End Game (Bad Boy Football Romance) (Cocky Bastards & Motorcycles Book 6)

by Faye, Amy

  No, it's the smell. The strong scent of iodine that permeates the entire building, sucking up every bit of air in the entire place.

  Emma takes a breath, trying against hope to find some way that she can get control of herself. Then that sickly iodine smell fills her nostrils, fills her lungs, and she's on edge again in spite of herself.

  Another breath. Emma tries to ignore the smell. She breaths in through her mouth. Someone outside is talking. Laughing, even. It shouldn't surprise her when the laughing, talking voices come into the room.

  Craig stiffens nervously, and that's the first and worst sign that Emma has that maybe things aren't going to end all that well for either of them.

  "Who's this," says the smallest of the three. They're all carved out of marble, just like Craig is. They vary in heights, though, from only six inches taller than her, to only an inch or so shorter than their brother.

  And he certainly is these ladies' brother; they all look like they were cut from the same cloth, without a single doubt.

  The only thing that tells Emma that it's not intended as a slight is the wry smile on her face.

  "Amanda, this is Emma. She's a friend from school."

  "A friend, huh?"

  Emma wants to open her mouth and be polite, but she doesn't. Her mouth doesn't seem to be listening to her.

  "Yes," Craig confirms. "Emma, these are my sisters. Amanda, Allison, and Arianna."

  Emma takes their hands one by one. They've got soft hands. Amanda, at least, is married. Going by the ring, anyways, which is usually a safe bet, but these days… Emma corrects herself. You can never be sure. But it's as good a guess as any, based on nothing.

  The tension is unbearable. The ladies step back inside the rest of the way, settling into their chairs. The room is too crowded, now. Too many people. Most of them crowd around the bed, though Mrs. Weston isn't waking up.

  The tension doesn't seem to just be in Emma's imagination, though. Nobody speaks. The laughter from the halls has died down, and now everyone's feeling very serious.

  It was no different when it was her own mother, though things were a little bit different with Emma's mom. Eight in ten, those are good odds.

  Knowing Craig, no doubt his mother is a very strong woman. She'll fight through it, no problem. There's nothing to be worried about, nothing at all. Everyone needs to tell themselves that, or it's all over before it has even really begun.

  It's a little bit different with car accidents. You either make them out, or you don't. In her mother's case, she made it just about far enough to have a slow, painful couple of days in the hospital. At least they had time to say goodbye.

  This isn't going to be like that. Thankfully for everyone, they might have more to be able to look forward to with their mom than a last good-night kiss. The memory turns Emma's stomach over.

  That iodine smell permeating the whole place makes her want to step outside. Even if it's only for a minute, any time she could have just getting her head clear would be a godsend.

  She forces herself to stay. There's nothing for her outside, and Craig needs her here. If she leaves, she's just going to be letting him down, more than anything. So she's got to stay, regardless of what she might ultimately want. And that's fine, except for the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Deep breaths now. Nothing is going to happen. Everything is fine. Right?

  Emma can't see the bed through the ring of people, but she knows the second that Mrs. Weston wakes up, because everyone reacts. Everyone, that is, except for Craig and his father. Their reactions are muted. Like they've turned them off.

  "Craig. You made it."

  "Hey, Mom."

  "You didn't have to come all this way."

  "It's no trouble at all," he says. His voice is soft. As soft as Emma's ever heard it.

  "You should be studying, you know."

  "I brought a tutor, don't worry." He almost laughs. Emma can hear it in his voice. But then the laughter gets caught in his chest, and it never quite makes it all the way out.

  "They got me on this stuff. I don't remember the name." A pause for a moment. "Yuck. So I'm sleeping, I dunno. Every hour or two, I take a nap. Still tired, and I just woke up."

  "Dad says you're gonna be fine, once they get you treated."

  "Yep, that's what the doctor tells me. Just fine. As long as they don't screw anything up, I'll be back at home in no time at all."

  "Good. I'm glad to hear that."

  What's Emma doing here, even? The thought bursts through the wall of faking her own self-confidence. There's nothing that she can do, not in this hospital room. But she's here because Craig wanted her to be, and that's why, regardless of her doubts, she's going to stay. She'll force herself to stay, if she has to.

  "Who's your friend back there?"

  Emma freezes. Shit. She was hoping not to be noticed the whole time. If she was lucky, she'd get away.

  "This is Emma, mom. She's just a friend from school. She was worried about you, so she came along."

  "Some kind of friend, eh? You should keep a tight leash on this one. Very thoughtful of her."

  Amanda, pressed into the corner, has another one of the wry smiles that she wore earlier when Craig claimed that they were only good friends.

  "She's quiet, though. Hasn't said a word."

  Emma tries not to take it badly, but it's not as easy as all that.

  "Hello, Mrs. Weston. I'm Craig's tutor. For history."

  "Just his tutor? I didn't know that tutors came all the way from California for people's mothers. Or are they doing things differently nowadays?"

  The tired smile on her face might have been wider if not for the medicine. Emma knows it, but somehow it doesn't make the smile look any wider. She looks tired and she looks upset.

  Emma tries to remember that it's because people who are that tired tend not to look excited about anything, so it's just a totally natural thing. It doesn't help very much.

  "I just heard that you were in the hospital. I could've used a friend with me, when my mom had her accident."

  "Well, that's very kind of you," Mrs. Weston says. She shoots her daughter a sharp look. "Amanda is just a very peculiar sort of friendly, you'll learn to understand it. With time, and an extreme sort of patience."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Weston." Emma, now thoroughly mortified, steps back to the wall. It's not about her, and it's not about her feelings.

  It's about Craig, and making sure that he's going to be alright. That's all it is, and there's nothing wrong with being nervous, but there's nothing to be nervous about.

  She tries to repeat it a few more times, just to make sure that she's got the message. She'll be fine. But even if she's made an irreparable ass of herself, first, she's probably never going to see these people again after this 'week or so.'

  Second, regardless of that, she doesn't need to worry about any of that in the first place, because it's about making sure that Craig's going to be alright.

  There's no way in which her feelings come into play in this situation. None at all. Which is good, because if they did, then she'd be freaking out right now.

  But they don't. So it's completely, totally fine, and there's nothing going wrong, and she's not going to throw up. No matter how much she wants to. Because everything is going to be completely fine, and…

  Emma makes a dash for the restroom in the hallway. Luckily, it's not far, because she only barely gets her head over the toilet before her stomach turns itself inside out.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Craig was ready to leave the place practically as soon as they got inside, and that feeling only got worse as the conversation wore on. He could see on Emma's face that she felt about the same.

  He stayed longer. Whether it was in spite of himself, or what it was, he didn't know, but he didn't leave room in his mind for questioning why he was there. Just forced himself to stay.

  When Emma sprinted off, it wasn't hard to imagine what was happening. If she'd b
een half as nervous as he suspected she was, it wasn't any sort of surprise.

  Still, Arianna pushes her chair back. "I'll go see if she's alright."

  She didn't wait for anyone to give her any confirmation, and nobody did She just went off and did it, which was probably the right decision in the first place.

  "Nice girl," Dad says. As if he's only just had the thought, or he just realized that she was there.

  "She's sweet," Craig agrees. He'd like nothing more than to leave.

  "You haven't eaten, have you?"

  "No."

  "Well, I'm going to grab something. Maybe now would be a good time. Let the girls do their talking. Go collect your girlfriend, and we'll go rustle something up."

  "She's not—"

  "Whatever you say, Craig."

  Craig pushes himself away from the bed. The bathrooms aren't far. At least there's no vomit all over the floor, which means she did better than the time that Craig got the flu right in the middle of testing season.

  He knocks on the door, and Arianna peeks her head out.

  "Everything alright in there?"

  "Yeah, we're all good. Just a minute, and she'll be back out."

  Craig nods. "Well, tell her we're going out with dad to grab something to eat."

  "With dad?" She looks back into the bathroom. "Are you sure?"

  "What do you want me to do, Arianna? You want me to tell him he can go fuck himself? No. Don't be an idiot."

  She takes a deep breath. "Okay, well. Give us a minute."

  The door closes there. Craig takes a drink of the metallic-tasting water from the drinking fountain by the bathrooms. The water is cold, though, and it wets his mouth alright.

  Dad's got a jacket on, which makes him look too professional compared to Craig, who's still wearing the clothes he threw on after practice.

  Deep breaths. They'll be out of the hospital in a minute, and then he'll be back in the rental car and there will be plenty of time to unwind. Deep breaths.

  The door opens and Emma walks out looking as unsteady on her feet as a newborn deer. She takes an immediate turn for the water fountain, takes a mouthful of water and spits it back out. Then a second, and she swallows that one.

  "Alright, are we going somewhere?"

  "Guess so," Craig says. "Come on."

  When they walk up next to Dad, the look of relief mixes with doubt. Maybe even fear. Dad might have noticed it, or he might not. He makes no sign of having given her expression any thought whatsoever, but he's always liked it when people were a little afraid of him.

  The elevator doors slide open. It groans on the way down, even rattles a little bit. Craig's stomach does another flip. They should've taken the stairs. It's only one floor. They could easily have made it.

  When the doors open again it's like the world's new and fresh. They head out. Dad makes a suggestion, one that Craig is only half listening to. He just nods absently. A steak place. Not half-bad, if it was anything like it had been when Craig still lived in Oklahoma.

  He lets his body go on autopilot, heading toward the car. He knows the way instinctively. Doesn't have to think about it as he pushes the unlock button on the key-fob and his door opens easily in his hand.

  It's not until he's sitting down and slips the keys into the ignition that he starts to feel it again. The insidious sort of panic that had threatened to overtake him since the damned plane touched down.

  He forces himself to concentrate. "You alright, Emma?"

  She doesn't answer him. Her lips are pressed together pretty tight. But she nods in response.

  "You'll… probably get used to them."

  "It's fine."

  She doesn't look like it's fine, but she's her own person. She gets to make her own decisions about whether or not she's fine, even if she's obviously not fine.

  Craig turns on the ignition, and the car starts easily. It's strange and a little numb to drive an automatic. It doesn't let his hands take over for his brain, the one time that he wishes that he could have something to occupy his mind.

  He starts driving without thinking about where he's going. It's been almost three years since he left this city, and yet it all seems familiar. There's a few new stores, a few places that have closed. But the streets are the same, which gives the whole city a strangely surreal feeling.

  "Can I give you one piece of advice, Em?"

  She looks over at him. Her face is still white as a sheet, her lips still pursed.

  "Don't look at the prices this time." Her head presses back into the headrest. "Dad isn't worried about it. Trust me."

  "I don't know how you can just not worry about that stuff."

  "He just doesn't worry about it. But, uh… today might not be the best day to make a thing about it, you know?"

  "You're right. I'll try to keep it to myself."

  "And you don't need to worry about what he thinks of you, either."

  "Craig, are you dumb? You know exactly who your father is."

  "And that's why I know you don't need to worry about it. You know what he thinks about the President?"

  "I imagine you're going to tell me."

  "Dad thinks he's a crap golfer. Those are his exact words. 'Crap golfer.' Far as I know, those are his only thoughts."

  "About the President. Of the United States."

  "That President, yeah."

  "And I shouldn't worry because he thinks the President is a bad golfer?"

  "Look, all I'm saying is, he'll like you or he won't, and there's not much you can do about it."

  "I'm not worried about it. I'm just here to make sure you're going to be alright."

  "Then you're an idiot, because everyone's worried about what my father thinks of them. And because you're a girl, and I'm a boy, and he's my father, and you'd be an idiot not to worry about it. Hell, I would be worried if I was meeting your dad."

  "Well, you shouldn't be. Trust me. He doesn't think much of anything, any more."

  "See what I mean? Don't worry about it. Just stay calm. You're doing fine. Just relax and stay cool. You're doing absolutely fine."

  Craig wished that he felt anything near as confident as he sounded, because there was a lot that he could get to liking about feeling like himself again.

  He tries to put up a good face for Emma, because she is doing absolutely fine.

  But that doesn't mean that he's doing fine himself.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Emma chews her food for a while before she swallows. She's always been raised to savor it. There's no exception for food that she tried not to look at the price on. It didn't help, though; she was good at casting her eyes.

  When she was reading, she was used to taking in… most of a page. Still working on speeding up a little more. So as much as she didn't want to see the prices, because she knew exactly how upset it might make her, things didn't exactly go that way.

  So here she was, eating a twenty-dollar steak, and that was the cheapest thing at the table, and Mr. Weston hadn't even looked to see what was in the bank. Hadn't even considered it for a moment.

  She'd tried asking if it was alright to order it, and Craig's father had just turned that stony expression on her and said, 'of course, that sounds lovely.'

  Then he'd proceeded to get that, plus a lobster tail for good measure. She had to take her bites slow. Had to chew slow. Had to move as slow as she could, because everything else around her was going crazy.

  As long as she could keep control over something, then she was at least going to be alright for a little while. That's the hope anyways.

  Craig's watching her, like he has been the whole meal. Is he worried about her? Why? There's nothing to watch her for. She's not in any danger, she's not in a bad position. If anything, she should be watching him.

  Instead, she's trying her best to keep her eyes down, keep her hands in her lap, and use her best table manners. It might be working. She can't gauge that man's expressions at all, and he doesn't seem to be paying any special att
ention to her.

  Deep breaths, now. There's another bite. Chew. Eventually, somehow, she makes it through the entire thing. She sits up straight. Like a string pulling her up from the top of her head. Just like Mom had taught her as a little girl. She kept her hands folded in her lap.

  "Thank you for dinner, it was lovely."

  "You're welcome," he says, patting his mouth clean with a napkin.

  There wasn't much said at the table. Nobody seemed to want to talk about the only thing there really was to discuss, so they avoided discussing much of anything at all.

  Which might have been fine for the men at the table, but for Emma, it was hell. She'd have been much happier, much more comfortable, and a good deal less nervous if only Mr. Weston had started ranting about the news coverage he'd been getting lately—which, from Emma's half-recollections, was not very good—or talked about sports or politics or whatever.

  At least then she could get a sense for him, for who he was, what he liked and disliked. How she was supposed to act for the next several days.

  But instead, he'd been dead silent. In a certain sense, that told her something about him, too. But was it a silence of grief? Was it because of her that he was silent? What was she supposed to get from it?

  How was she supposed to learn from the way he was acting? Jeepers. This had never been Emma's strongest suit. She had an easier time when she was on her own. With the Sisters, it was easier at least, because they were so easy to read. They wanted her to know exactly what they were thinking.

  This was something like the worst recollection of dealing with someone that Emma had ever had. She was just sitting there panicking the whole time, and there really wasn't a whole lot that she could do about it.

  Because for all the things it could be, just as likely—more likely—was that he was quiet because for all anyone at that table knew, his wife was laying there on a hospital bed, and he was spending his last days with her.

  The thought makes Emma's stomach turn over. She shouldn't have let herself go down that road. It's only going to upset her. So she doesn't watch them eat. It would be rude to watch someone eat.