toward her. She won’t make eye contact with me, but when I reach out, she puts her hand in mine and stares at our fingers linked together. Tears continue to slide out over and over, but I still don’t say anything. Words aren’t what she needs right now.

  The music isn’t slow. Not at all. People are dancing wildly around us, but I tune it all out. I wrap her in my arms and clasp her head to my chest. I begin slowly rocking her to the music, alternating between holding her, squeezing her, and running my fingers through her hair the entire time. Her shoulders shake every once in a while and I know she’s crying. All I want to do is take away the pain. I don’t want anything more in this world than to take away this pain she has in her.

  My desperation to do this for her trumps football. It trumps my family. It trumps my desire to kiss her. What I want for her to feel in this second supersedes any sexual desire I’ve ever had for her.

  I need her to feel this.

  “Let me take you home,” I whisper into her hair, loud enough she can hear me.

  Her eyes shoot up to mine and the pain in them guts me. “No,” she exclaims. “I couldn’t stand it.”

  My face falls. “Why, Indie?”

  She shakes her head side-to-side like the answer should be clear as day. “Because I’m not right for this. I’m not right for you.”

  I cup her face in my hands, my jawbone ticking with ferocious need to make her see. “Indie, please. Let me take you home.”

  She jerks her head out of my hands. “No, Cam. This was a mistake. I don’t want you.”

  Her words feel final as her watery eyes dry up, piercing through me once again.

  “Just go find one of your hundreds of girls at your beck and call. Or that girl you punched Tanner over. If she’s worth fighting your brother for, she’s who you should be with.”

  “She was you,” I growl, stepping back into her space.

  Her face crumples in pain, and she walks backwards away from me. “If she was me, I feel bad for you because I’m not worth that.”

  “Indie—”

  “I’ll see you at your surgery, Camden.”

  I want to chase after her. I want to say more. I want to show her my heart again, but I don’t…because I’ve already said too much. None of it will matter anyway.

  She stumbles back over to the picnic table, grabs a confused Belle’s hand, and drags her toward the door and out of my heart.

  For good this time.

  THE NEXT THREE DAYS AFTER Old George are pretty grim. My body swirls in doubt and desperate thoughts of self-preservation. This is worse than the first time Indie blew me off because now I’ve seen more of her heart. I know more of her darkness. She showed me why she’s so damn attached to that stupid list, and it’s not something I can fix because she doesn’t want me.

  So instead, I’m trying to figure out what the hell happened to me. I went from being on top of my game, pulling birds from my brother like it was nothing, to an emotional and physical cripple.

  If I knew this was how feelings felt, I’d have avoided them like the horrid STD they are.

  I head to Tower Park, hoping that standing on the pitch and looking up into the empty stands might give me some much needed perspective. It’s the place where it all began for me, so surely I can find some clarity there.

  I drape myself out on the grass, deep in thought, but even this grass feels different. This pitch that I look at like hallowed ground feels pokey and all wrong against my back.

  Where have my balls gone? I can’t control Indie. I can’t control my dad. I can’t control the surgery. I can’t control my recovery. But above all, I can’t get away from this deeply rooted fear of what my life could be like without football. It’s all making me crazy.

  Feeling out of control is not an emotion I appreciate. I can’t gain power over a damn thing in my life and it’s eating me alive. I’m due to get the surgery on my knee in a week, and my entire body is roaring with anger over so many things that I think I might explode on the table.

  Before I know it, I’m pressing the buzzer to Vi’s flat in Brick Lane. I need to talk to her more than I need to talk to anybody.

  She lets me up, so I step inside the private alley lift that takes me to the eleventh floor of an old period building. Her flat occupies the entire floor. It’s a symbol of how different our dad treats her over us. Don’t get me wrong. Vi deserves every penny. She’s been the voice of reason for our family since the day she could speak. This is a small price to pay for how much she’s helped all of us.

  But sh
e’s a camera bag designer and not exactly making the kind of money it would take to be able to afford a London penthouse like this. She moved out of our dad’s Chigwell house a few years ago and bought this flat with a trust that he’d set aside for her. So it’s her money and she invested it wisely. Regardless, he’s never set up trusts for the rest of us. Gareth says it’s because we make more than he did back then. I think it’s because he doesn’t want us to be able to quit football.

  When I walk in, Hayden meets me at the lift with Vi’s dog, Bruce, on a lead. “Hey, Cam.”

  “Hey, Hayden, how are you?”

  “Good. You okay?” he asks, frowning at me. It’s the first time I realise there may be some physical representation of the lack of sleep I’ve been getting the last few nights.

  “I’m good. Just need to talk to your baby mama if that’s all right.”

  “Hey, I’m making an honest woman of her eventually.” His grey eyes flick to the balcony where she must be sitting. He smiles fondly. “We just mixed up the order a bit.”

  I offer a polite smile. “As long as you keep her happy, that’s all that matters. We won’t give you the Harris Shakedown if you keep that smile on her face.”

  Hayden chuckles. “I’m highly familiar with the Harris Shakedown. I think it was five days straight you guys stalked outside my home last time Vi and I disagreed.”

  “It was more than a disagreement,” I grumble defensively. The bastard nearly broke her heart.

  He sighs and pins me with an intense stare. “Cam, I was an idiot. Without question. But sometimes a bit of perspective changes things. That time was a vital part of our story.” He reaches down and grips the thick leather cuff wrapped around his wrist. “And you know what? I wouldn’t change that now.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  Shaking his head, he replies, “Nope. I’ll win your sister back as many times as I have to.”

  “I’m out here!” Vi yells from outside, interrupting our impromptu heart-to-heart.

  Hayden tilts his head with a smile and moves aside for me to walk by. “I’ll let you get to it.”

  “Cheers, Hayden.” I move through the living room and step onto their huge terrace. The shrinking London sun casts a grey haze over the incredible view. “Bloody hell, I want to move.”

  “Well, you should,” Vi says and I glance over to find her stretched out on a lounger, book in hand, looking like the epitome of happy and healthy. “It’s not like you don’t have the money.”

  I shrug. “I’ve never cared much because we’re never home.”

  She shoots me a puzzled look. “But you care now?”

  I exhale heavily and sit down across from her. “That’s what I’m here to talk to you about. I need you to stay calm, Vi. And I need you to know that I’ve thought about this long and hard, and nothing is going to change my mind.”

  She sits up to face me so we’re knee-to-knee. Clasped fists to clasped fists. Pensive expression to pensive expression.

  “I’m not going to have the surgery next week.”

  “What?” she nearly screams.

  “Hear me out,” I remind her. “Because you’re the only one I’m going to say it to this way, and I want you to know the truth.”

  “Okay,” she grinds through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t want the surgery next week because I’d rather live with this graft in my knee and never know if I can play as good, rather than get the graft out and find out that I can’t get back all that I lost.”

  She exhales heavily three times like she’s doing Lamaze breathing. “Vi, calm down.”

  “Camden, no.”

  “Vi…it’s my decision. This is what I want.”

  “So you’re scared? Why? What changed? You weren’t scared to have the first surgery,” she says, her blue eyes wide and watery.

  “I didn’t have time to think about it,” I reply. Plus, I had Indie by my side.

  “Did something happen between you and Indie?”

  Her question doesn’t surprise me. I knew she’d go there. She’s been calling or texting almost every day, asking how things are with her. “No. This has nothing to do with her. It has to do with me making a decision for myself and not for anyone else.”

  “Cam, I can see it in your eyes. You’re lying. Tell me the truth. What did she do to you?”

  I sneer, “Why do you think she did something to me? Isn’t it far more likely that I kicked her to the curb?”

  Her chin drops. “Drop the shield, I’m not shooting at you.”

  “Vi, this isn’t about Indie. But I’m grateful for my time with her. I learned a lot. People can survive with torn ACLs and live perfectly normal lives.”

  She clenches her jaw. “How could she say such a thing?”

  “She’s a doctor and it’s the truth. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t take this pressure. This weight. This…everything. It’s too much. I’m telling you because I love you and I don’t want you to be disappointed in me. You’re the one person I can’t take that from.”

  “But football is everything to you. It’s everything to all of us.” Her voice is panicky.

  I want to growl, but I’m staying calm because she has a baby inside of her and I need to be gentle. “I just need some time to decide what I want to do for a change.”

  “You’re so talented, Camden,” her voice sounds defeated.

  “That’s not the point.”

  She sighs dejectedly. “This is not going to go over well.”

  “INDIE,” PRICHARD SAYS, STOPPING ME in the hallway on my way to Patch Alley.

  I do my best to suppress a heavy sigh. “Hi, Dr. Prichard.” I enunciate his name more forcefully than necessary, attempting to put extra focus on the doctor part of my address.

  He grasps my elbow and guides me away from the hustle and bustle, into the darkened hallway where stretchers are stored. His touch feels like needles. “I have excellent news.”

  “I was just paged for an ortho consult on a little boy,” I say, pointing to where I was heading.

  “This won’t take long.” His eyes crinkle on me in that way that makes me feel squirrely. I’ve done my best to avoid him since that odd moment in the scrub room, but with Camden’s surgery coming up, there’s only so much space I can create.

  “The British Medical Journal will be here on Monday for the Harris surgery. They want to interview me…and you.” He seems to bite out the last part. “They are interested in talking to you about the research you did in med school.”

  My mouth drops open. The British Medical Journal is even bigger than the one that published my research before. “What do they want to know?”

  “Nothing too technical. They want to do a human interest piece on how you are one of the youngest published practicing doctors operating on a top-level athlete. They want to talk about your upbringing, your research, the procedure we’re doing on the Harris patient. Everything. The hospital is very keen about this idea.”

  “Wow,” I reply still feeling a bit stunned. To have a medical journal interested in me at all is a tremendous honour. But a human interest piece? About my background and Camden? Nerves erupt inside my belly over how awkward this could be for me in more ways than I can even admit.

  “I thought you might be pleased.” Prichard’s brows rise and he gets a smug look in his eyes. “I have a bottle of vintage Dom we can share after the surgery to celebrate.”

  Realising that his hand is still on my elbow, I force out a smile. His advances are becoming more and more obvious. It’s not against hospital policy to date a member of the staff; however, when I’m already fighting against other residents’ perception of me, attention like this will not help me get ahead.

  “We’ll see.” I step away from him, but he steps back into my space—so close that I can smell his cologne.

  “Indie, I hope you can see what a good team we make. Together, I can really see big things happening all around.”

  I stare back at him in wonder. It’s suc
h a jarring juxtaposition for someone so handsome to say things so obviously creepy. When he has the entire hospital flocking at his feet, I wonder why he puts so much focus on me.

  “Well, Dr. Prichard, I have a patient waiting, so…”

  “Of course.” He smiles and winks. I turn and haul arse out of his space, away from his scent, and retreat into my own thoughts.

  “What was it you did, little man?” I ask, sitting down next to a wide-eyed little boy whose tiny form takes up only ten percent of the stretcher we’re sitting on.

  His lower lip protrudes as he’s doing his very best not to cry again. “Well, I was chasing my sister…and she went downstairs real fast and I wanted to get her…and so…I didn’t.”

  “The steps are wooden. There’s no carpet, or padding, or anything. He screamed so loud. I just know something is broken.”

  I look over at his mother’s face and see matching wide eyes tear up as she watches her four-year-old son clutch his arm protectively to his chest. It took a solid ten minutes for me to get him to stop crying and finally talk to me.

  “It hurts,” he mumbles again.

  An idea comes to mind. “Hey, Limerick, do you like football?”

  “Yeah, my dad says, ‘Go Gunners.’” His voice wobbles as he sniffles.

  I smile. “So you’re an Arsenal fan? That’s a great team. Do you want to know something really cool?”

  “What?”

  “I treated a professional footballer here in this hospital not very long ago.”

  “Who was it?”

  “He’s a striker. He’s very big and very strong and has scored lots of goals this season. But do you know what else?”

  He looks at me with wide, puppy-dog eyes.

  “He was scared, too.”

  “He was?” A light turns on in his eyes.

  “He was. And do you know how I got him to not be scared?”

  “How?”

  “I had him sing a song,” I lie. I can’t very well tell him that I snogged his face off. “Do you like singing?”