by Mary
“No offense,” I say lightly, “but I’m not sure I could say the same.”
It’s not that I don’t like my doctor. She’s the best cardiologist in the city. But after she hit me with my initial diagnosis, I was angry. And she was the only one I could take it out on.
Luckily, she didn’t hold it against me. Even when I phased from denial to anger and then straight back into denial.
She smiles and meets my eyes. “I know it’s not an easy thing to deal with. No one wants to make these kinds of decisions, but I’m glad you’re here. And I’m here to help you find the best possible solution.”
I nod.
She taps on the tablet in her hands. “You had a 2-D echo the last time I saw you and we discussed surgical options. Are you wanting to talk about treatment?”
“Yeah . . . and I’m out of beta-blockers.”
“They’ve been helping the dizziness and palpitations during activity?”
I nod. “They were. I haven’t been exercising with the same level of exertion since the season is over. But I’ve been taking them anyway. I still do some exercise. Just not as intense. But I’ll have to go back to work next week.”
Organized team activities—or OTAs—and minicamps. Voluntary, but I signed up to help.
She puts her tablet down on her lap. “I know we’ve discussed this previously, but I still recommend a complete halt to all strenuous activities.”
I remain silent.
She sighs and picks up her tablet again. “Are you still having the same side effects we noted before?”
I swallow. “Yes.” The beta-blockers have a side effect. In addition to easing my chest pains and shortness of breath, they cause impotence. Only an idiot would be angry about not being able to have sex when death is on the line, but it is one more thing to add to the numbing dissonance of my life.
Also, I’m pretty sure I’m at least a little bit of an idiot.
“Okay. Can we talk about the surgical procedure?”
“If I have the surgery, will I be able to play after? Can you give me a bill of health for the team?”
She takes in a slow breath and I know I won’t like her answer. “I can’t guarantee anything. The risks are relatively low, one to two percent risk of death and three to five percent risk of further damage to the aortic valve. But there are major risks with every surgical procedure. As far as playing after . . . I don’t know. We’ll have to assess that once the surgery is completed.”
My head is shaking as she talks. “I can’t risk my career.”
“We could at least implant the defibrillator. The recovery is less significant and it would likely prevent the sudden death associated with your condition.”
Sudden death. Once again I’m reminded of the potential fallout but my mind shies away from delving too deeply into the thought.
We’ve discussed the defibrillator before. It’s like an implanted resuscitator. If my heart stops, it delivers a jolt to restart it. They implant it under the skin.
“I don’t know.” I run a hand through my hair. “Everyone would be able to see it.” There would be too many questions from teammates in the locker room. What would the coaches think? They would think I’m a liability. It could ruin my career. No one knows about this except the person in the room with me right now.
“The best chance of returning to play is the myomectomy surgery,” she says gently. “But I strongly recommend you at least get the defibrillator if you’re planning on returning to work.”
I nod, my heart thumping dully in my chest. Blasted organ. “Before we do that, can I get another test? Just in case the echo wasn’t entirely accurate. Something more detailed might show more. You said sometimes athlete’s heart can emulate the condition.”
“That’s true, but with your family history and the thickness of your septum . . .” She trails off, watching my probably bleak expression before nodding her assent. “I can order an MRI for you.”
I shift in the hard seat. “Thank you.”
“I’ll give you a prescription for two weeks,” Dr. Richards says. “We should be able to have the test scheduled by then. Have you thought about talking to someone else about all this?”
“Like who?”
“Family. A friend. Maybe a therapist or the team physician?”
No. I signed a release form at the end of the season stating I was healthy.
Lies.
“I’ll think about it.”
~*~
I make it through the pharmacy without being recognized. Then I drive to Midtown to get to Dad’s office, keeping my sunglasses on and hat pulled low the entire time.
My life for the last three months has been like this—like living with dark shades on. Everything is tinged in grey. Food tastes bland. My thoughts are muddled. I don’t sleep well.
With the exception of the other night.
I stumbled home late, so tired I fell into bed without even realizing there was someone else there. I should have turned on the light when I got home. But I was exhausted. Another lovely side effect from the beta-blockers.
And then I slept better than I had in months.
Maybe it was the result of having a warm body snuggled against me. I had nearly forgotten the world-altering miracle of a good night’s sleep.
She smelled like wildflowers and mint. Tart and sweet.
I didn’t even realize she was there until the sun was rising and I was curved around her like a spoon, all soft skin and sweet smelling, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Her blonde hair curled out of control and I could only see the curve of her cheek and a full lower lip. If I could get an erection, it would have happened then. The bitch of it is, my libido is as strong as it ever was . . . I just can’t do anything about it.
She must be Bethany, Gwen’s friend who’s supposed to be living in her apartment. Why was she there? Marc said she’s working for Dad.
Maybe I’ll see her today.
I pull off the sunglasses for a brief moment just to get past security, waving at Stan before shoving them back over my eyes and getting on the elevator crammed with businesspeople tapping or talking on their phones.
On the top floor, halfway down the hall, my steps slow.
I yank off my shades so I can see her in full color.
She’s here.
Standing in the door to Dad’s office, her back to me.
I recognize the curly hair. Even though there’s been an attempt to tame it back into a bun, a few strands escape the abuse and curl at the nape of her neck and around her ears. My eyes slide down to her petite yet curvy figure. A dark grey collared blouse shows off her trim waist and a black skirt hugs her thighs to her knees.
She’s lot more put together than she was when she scrambled out of my bed yesterday. Interest flares low in my belly, just like it did yesterday morning.
Frustration flickers through me.
The fact that she bolted like she was on fire did nothing for my insecurities.
I know I’m not ugly. I’m an attractive guy by all accounts. It’s not like women don’t want me. A lot of women want me; they’re just always the wrong women.
Her words get louder as I approach and I almost don’t believe what I’m hearing.
“You can’t go anywhere right now.” Her voice is firm, full of authority. “I rescheduled these interviews per your request. The agency is going to pitch a fit. You can’t bail on me now.”
No one talks back to Dad.
“Who’s the boss here again?” he bellows from inside his office, using the same tone from when we were kids, the one that sends children crying and grown adults running for cover.
But she doesn’t run. Instead, she straightens, chin lifting. “Someone who refuses to take his job seriously.”
I stop a few feet behind her, entranced.
“You’re fired,” he says.
“Ha! You can’t get rid of me for anoth
er three weeks!”
“We didn’t shake on that deal.”
“Oral agreements are binding in the state of New York.” She crosses her arms over her chest and smirks.
“Did you say oral?”
She laughs and then groans, slapping a hand to her head. “You are the most frustrating man in the whole world.”
He’s quiet in his office for a few seconds and then his voice is softer. “I told you I have dinner plans with my son.”
“I’m the one that made your reservations. For five. It’s three.”
There’s more silence. I can’t see his face from here, but something makes Bethany crack.
She grunts. “Fine. I’ll let you leave if you can take an extra interview tomorrow.”
There’s muttered grumbling from beyond the wall.
I move closer until I’m standing behind her, a few feet from the desk situated outside of Dad’s office.
“And another thing, you have to bring me one of those chocolate cakes from that new dessert restaurant everyone’s talking about—Decadence or whatever.” She pauses, watching him. “And you can’t leave until you’ve reviewed the marketing analysis I emailed you this morning.”
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“Don’t act like you don’t like it.” She turns around and runs right into me.
I saw her coming. I could have moved, but I didn’t want to.
I grasp her shoulders when she stumbles. “Sorry.”
She looks even better from the front, her button-up top exposing an enticing peek of cleavage and the stumble revealing a glimpse of a bright red, lacy bra.
I glance back at her face quickly to avoid getting caught staring.
Her eyes are on my chest. They flick down, then back up to my face. Her cheeks flush pink. Her mouth pops open, then shuts again.
Stifling a laugh, I release her shoulders. She was totally checking me out.
I grin.
So the whole running away thing wasn’t because I’m disgusting or have a sign on my head that reads Fear ye all who enter here. It’s nice to know I still have it, even if I can’t do anything about it.
I call out over her head. “Hey, Dad.”
“Brent, give me just a minute. A beautiful woman is making demands I can’t refuse.”
“No problem. I’ll wait out here. Bethany, right?”
She hasn’t moved. Her mouth is ajar. She clicks it shut and straightens, lifting her chin.
Her smile is small. Polite. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.” She sticks out her hand for me to shake, like we weren’t wrapped up around each other less than forty-eight hours ago.
I grasp her fingers. Her grip is small but firm and she releases my hand quickly.
So that’s how it’s gonna be.
She moves over to her desk, sitting primly in the chair, focusing on her computer.
I sit in the guest chair just outside Dad’s door, facing her.
She’s clicking away at a breakneck pace, completely absorbed in whatever she’s working on.
I clear my throat and she turns more of her back in my direction. Is she trying to ignore me?
“I have to say I’m impressed.”
“Hmmm?” She flicks me a glance and keeps typing.
“My father doesn’t listen to many people. He likes you.”
She snorts. “You call that liking someone? He’s a menace.”
“You’re still here, so that’s something.”
“Only by sheer force of will.”
I laugh. The sound is rusty. I don’t think I’ve laughed out loud in months.
The smile she tosses me is cheeky.
She’s interesting. And attractive. And a complication I don’t need.
“Do you want some water or something while you’re waiting?” She shuffles some papers on the desk.
“Actually, yeah.” Her words remind me . . . I need to take the pills I just picked up. I wave her off when she starts to stand. “I can grab a bottle from Marc’s mini fridge. Is that where you guys still keep those things?”
“Yep. Still trying to find someone to take over who will put up with the giant baby in there.” She jerks a thumb toward Dad’s office.
“I heard that,” Dad calls.
“Good,” she yells back.
Chuckling I head down the hall to Marc’s old office.
If I didn’t know better, I would think he never left. There are still files scattered around and a few pictures on the corner of the desk. I pick up a paperweight with a capital letter F attached to a mini bomb. I bought it for Marc a few years ago, for when Dad made him want to drop the F bomb.
Even with the clutter, it feels empty. Abandoned.
I miss my brother. He was always there, cheering me on, helping me when I faltered, and listening when I needed it.
I grab a water bottle and swallow the meds, the pills going down harshly despite the cold water. I put the drink down and pick up an old family picture resting on the corner of the desk. Dad and Mom are sitting with us kids on their laps. Marc’s with Dad, no more than three or four, and Mom’s holding me. I was just a baby. Mom’s laughing, and even Dad is smiling.
Memories of Mom have faded with time. I was only ten when she died. Marc is always talking about her distinctive laugh, but I can’t remember what she sounded like. I only remember her scent, like lemons and sugar. She loved to bake.
After she died, Dad withdrew into his work and Marc was the one who was always there for me. Always at my games, always making sure I had everything I needed to succeed. Now he’s out in the world, enjoying it. The thought makes me happy and a bit nostalgic. Now it’s my turn to take care of Dad and the company. I’ve always relied on Marc. Now I need to be someone other people can rely on.
The task is a weight pressing me down. I can barely face my own problems. How can I help anyone else?
My gaze is drawn to Dad in the photo, smiling and happy. I haven’t seen that smile since before Mom passed. Maybe I should tell him about my medical issues. Maybe it will snap him out of work mode—make him realize there’s more to life than business deals and photo ops.
“Hey, sport. You ready?”
“Yeah. I’m ready.” I put the picture back and follow Dad out of the office.
As we’re heading down to where the car will pick us up, we pass a bunch of people heading in the opposite direction.
“They’re all waiting to bug Beth until I leave. Bunch of sissies, all of them.” Dad waves a hand, not bothering to lower his voice as a thin, pale guy in glasses darts by, his eyes averted.
For so long, Marc was the buffer between Dad and the rest of the staff. It appears Bethany has slipped into the same role.
“So things are going well then? With Bethany.”
He waves a hand. “She’s fine.”
Fine. Quite the compliment, coming from him. Nothing about her tits or physical appearance. Maybe he’s growing.
Or maybe it’s just her.
Chapter Three
Did Satan change diapers? What kind of father was he?
–Georgia Hardstark
My Favorite Murder episode 73
Brent
The restaurant perfectly matches Dad. Upscale. Lots of men in business suits. The walls are all dark wood paneling and there’s some kind of esoteric structure behind the bar that changes colors periodically. Throw in the expensive bourbon and it’s everything Dad loves in one convenient location. The name is even appropriate. Gilt. The definition of opulence.
Or, add a u and you’ve got the feeling every parent inscribes into their children from birth.
All I can think when I look around is pretentious bullshit. The only women present are arm-candy blondes.
I never wanted to be part of this world. I left all this to Marc. I just want to play football. My place is on the field, not in the boardroom.
And now my place is nowhere.
/>
“Have a scotch with me.” Dad slaps me on the back as I slide into the bar where we’re going to wait until our reservation time.
“I can’t. Training.”
“Ah. You’ve got great willpower, Son. You’re a credit to your team. They’re lucky to have you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He’s smiling and happy. Again I consider telling him everything. It would be nice to have someone to talk to.
“Now tell me.” He nudges me with an elbow. “You getting a lot of tail in the off season? It’s a good thing you got rid of that Bella girl. It’s no good having to deal with a ball and chain when you’re a single, good-looking guy, amiright?”
Aaand he’s back. “I didn’t get rid of Bella, she broke up with me.”
He blinks at me as if he can’t possibly comprehend why I would admit to something so enfeebling and then waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever.” He turns the subject to a few business partners he wants me to meet, some people who are investing in the new expansion project he’s been working on for the past year.
“Marc told me all about it,” I say. Marc did the majority of the work on the project. Before he quit.
“Right. Well, it’s a good thing I have a real man now to help me front the company. Let me tell you my plans.”
And off he goes, and everything is “I” and “me” and what he’s been working on. No mention of Marc. He doesn’t even say his name.
It’s a defense mechanism. It has to be.
It’s clear to me it bothers him, how Marc left. The fact that he won’t even say Marc’s name proves as much. But the old man will never admit to being upset, or to something as “feminine” as missing one of his own children.
It’s the Crawford way. Deny, deny, deny. Don’t let them see you go soft.
When I was a kid, it was always, “shake it off,” and “use your emotions on the field.”
Like it’s never okay to express any feeling other than anger or aggression.
~*~
“Jim, come meet my son,” Dad calls out across the bar. We halt our way to our table as Dad’s acquaintance makes his way over.
