That Boy (That Boy Series Book 1)

by Jillian Dodd

  I hate to admit it, but I may very well be coming down with something.

  It’s a Tuesday night and instead of being at the bar with Phillip and some friends, I’m in the library doing research for a paper that is due in two weeks. I’m actually trying to get a head start on it, which is something I never do. I tend to wait until the last minute.

  I have always said that I do my best work under pressure.

  And, really, I do.

  The teacher for this class is adamant about us using the library and not just the Internet for our research. We have to have five sources that came from the library, so I’m trying to get the five stupid sources out of the way, and then I can use the Internet to do the bulk of the research.

  But I’m starting to feel really bad. Actually, I haven’t felt great for a couple of weeks, but I’ve been doing my best to ignore it.

  Maybe I’m allergic to the library. I wonder if that could get me out of this stupid paper.

  Probably not.

  I give up on the resources and go home to an empty house. I take off my clothes, put on a pair of really warm sweat pants, and then raid Danny’s room for an old practice jersey. I love those shirts because they are big and soft and silky. The shirt is huge on me, but feels great. I ease myself into bed and snuggle under my covers in an attempt to get warmed up.

  I dozed off for a little while, and when I wake up, I feel even worse.

  I am definitely sick.

  I wish Mom was here. She always spoiled me when I was sick.

  I really miss her and Dad.

  Then I think of the next best thing and call Phillip’s cell.

  He answers with a cheerful, “Hey.”

  There’s a lot of laughing and noise in the background. It sounds like they’re already having a great time.

  I hate missing a great time.

  “Phillip,” I whine, “when are you coming home?”

  “Not for a while. Are you done at the library? You gonna come join us? You know we’re all at Kegger’s, right?”

  “Oh,” I say quietly.

  “What’s wrong?” He reads my voice and knows since I didn’t say, I’ll be right there, something must be wrong.

  “Nothing, Phillip, I just don’t feel very good.” I sorta start to cry. “Um, well, I feel really bad and I’m all alone,” I sniffle.

  “I’ll be right there.” I hear him tell everyone, I gotta go, before he shuts his phone.

  I’m really lucky to have Phillip, I think, as I fall back to sleep.

  I feel a hand on my forehead and wake to find Phillip at my side.

  “My God, Princess, you’re burning up! Have you taken your temperature?”

  I shake my head no and close my eyes. My eyelids burn.

  Phillip runs in the bathroom and grabs a thermometer. Then he sits on my bed and says, “Here, open your mouth.”

  I do, putting the thermometer under my tongue, while Phillip uncovers me.

  My whole body is shaking. I really have the chills.

  The thermometer beeps and Phillip reads it.

  “Gee-zuz, it’s 105. I’m taking you to the hospital!”

  He scoops me up out of bed, carries me to the car, and gets me to the hospital.

  At the hospital, I’m given some medicine to help bring the fever down.

  The doctor is concerned that I might have meningitis, because my neck hurts so badly.

  A nurse took some blood and swabbed both my nose and my throat. I am hoping the tests show something, because I really do not want a needle stuck into my spine! I’ve been admitted to the hospital and am in a room by myself. I’m feeling a bit better because my fever is down to 102 degrees. At least it doesn’t hurt to blink anymore.

  My doctor, Dr. Daniels, steps in and tells me to start thinking of whom I may have had close contact with recently.

  He hands Phillip a little hospital notepad.

  “How close of contact?” I ask him.

  “Physical contact,” he says simply, as he reads my chart.

  Maybe I’m delirious from the fever, but it seems like he’s making this difficult.

  So I ask for more clarification. “Like just being around them or actual physical contact?”

  He stops reading my chart, looks at me like I’m blonde, and says, “Physical contact. Like kissing.”

  “We may need more paper for that, Doc,” Phillip, the comedian in the corner, says.

  “Shut up, Phillip.” I glare at him.

  But he continues, “Just bring in the student directory. We can use a highlighter, might go faster.”

  I try to ignore Phillip and ask the doctor another question.

  “How far back does this contact have to go?

  “Oh, just a couple of weeks,” the doctor says.

  “Why?”

  “Well, meningitis can be very contagious and dangerous. It can spread quickly at colleges, but we can treat anyone you’ve been in contact with if we need to. We’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with when your tests come back.”

  “What about Phillip?” I nod toward the comedian.

  “I doubt a kiss on the forehead counts,” Phillip says with his bratty voice.

  “Are you two related?” the doctor smiles and asks Phillip.

  “No, we’re roommates,” I say, before Phillip has a chance to make another smart-ass remark.

  “You’re right,” the doctor tells him. “A kiss on the forehead should be safe. How are you feeling? Any symptoms?”

  “Well my back is pretty sore from carrying this lug in here,” Phillip responds, nodding at me.

  “Shut. Up. Phillip.” He is so embarrassing me.

  The doctor’s beeper goes off. He frowns at it and says, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  I’m thinking about who I kissed last week, when a memory comes rushing into my head. I put my hand up to my mouth and say, “Oh God, Phillip. Where’s Danny? Have you seen him today? Is he feeling okay?”

  Phillip looks at me, stunned. He’s wondering why I would be worried about Danny, but then he puts two and two together and asks incredulously, “Danny? You kissed Danny?”

  I smile half a smile and shake my head.

  “On the lips?”

  Hey, I’m sick here. Stop asking me so many questions.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “When?” He gives me a stern look. “And more importantly, why?”

  Okay, so I appreciate the fact that he was concerned about me, left the bar and brought me here, but I don’t think this is any of his business and tell him so.

  “None of your business, Phillip.”

  He looks unhappy with me. Maybe I’ll just mess with Mr. Nosy a little.

  So I sigh, like I’m ready to spill my guts.

  “Fine. It was a few days ago and it was nothing, really. Just Danny, being Danny.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, he just walked in the door and kissed me. You know Danny. He doesn’t have to have a reason. He just does stuff.”

  Phillip is sitting in the corner with his mouth open. The look on his face cracks me up, but I try not to smile.

  It’s good to know that I can be very sick and still have a sense of humor.

  After his constant slamming of me in front of the doctor, well, he deserves this.

  “It’s not that big of a deal, Phillip, we just kissed some and, well,” I say with a shrug, “one thing led to another, and we spent the afternoon in bed.”

  Don’t I wish.

  Kinda.

  Really, I’m not sure why Danny and I never have slept together. We have definitely hooked up on occasion, but it’s never gone that far. And Danny hasn’t kissed me in front of Phillip since Prom night. Our relationship, from a kissing standpoint, is kinda weird, if I think about it. I guess the whole It will ruin us thing sits in the back of both of our minds. But we have a little tradition of making out when he’s depressed, or had a bad game, or is hurt or something. I th
ink I’m comforting to him. He always tells me that he can’t deal with other girls after a loss, so we meet in our booth at the back of the bar, or at a party or somewhere, get drunk, and make out. Then we come back home and act like it never happened.

  Danny is a typical superstitious athlete. He’ll wear the same socks if he gets on a winning streak, and he’s never had two losses in a row if we kiss after a loss. So, I hate to admit it, but sometimes I am not as upset as I should be when the Huskers lose, cuz I know Danny and I will have fun that night. Maybe that’s it. We both know that it’s just for fun. I always tease him and tell him he needs to marry a girl just like Phillip, someone calm, organized, and responsible. Of course, that’s when he tells me, You need to marry Phillip.

  And if I am really being truthful, I sometimes wish Phillip would kiss me.

  I mean, how many guys would ditch the girl they are dating to come home and take care of you?

  But that is a whole other topic.

  I glance at Phillip, whose eyes have gotten even bigger. I didn’t think it was possible, but they do.

  He is sooo jealous. It’s hilarious, and I can’t help it. I feel a wicked pleasure in that.

  “Don’t look so freaked out. Neither one of us is dating anyone seriously, and you know, there’s always been this attraction . . . ”

  My story is interrupted by the doctor walking back in the room. He picks my chart up and continues reading it.

  I have to tell you, the look on Phillip’s face is totally priceless. I really wish I had a camera.

  I bite my lip and try to suppress a smile.

  Phillip sees my smirk. “You’re shitting me, aren’t you?”

  Then he gives me that glare. The glare that always makes me spill my guts, whether I want to or not.

  Normally, I try to fight it, to no avail, but I don’t even try today.

  I am much too weak.

  “Yeah, I am.” I smile at him.

  “So are you going to tell me what really happened?”

  “Yeah, sure. It really is no big deal. He came home the other day when I was getting ready for my sorority meeting. I was vacuuming the living room because some of the girls were coming over afterwards, and you guys left chip crumbs all over the floor. Danny laughed at me and said I looked like a 50’s sitcom, vacuuming in a dress and high heels. He walked out the door, then swung the door back open, and said, Lucy! I’m home! Then he walked over, grabbed me around the waist, dipped me, and kissed me. Like Ricky used to do on those old I Love Lucy reruns. He was just being goofy.”

  And, um, confession time.

  It wasn’t just a kiss.

  He did do the whole Lucy thing, but while I was still leaned back, he asked me if Phillip was home.

  I shook my head no.

  Then he picked me up, carried me to the couch, lay on top of me, and kissed me intensely. It was totally unexpected and so hot.

  I really thought we might cross the line this time. But about the time things were heading that direction, and just after Danny had whispered, I think it’s about time we, you know, and then, Your place or mine, as in who’s bedroom are we going to do this in, we heard Phillip’s car door slam. We both said, Shit, bolted up off the couch, and ran to our own bedrooms before Phillip bounded in the door.

  And, poof, the mood vanished.

  The doctor was listening to my story, and he’s been standing there very still. He eyes the number 12 football jersey I’m wearing and cries out, “Are you talking about Danny Diamond?”

  “Yeah,” Phillip and I say at the same time.

  “But the Oklahoma game is this weekend. He can’t be sick!”

  Obviously, this man bleeds Husker red, like most everyone in the state.

  “Get him here!” he orders.

  Phillip calls Danny on his cell and tells him to come to the hospital. As he is talking to Danny, the doctor says, “Tell him to come to this room, like a visitor. We certainly don’t want the media to get wind of this.”

  Actually, he is right about that.

  Danny finally shows up at the hospital about an hour later, with flowers for me.

  He’s so sweet!

  By this time, my tests have come back, and it’s been determined that I do not have meningitis.

  Thank God!

  Instead, I have a severe case of strep throat, and evidently strep throat can be very dangerous and have serious complications if not treated.

  As in, you can get rheumatic fever and go into heart failure.

  Something I did not know and really wish I hadn’t discovered.

  I’m dehydrated and weak, so they hook me up to an IV and give me two shots of antibiotics.

  One in each butt cheek.

  Um, not cool.

  I’m still trying to figure out why they didn’t just put the antibiotics in my IV. I’m pretty sure it was the doctor’s way of paying me back for possibly getting Danny Diamond sick.

  “Danny, I’m Dr. Daniels. I’ve been taking care of your friend, Jadyn, here,” the doctor says, shaking Danny’s hand.

  Phillip and I glance at each other and roll our eyes.

  The man is a doctor and he’s kissing up to Danny. That tells you how important football is in the Cornhusker state. Phillip and I are used to it now. We just try to fade into the background. Sometimes I don’t know how Danny does it. How he manages to be so nice to people who just come up to him, even if he’s, like, right in the middle of dinner or a date or something.

  He takes it all so well, though. Luckily, he has the kind of personality where no one is a stranger. He’ll shake old guys’ and little kids’ hands all day long. He tells us being a Husker quarterback is a privilege, and he needs to act like a role model and honor the legacy of all the great Husker players in history, or some bullshit like that.

  Actually, though, he really believes it.

  I’m really very proud of the way he handles himself. He always speaks clearly and intelligently to the media, and they seem to love him. Of course, it helps that the team is winning and Danny is playing well. And he has a standard line he uses when the media asks him what he wants out of his football career: I just want to bring the National Championship trophy back home to Nebraska.

  They eat that kind of crap up. Of course, that really is what he wants.

  The media is tricky though. Over the years, we’ve seen them be totally ruthless to very talented quarterbacks who, frankly, just didn’t have the right team combination to win.

  So, Danny is smart enough to know that as far as the media is concerned, you’re only as good as your last game.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the doctor asking Danny for an autograph. For his kid.

  Sure it is.

  Danny looks at me wearing his shirt. “Hey, Jay, give me your shirt. I’ll sign that.”

  Excuse me, but I’m wearing it!

  After much ado and embarrassment, I’m now in a stupid hospital gown and the doctor is proudly holding a Danny Diamond autographed shirt.

  I hope it has strep throat germs all over it!

  Danny, as usual, is getting all the attention.

  The team doctor shows up at the hospital. My doctor had called him. Even though Danny says he feels fine, they decide to do a strep test on him.

  “We can’t risk him getting sick this week.”

  Hello? I’m the sick one here. Do we really need to be worried about Danny? He looks just fine.

  And I do mean fine.

  I don’t know where he was, but damn.

  He’s wearing an aqua blue T-shirt that is just the right side of tight and that makes his eyes a blazing blue.

  And I must be feeling better, because I didn’t really notice that before.

  Just my luck, he tests positive for strep and ends up in the bed next to me.

  Phillip smirks at the two of us. “How adorable. Matching antibiotics, IVs, and hospital gowns.”

  “Shut up, Phillip,” Danny tells him.

  Thank you!

 
; Danny looks over and grins at me. “Well, I guess that’ll teach me to kiss you.”

  Phillip, the comedian again, slams us both by saying, “I would’ve thought you’d learned that lesson by now.”

  But don’t worry, all you Nebraska fans out there. Danny was in tiptop shape for the game on Saturday.

  I still didn’t feel that great, so Phillip stayed home with me and watched the game on TV.

  Thank God we won, 17-6, otherwise I would have the whole state mad at me, instead of just Phillip.

  But since I live with him, it’s almost as bad.

  Actually he isn’t really mad at me. He’s just pretending.

  He can never stay mad at me.

  One day in early April, Danny surprises Phillip and me by asking us to help him pick out an engagement ring for Lori. We go to the jewelry store where he shows us the stone he’s already picked out. It’s a lovely two carat marquise cut diamond. Danny is stumped on what to do for the setting. He’s bound and determined to present her with a ring, not just a diamond, so we shop around and talk to the salesman.

  None of the settings seem right to me, so I get frustrated and draw what I think the setting should look like on a piece of paper.

  It’s a platinum band, that’s not too wide, with three baguettes coming out from each side of the solitaire, like a shooting star.

  “I love that,” Danny says. “Do you have something like this?” He shows my drawing to the sales guy.

  “No,” says the eager-to-please salesman, “but we can make it.”

  While we are waiting, for what seems like forever for him to write it up, Danny turns to me and says, “So what’s your idea of a perfect ring, Jay?”

  I nearly say I’ve never really given it any thought, but I’m bored and, well, what girl hasn’t given it at least the teensiest of thought? So I draw up my perfection. A two carat emerald cut diamond in a platinum setting. From each corner of the solitaire are baguette diamonds that form an X on each side before intertwining and becoming one at the back.

  Incredible, if I do say so myself!

  “Wow. That’s cool too. Danny studies it intently. “You know, it looks like you.”

  I smile.

  This from a guy who never gave a diamond a second thought unless it had something to do with baseball. Now he thinks he’s an expert.