by Hart, Taylor
Sam didn’t respond for a few moments. The air in the cab began to squeeze around Brooks like a set of shoulder pads that were a size too small.
Brooks noticed that Sam took the exit labeled “Primary Children’s Hospital.” He let out a low growl. “You’re taking me there now? What about getting checked into the hotel?”
Sam still didn’t respond, simply focused on driving.
Brooks seethed in his seat, not paying attention to the huge Christmas tree lit up in front of the hospital. Not paying attention to where they parked in the multi-tiered parking garage. Only getting more and more upset, thinking about how he’d been duped into coming. By the time he opened the door, he needed an outlet.
Sam moved around the truck, his eyes dangerous-looking. “I don’t care what problem you have with me.” He stepped closer and tapped Brooks hard in the chest. “Or what story you’ve been telling yourself about how picked on you are, how I haven’t been giving the ball to you.”
“You haven’t.”
A disbelieving look flashed across Sam’s face. “Excuse me? How do you have the most touchdown receptions in the league if I haven’t been getting you the ball?”
Brooks matched Sam’s look with a scowl. “I’m open even more, and you know it.”
Shaking his head, Sam scoffed. “Man, you’re the most humble guy I’ve ever met, too.”
“Being humble doesn’t get the ball in the end zone.”
Poking Brooks’s chest again, Sam’s lip curled into a sneer. “You act like the whole team doesn’t have something to do with that.”
Brooks didn’t respond. He knew there was truth to what Sam was saying: he’d never been a great team player. If life had taught him anything, it was that the only one he could count on was himself.
Deep irritation left Sam pinching his lips with disgust. “Trust.”
Brooks didn’t respond.
“I’m the quarterback. I’m the one looking down the field, but trust begins long before the ball goes up in the air.”
Brooks knew Sam had a point. If Sam Dumont had proven anything since coming to Miami, it was that he had a dogged determination to lead the team and get the best out of each player on the field. It was this determination that made the coaches listen to him when he recommended certain plays. It was this same determination that had Brooks standing right here. “What are you rambling about?”
Letting out a breath, Sam narrowed his eyes. “When you meet this kid, you better be on your best behavior—meet-the-owners behavior, the kind that makes you look pretty and nice and like the Ken doll she’s always wanted. Got it?” Sam’s face was scrunched up, and he had the same kind of focused look he had when he was about to throw a touchdown. “This kid … she’s different.”
Brooks rolled his eyes. “Cry me a river. Who doesn’t have a sad story?”
Without warning, Sam punched him hard and fast on the nose. Brooks took the punch, holding back his own. He’d been trained to fight, sparring in the gym for years. But while it would have felt amazing to slam his fist into Dumont’s face, he wouldn’t give Dumont the pleasure of seeing him lose it. He knew how to take a hit and not take it personally. He did it every day on the field.
The punch did accomplish one thing: it took Brooks’ attention off of Dumont. Brooks wiped at the blood coming out of his nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Sam sighed. “I don’t think I broke it.” He took a step closer to inspect it.
It made Brooks laugh that Sam recovered so quickly from their spat. “You think it’s smart to come that close to me at the moment?”
Sam snorted. “Listen, I’ve been on the receiving end of a well-deserved hit a time or two. If you were going to fire back, you already would have.”
Resenting the idea that the hit was well deserved, Brooks shrugged away from Sam. “Whatever.”
Sam pulled him forward, deeper into the parking garage, toward an elevator. “I get that you’re a jerk, but you don’t get to be a jerk to her. Got it?”
There was a part of Brooks that felt a bit guilty about his attitude. A small part. “I don’t like the fact you blackmailed me into coming here.”
Sam frowned. “This girl’s only wish is to meet Brooks Stone, famous wide receiver for the Miami Surf. I think you can give her that.”
“That’s all? I’m just meeting her?”
“You’re having dinner with her tomorrow, but the mom has to vet you first.”
“What?” Precipitously, he felt like he was walking into an interview he hadn’t prepared for. He’d had his fair share of meet and greets in foster care, and Brooks didn’t have the best track record for winning moms over. Moms saw everything and didn’t take any bull.
“She insisted.” Sam’s jaw tensed, and he opened his hands. “They’re waiting upstairs.”
“Who?”
“My fiancé and the girl’s mom.”
Brooks blinked, ignoring the pain in his nose. Sam was right; he hadn’t broken it. Brooks knew exactly what a broken nose felt like. He resigned himself to meeting this girl. It would just be one dinner, and then he could get on a plane and go home.
They walked through some double doors that quickly slid open and shut. Brooks stopped, wondering if he had any pull left.
“C’mon.” Sam gestured forward.
“Wait.” Brooks put up a hand. “I have your guarantee that you’ll recommend to coach that I play in the Christmas game?”
Sam sighed, looking down at Brooks’ foot. “How’s the ankle?”
“Good as new.” It was true. He felt strong.
Sam shook his finger at him. “You can never be too careful with high ankle sprains. You know that.”
“It’s fine.” Brooks said.
Sam sighed. “I’m not gonna lie, Stone. You’ve been off your game this whole season.”
All of Brooks’ frustration focused, laser-like, on Sam. “Yet I still managed to catch sixteen touchdowns so far this season, and it would have been more if you had thrown it to me more. I’m fine.”
Sam tentatively moved closer to him. “Look, I’ve been in a dark place before. You should get help.”
Glaring, Brooks kept his voice to a low growl. “Tell me I’ll start in the Christmas game, or I bail right now.”
Hedging for a second, Sam blew out a breath. “Fine. I won’t put up a fuss if that’s what the coach wants.”
Brooks knew this was a big deal. Dumont had been putting up a fuss for much too long. If he could get him to stop, he would take it. Satisfied, Brooks smiled. “Fine.”
“But you better be good to Ana, too. She’s been through a lot.”
“The mother.”
“Yes.”
“Owners behavior,” Brooks said.
They walked over a bridge made of glass—Brooks could see down the whole front of the hospital— and then down a hallway that had handprints on the walls. Kids’ handprints. He saw different pictures of children with famous people, too. His heart tugged at the way they looked. Brooks hadn’t known what exactly was wrong with the little girl, but it was all becoming clear.
This was a cancer wing.
“Oh,” Sam said, turning to him. A wicked grin flashed across his face. “One last thing: Ana pretty much hates you.”
Trepidation seeped in. “Wait, what did you just say?” Brooks stopped moving and stepped to the side of the hallway.
Taking him by the bicep, Sam squeezed. “Lower your voice.”
Yanking away from him, Brooks pulled in a hard breath. He felt like he’d been blindsided by a safety.
Sam ran his hand through his hair, looking truly frustrated for the first time. “Listen, Callie has an obsession with you, okay?”
“The kid?”
Sam nodded. “The kid. Her mother hasn’t approved or liked the obsession.”
“What? Why?”
Sam counted off, touching a finger with every new point. “She has watched all your games, knows all your stats, can recite all the quo
tes you’ve put out on Twitter, and knows everything you like and dislike as far as food.”
That was one huge list, given how much of a foodie he was. Most of his Twitter and Instagram posts consisted of different things he’d cooked. Whole foods were his passion—that, and football.
Well, that wasn’t so bad. He pushed off from the wall, moving again down the hall. “So why does the mom hate me so much?” It actually made him feel better. He didn’t have to win her over, or even like her. He just had to do his bit with the kid and get out of there. No complications. No looking back and feeling bad. Just do his razzle-dazzle for the crowd and then get back to the field.
Sam snorted. “Do you really need a reason?” They turned down another hallway. “Your public image is …” He trailed off and pinched his lips together. “The only thing that’s helped you has been …”
Brooks knew what he was thinking. “Amber’s death.” The truth stung. He’d gotten a pass from the press the last year when he’d refused to do interviews.
“Whatever.” Sam gestured to a room. “She’s in there.” He gave him a pointed look. “Your nose is …”
“Red and swelling, tell me about it.” This time, Brooks snapped quietly.
Sam smirked. “That hit made you compliant.”
True, thought Brooks. The hit had shaken him up a bit and made him pay attention. “Fine, let’s get this over with.”
Sam slowly nodded. “Fine.” He pointed to room three-one-one. “She’s in there.”
Brooks moved ahead, reaching for the door.
Before he could pull it back, the door flew open, smashing into his face.
Chapter 3
Ana Given couldn’t believe she’d just hit someone in the nose. It’d been a bad day, but—Let’s face it—most days weren’t stellar lately. Especially since the doctors had told her a week ago that the treatment wasn’t working anymore and there was nothing they could do.
“Gaah!” The man leapt back, reaching for his nose.
Ana noticed Sam and realized that the strange man was, in fact, Brooks Stone. The man who she’d repeatedly told Tiffany Chance and Sam Dumont she didn’t want to come. The man she’d learned was coming. Didn’t Sam and Tiffany understand that by granting Callie’s wish, they were basically admitting defeat? Admitting that the fight was over for her? Isn’t that why people helped cancer kids—‘cause they were dying? Instant anger curled into her gut, and she wanted to punch something.
Brooks cursed and turned in a circle, holding his nose.
Ana swung her angry glare to Sam, then back to Brooks. “Please tell me you didn’t just use a curse word in a children’s hospital.”
“Hold up.” Sam put his hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine, just listen.”
Waiting a beat, Ana tucked her tongue into her cheek. She knew Tiffany and Sam had hearts of gold—they’d been amazing to Callie, even to Ana herself—but she couldn’t get her daughter involved with one more person just to have that person ripped out of her child’s life. “I told you I didn’t want this,” she whispered.
Sam let out a breath. He took a step closer to her. “But Callie is persistent. Every time Tiffany and Katie have been here, she’s begged to meet him.”
Emotion surged into her throat, and unwanted tears threatened. “They had no right to set this up.”
Brooks sniffed and touched beneath his nose. “I don’t mind turning around.”
The apathetic look he gave her, the same look she’d seen on television when the reporters had begged for an interview, hit a nerve inside of her. His apathy was clearly his defense mechanism. Ana knew all about his wife’s death; Callie had been stalking him by then. She knew way more then she wanted to about Brooks Stone. It didn’t help that he was even more handsome in person: his messy, gelled hair; his clichéd piercingly blue eyes ... a flutter filled her stomach, and she pushed it neatly aside. “That’s fine with me.”
But before Ana could say another word, Callie rushed down the hall. A Santa cap bounced on her bald little head and her grin so wide it could be mistaken for the Grand Canyon.
Callie rushed to Brooks’ side. “God told me you would come.”
Chapter 4
Brooks blinked and cleared his throat, the pain in his nose instantly forgotten. He tried to put on what Sam had called “owner behavior” and gave her what he knew was a rubbery smile. God told her? What had he gotten himself into? “H-hey there.” He put out his hand.
The little girl’s grin widened. Then she put her hand to her mouth and giggled. “You’re huge!”
The girl’s mother put on a stilted grin. “Look who Mr. Dumont brought for a visit.”
A blonde woman followed the mother out of the room. Brooks recognized Tiffany Chance, Sam Dumont’s fiancée. She didn’t look all rock-star the way she looked on television; her hair was pulled back, and she had on jeans and a turtleneck. Her forehead creased as she looked at Sam.
The girl ignored her mother and Sam, taking a step toward Brooks and putting her hand into his. “I’m Callie.”
For a second, feeling her soft hand inside of his, Brooks melted. Completely. But only for a second. He brought their hands up and down and then released hers. “Nice to meet you, Callie.”
She grinned even wider. “You know my dad. He told me he was your roommate in the ninth grade.”
Confusion pulsed through him. “What?”
The mother took a step next to them. “Callie, why don’t you go back to your room and get ready for bed?”
“No! Brooks Stone is here.” She gestured to Brooks in a Vanna White type of way, as if her mother didn’t realize it.
Ninth grade. Ninth grade. Ninth grade? Trying to recall where he’d been that year, he suddenly snapped his fingers. “Santa Monica. Ken Given.”
The little girl beamed. “Yes, that’s my father.”
Unexpectedly, his heart was in his throat. Disbelief seared into him. “Ken?” He’d been nice enough. They’d surfed together, gone to the skate park a few times.
The little girl blinked, and tears moistened her eyes. “See, Mama. Daddy wasn’t lying. I told you. I told you!”
“Shh.” Her mother put her arm gently on her daughter’s shoulders and nodded. “I know he wasn’t lying about that, baby.”
“But you said he was a liar. And he’s not.” Her voice was shaky.
Ana’s face had turned red, and she pinched the bridge of her nose, sucking in a long breath. “Callie, let’s get back in the room, okay?”
Callie didn’t budge, pushing her mother’s arm off her shoulders—shoulders that poked out of the hospital gown like wire coat hangers. She stared up at Brooks. “How is your ankle doing?”
Completely taken off guard, he frowned. “It’s fine. Thank you.” He held her gaze. She had pale green eyes with flecks of yellow, eyes that looked huge because of her sunken cheeks and the bruise-colored rim around them. Her body was fighting hard. For a brief second, he felt bad for her; she was nine and fighting for her life.
Callie gave him a stern look. “I know you want to play in the game coming up, but you have to be careful with high ankle sprains.”
Confused, he looked at Sam and then back to the little girl, wondering how she’d repeated, verbatim, what Sam had just said to him. “I promise it’s all good.”
She smiled at him, and this time he noticed a dimple in her right cheek. Sticking out her chin, she turned to her mother. “See, Mama? He came. I told you.”
Her mother, having recovered from her anger, gave a nod. “You were right, Callie.” She cleared her throat and turned to Brooks, putting out her hand. “I’m Ana.”
He could tell Ana was still upset, albeit resigned. The flush of her cheeks hadn’t diminished. Gingerly, he took her hand, feeling the tension it carried. Clearly, she was tired, too, a different tired from her daughter. When was the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep? “Nice to meet you, Ana.” While her hand was in his, something warm in the center of his chest expanded.
Quickly, she pulled free of his hold.
“Great,” Sam said, clapping his hands together.
Tiffany caught Brooks’s attention. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah.” He shook her hand and nodded.
Sam touched Callie’s shoulder. “How are you doing, Callie?”
Callie turned to Sam. “My wish said I wanted to have dinner with him. Is he coming back tomorrow for dinner?”
Sam appeared a bit flustered. Brooks turned to Ana, knowing this was supposed to be her call.
Ana cleared her throat. “Callie, you got to meet him. That’s what they promised. I assume Mr. Stone is busy and probably has to rush back to Florida tonight with Mr. Dumont. They have practice this week.”
Brooks could only imagine how protective this mother could be. She didn’t know him, didn’t know if he was some wacko. Heck, if he had a daughter, he would be very careful about the people she met. But Sam had promised he could play in the Christmas game if he had dinner with the girl. “I’ve been released from practice for a few days, so I’d be happy to take her to dinner.”
Callie eagerly grinned up at him. “Where are you going to take me?”
“Where do you want to go?” To his surprise, he realized he actually wanted to do this.
“She can’t,” her mother interrupted. “Her immune system is too compromised.”
Tears welled up in Callie’s eyes. “That’s not true.”
Tiffany put a hand on Ana’s shoulder. “We could have a room prepared and dinner brought in.”
“No.” Callie stomped her foot. “You promised, Mama, that if my count went up, I could go out if he came. My count is up.”
Conflicting emotions swept across Ana’s face.
Callie took her mother’s hand. “Mama,” she chastised. “I can get special permission. Brooks Stone is here. Doctor Baker will give me special permission. I know he will. You promised.”
