Pathetic, I fucking know.
But two days after I last saw her, and I still don’t have my thoughts together.
When it comes to her, my brain is a jumble of discombobulated thoughts.
Letting myself in, I close the door quietly behind me and turn the lock. When I start down the hall, I immediately know something isn’t right. The bathroom door is cracked open, light pouring out from it, and the door to Zoey’s room is wide open showing her ruffled mattress like she’d been tossing and turning before finally getting up.
“Zo?” I ask softly, hesitating in the hall. I don’t want to surprise her if she’s using the bathroom or something.
There’s no response, so I push the door open the rest of the way and find her lying on the cold bathroom tiles in nothing but a t-shirt and her panties. She appears to be asleep, but her chest rises and falls with shaky breaths like she’s in pain.
Crouching down beside her I press the back of my hand to her forehead like my mom always used to do with me when I was child. She feels warm, but not feverish. The hot water bottle I bought her is lying on the floor beside her like she once had it clutched to her abdomen.
“Zoey?” I shake her shoulder and her eyes fly open.
She moans in pain. “Go away.”
“Let me help you,” I practically plead. I don’t like seeing anyone hurt, but definitely not this girl. I want to take away whatever it is.
“It hurts,” she whimpers, lower lip trembling.
“What hurts?”
“My stomach.” Her fingers flutter over her abdomen. “It’s not my period this time. I don’t know what it is.” Tears leak out of her eyes.
“What can I do?”
“I was going to sit in a bath, but I can’t move right now. I just can’t. Don’t make me.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
Her breaths are ragged, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
She struggles to stand and rolls to all fours. I help her to the toilet, holding her hair out of the way of the sick. She clutches the toilet, whimpering.
“Must be food poisoning,” she grumbles.
“What did you eat?”
“Leftover chicken nuggets. Fucking Teddy.” She lays back down on the tile.
“Are you sure it’s food poisoning?”
“Don’t know what else it would be.” She closes her eyes, cringing in pain.
“I don’t think you’re in pain with food poisoning. Really sick, sure. But not pain.”
“Shut up,” she pleads. “My head is pounding. It feels like there’s an ice pick digging behind my eyes.”
“Do you want me to go?” I whisper.
Eyes still closed, she reaches out lightning fast and grabs ahold of my wrist. “Lay with me.”
I’m dumb and foolish, because I’m helpless to deny her plea.
I stretch my long body out beside her. She snuggles against me and I wrap my arm around her.
This isn’t exactly how I imagined it would go the first time I laid with Zoey, but I’m not about to leave her on the cold bathroom floor if she wants me here.
She squeezes my hand where it rests against her stomach. “Don’t leave me.”
Before I can stop myself, I kiss the crook of her neck. “Never.”
I must fall right to sleep, which is a miracle in the bright bathroom, but an hour or so later Zoey wakes me up whimpering in pain.
She sits up, pressing her fingers into her lower stomach.
I feel helpless as she leans her head against the bathroom cabinet, teeth digging into her bottom lip. Sweat dampens her brow and her body begins to shake.
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. Something’s not right.” Her eyes grow even bigger than normal. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
“I’m calling an ambulance.” I yank my phone out of the pocket of my jeans.
“No, no. That’s not necessary. I don’t need an ambulance.”
“Zoey,” I say her name sternly, “you said it yourself, something isn’t right.”
She doesn’t protest again when I call 911.
With the ambulance on the way, she begs, “Get me some pants, please. There’s a pair of sweats on the floor.” Her request is interrupted every few words with hissing breaths and winces as pain rocks through her.
I don’t want to leave her, but I do as she asks and bring her the sweatpants, helping her put them on.
“You’re so kind.” She sniffles, wiping at her face. “Perfect.”
“I’m far from perfect.”
Holding onto my arm, she stands up. “Help me get out of here and down to the parking lot. I’m not having them cart me out of here on a gurney.”
“Are you crazy?” I look at her like she’s lost her mind. “You’re hurting. The last thing you need is to walk all the way down there.”
Somehow, she manages to roll her eyes. “I still have my pride and dignity.”
“I’ll carry you out.”
“What? No!” She shrieks, trying to pull away from me.
“You’re not walking out of here. So, it’s either me or the gurney. Take your pick.”
She winces in pain, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. “Carry me,” she bites out.
I scoop her easily into my arms, carrying her through the apartment. I have to let her down to lock up, and of course Zoey being the stubborn woman she is uses that to her advantage and tries to start down the stairs on her own like she’s trying to prove to both of us that she’s fine and can do it.
She’s only made it down two when I get to her and she’s already leaning against the railing, trying to get ahold of her breath.
“Needing help isn’t weakness, Zo.” I pick her up again.
“It feels like it.” She leans her head against my chest. “I’ve always prided myself on needing no one. I guess that was my fatal flaw. No wonder Todd cheated on me.”
“Your ex was an idiot,” I grumble, wanting to deck the bastard for hurting her, for not realizing what an amazing woman she is.
“True. Don’t get me wrong, he holds all the blame. I didn’t make him cheat, but … I could’ve been more open.”
“Trust me, you don’t need to change.”
“I pushed my dad away.” She cries, I don’t know whether from the topic of conversation or the pain. “It was easier than admitting I was mad at him. I convinced myself he didn’t love me, that he never did. I was wrong, though, Cole. My dad loves me a lot. So much. And I was such a bitch all these years. How do I fix it?”
We reach the sidewalk, but I don’t put her down. I don’t want to. I hear sirens in the distance growing closer.
“With time,” I answer her, drowning in her warm chocolate eyes that glow from the nearby streetlight that illuminates the parking lot. “With words. With … with love. I don’t think this is a bridge that can’t be rebuilt. Sure, it’s shaky right now, and you’re scared but it’ll be worth it.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who he was.”
I press my forehead to hers. “I don’t care.”
“Y-You don’t?” Her face contorts with hurt, and I wish I could take it all away and make her better. I fucking hate that there’s nothing more I can do.
“I probably should, but I don’t. I just can’t believe you didn’t want to tell me because you were afraid of changing how I view your dad.”
“He’s a lot of people’s hero. At least in the world of basketball.” She hisses out a breath at the pain. “He used to be mine too, until I hated him.”
“He can be your hero again. If you want.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” I kiss her cheek. “Don’t harbor resentment or hatred at yourself for feeling like you hated him. You were young, hurt by your parents’ divorce. It was natural to place blame. Forgive him, but more importantly forgive yourself.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but the ambulance turns into the apar
tment complex and her eyes zero in on the flashing lights. Setting her down, I keep my arm firmly around her waist. When I feel her sway slightly, my eyes flash to hers with worry. She grips onto my shirt.
“A little light-headed,” she explains.
My worry deepens.
Waving to the ambulance they pull over in front of us and one of the guys hop out. He spouts out a bunch of questions that we both answer and then he’s joined by another paramedic. They help Zoey into the ambulance, settling her on the gurney and strapping a blood pressure cuff to her arm and stick one of those finger things on her that checks your pulse oximetry.
“Are you family?” One of the paramedics asks me when I try to climb in.
Zoey looks at me with pleading eyes. Don’t leave me, they beg.
“I’m her husband,” I lie.
Zoey doesn’t call me out on my bullshit and the guy nods, letting me on. Closing the doors, we head to the nearby hospital. I sit beside her, cradling her hand in mine.
“Do you have any idea what’s wrong?” I ask, wanting answers.
They don’t reply, busy listening to her heart and lungs and doing other checks that I have no idea what they are. They even get her started on IV fluids since she’s dehydrated.
At the hospital, they whisk her inside and into a curtained off area in the ER.
A nurse comes in, going over questions we’ve already answered.
“Why are you asking all this again? Isn’t it on a chart somewhere? Why aren’t you guys figuring out what’s wrong with her?”
“We’ll get there,” she says in a calm tone. “But I have to do this first. It’s protocol.”
I’m about to tell her to fuck her protocol but Zoey squeezes my hand and says, “It’s fine.”
She explains her pain to the nurse, when it started, how it feels and where it’s located.
“The doctor will be by shortly to check on you and order some tests. Okay, sweetie?”
Zoey jerks her head in a nod.
“Can we at least get a damp cloth?” I practically beg, wanting to do something. If I can press it to her sweat damp forehead it’ll make me feel better. I hate feeling like there’s nothing I can do.
“Of course.”
The nurse seems nice enough, but I hate that there’s a lack of urgency. I mean, I know Zoey isn’t dying, at least she doesn’t appear to be, and this is an ER but when you see someone you know hurting you just want them to do something. Anything.
Zoey squeezes my hand as the nurse breezes past the curtain. “Sit down.” She nods at the chair near her bed.
I do as she asks. “How bad is the pain?”
“Bad enough.”
“What can I do?”
“Just you being here is enough.”
“Zoey,” I beg.
“Fine. Can you rub my stomach? If you apply some pressure, I think it’ll help.”
“I can do that. Show me where.”
She takes my hand, placing it on her lower abdomen. “Right here.”
The nurse comes back in with the damp cloth and I take it, muttering thank you before I apply it to Zoey’s forehead.
“Thanks, Dr. Anderson.” She cracks the tiniest of smiles, but it doesn’t mask how badly she’s hurting. I see it in her eyes.
“I can’t believe you’re joking right now.”
“It helps me cope. If this is food poisoning, tell Teddy I’m murdering him with his damn chicken nuggets.”
“I’ll help you.”
I’m not convinced this is food poisoning like she seems to think it is. I got it a few years ago after a disastrous buffet experience. Never again will I eat at one. I couldn’t stop throwing up. But I was never in pain like she is.
Eventually a doctor comes in, going over the same fucking questions yet again, poking and prodding her, listening to her lungs, until finally he steps back and says he’s ordering blood work and an ultrasound. Just like the nurse figured he would. They give Zoey something to help with the pain and she drifts off to sleep.
Stepping out of her room—well, curtained off corner of the ER—I round the hall and scroll through my phone contacts.
She might get pissed at me for this, but I can’t in good conscience not let her dad know she’s in the ER.
The phone rings a couple of times before his groggy voice answers with a gruff, “What the fuck, Anderson? It’s three in the morning.”
“I know, sir, and I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t an emergency.”
“What’s wrong?” He sounds more alert now, worried even, and he doesn’t even know this has to do with his daughter.
“It’s Zoey.”
“What about her?” Panic cuts through his voice and there’s shuffling in the background, no doubt he’s climbing out of bed.
“I got home and found her on the bathroom floor in pain. It wasn’t getting better, so I called for an ambulance. She’s sleeping right now, but they’re going to do some tests and I thought you should know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
He hangs up, and I realize then that he’s so flustered he didn’t even ask how I know Zoey or how I would’ve found her.
Back in Zoey’s room, I sit down at her side. She’s still sleeping, but I can’t help myself when I take her hand, brushing my thumb gently back and forth over her knuckles.
I don’t like seeing her in pain and knowing I’m helpless to take it away.
The curtain brushes back roughly, the noise startling Zoey awake. “What’s going on?”
The phlebotomist pulls a cart in with her and smiles. “I’m here to take some blood.”
“Ugh, great.” Zoey rolls her eyes to me. “I hate needles.”
I squeeze her hand. “Focus on me, then.”
She holds my gaze as her blood is taken, wincing a little when the needle first goes in.
“All done,” the lady announces. “You did good.”
And then we’re alone once more. “I called your dad,” I admit, wanting to give her a heads up before he shows.
“What?” Her eyes threaten to bug out of her head. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re in the hospital and he’s your dad. He deserves to know.”
I expect her to get mad, but she lets out a sigh and jerks her head in a nod. “You’re right.”
“How are you feeling now?” Before I can stop myself, I’m smoothing a curl away from her forehead. She relaxes into my touch. I don’t think she even realizes she does it.
“Better. Whatever they gave me really helped.”
“Good.”
“Thank you for coming with me.”
“I wasn’t going to let you go alone.”
She touches her fingers to my jaw, the barest hint of pressure. “Why are you so perfect?”
“I’m not perfect, Zoey. Not by a long shot.”
Her dark eyes focus on mine. “You are to me.”
We’re interrupted by transport arriving to take her for an ultrasound since there’s no room for the machine in the tiny area we’re sectioned off in.
“Sir, you’ll have to stay in the waiting room until she’s back.”
I jerk my head in a nod. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”
She gives me a thumb’s up as they wheel her away.
Sitting down in the waiting room, my leg bounces up and down with nerves. I’m glad whatever they gave her has helped with her pain and she’s no longer hurting, but I want to get answers on what’s going on.
Every time the doors from the parking lot to the ER open, I glance over in search of Coach Reynolds. About five minutes after I sat down, he enters, and I wave him over.
“What’s going on?” he asks, out of breath. He’s tossed on a pair of gym shorts and a zip up jacket. Two different sneakers adorn his feet.
“Not sure. I got back to the apartment and found her on the floor like I said. She threw up but she was really in a lot of pain in her abdomen. She seems to think it’s food p
oisoning, but I’m not convinced. That’s when I insisted on calling an ambulance.”
“Can I see her?”
I shake my head. “They took her for an ultrasound and sent me out here.”
Finally, a lightbulb must click in his head. “How the hell do you know my daughter, Anderson?”
I look up at him since he’s still standing in front of me, refusing to take a seat. “She’s my roommate.”
“Your roommate,” he parrots. “How did that happen?”
I run my fingers over my hair. “My friend Teddy was supposed to rent the apartment with me, but shit happened, and he couldn’t. Zoey was his replacement. I didn’t know she was your daughter.”
He gives a resigned sigh, finally sinking into the chair beside me. “I’m not surprised. I don’t know how much she’s told you, but our relationship … it’s a work in progress.”
“She loves you.”
He lets out a gruff laugh. “It wasn’t my daughter that called me here tonight, Anderson,” he reminds me.
“She’s getting there.”
“She talks to you about me?”
“Yeah,” I admit, not sure if I might be better off keeping my mouth shut, but I kind of want to give the poor man something. He looks saddened. Defeated. I don’t have kids yet, don’t plan on it for a while, but I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I was in his position. “I didn’t know it was you until Friday when she showed up at your office.”
“Ah,” he breathes.
The nurse who’s been working with Zoey appears in the corner of the waiting room. “Mr. Anderson,” she calls, “your wife is back from the imaging center. You can see her now.”
Coach arches a brow, pressing his lips together not to laugh. “Your wife, huh?”
I smile sheepishly. “They weren’t going to let me come, so I said I was her husband.”
He claps me on the back. “Well, come on then, son.”
I straighten at his words, taken by surprise. After telling the nurse his relation to Zoey, she gives him a sticker and permits him to go into the back.
I open the curtain and Zoey’s eyes dance from me to her dad behind me.
“Hi,” she says awkwardly to him.
“Hey.”
“Have they said anything about the imaging?” I ask, trying to break the awkwardness.
“Not yet.” She rolls her eyes.
Nice Guys Don't Win (A College Sport's Romance) Page 15
