Page 46 of Play the Last Card

Tying off her laces, I look up at her asking, “Where’s your purse? Do you need to take anything specific with you?”

She looks at me without saying anything. Her eyes watery and her fingers trembling as they clutch the fabric of my shirt. She shakes her head.

I’m searching my brain desperately for a way that I can make this better for her, that I can reassure her but she doesn’t talk about the health problems her Pops has. He’s a frequent figure in her stories and her memories that she shares from when she was younger but she never really touches on why he’s in hospital.

I look up into her face, tucking a piece of hair that fell loose across her face behind her ear, and whisper, “Let me help.”

She sucks in a breath, holding it in her chest for a beat before finally, she nods.

Chapter Ten

Scott

The air in thecar is stifling. Ivy is curled up in the passenger seat.

She doesn’t speak. I don’t try to make her.

Halfway to the hospital I reach over and splay my hand across her knee. My thumb gently rubbing against the soft fabric of her sweatpants.

I turn into the carpark and she directs me to the best place for us to park. As soon as we are stationary, I walk around the car and pull her door open. She slowly uncurls her body, stepping down from the car and into my side.

I leave her for a moment. Opening the back door of the SUV, I rifle through my training bag and take out the spare Broncos sweatshirt before slamming the door shut again.

I pull it over Ivy’s head, shutting the car door behind her as she threads her arms through it.

Putting my arm around her shoulders, I tuck her small body into mine and guide her towards the main entrance of the hospital.

It is late. Visiting hours are obviously over and the only people in the halls are the staff. Most cluster around the different nurse stations we pass. Ivy gently guides our path to the elevator. When the doors chime open on the fourth floor, I drop my arm and let her step in front of me so she can lead the way now.

She doesn’t get more than a few small steps before she pauses, her hand flying out behind her. She reaches for me. I catch up in one stride and thread my fingers through hers. Her grip tightens around my hand as she leads us to the room her grandfather resides in.

I have never really liked hospitals. I’ve been injured a few times throughout my career and the heavy bleach scent that clings to the air always makes my nose itch and my eyes water. I wonder how Ivy can possibly handle this, sitting in a brightly lit room for a whole day. But then, I’ve always been the patient. My parents’ parents all passed when I was little. My parents themselves were healthy and any minor procedures they’ve had never required me to be at a hospital with them for long.

I glance down at Ivy as she slows her pace. I watch her chest rise and fall with each deep breath as she gulps down air. I squeeze her hand, pulsing our fingers together once and then twice. We reach the end of the corridor and Ivy pushes through the last door on the left. The bed is empty and only half the lights are on. A man in a dark blue scrub set stands, writing notes on a whiteboard that sits below a TV mounted on the opposite wall to the bed.

“Dr. Bryden?” Ivy’s small voice echoes through the silent room.

The old doctor jerks back from the board, inhaling as if we surprised him. “Ivy. My god, sorry sweetheart but you scared me.” Bryden looks to be in his mid-fifties, closer to sixty. He has white hair and wrinkles litter his face. The way he looks at Ivy with sympathy brewing in his eyes tells me that they are well acquainted with each other. This must be her Pops’ regular doctor.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“Sit down, Ivy.” He replies with another kind smile. “Who’s this?” Bryden looks at me. He scans my face and a small flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes. I send up a silent prayer that he keeps whatever questions forming about me and who I am to himself.

Tonight is not the time for that particular conversation.

Ivy moves over to the bed, pulling me with her by our intertwined hands. “This is Scott. He’s … uh … a friend?” She stares up at me as I sit next to her. I can’t help the smirk that stretches across my mouth. Just by looking at her I can see the wheels turning, the questions that havenothing to do with her pops or why we’re here racing in her head. A momentary distraction from the awful to fret about who she is to me.

Who I am to her.

This girl doesn’t even know what she does to me.

A friend? Sure.

None of my other friends make me impossibly hard the way she does by just pursing those perfect lips of hers. None of the other friends I have kiss me like they’re trying to steal every last ounce of air from my lungs the way she does.

No, I’m not just her friend.

But again, now is not the time for that conversation.