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I stuff another mouthful of food into my mouth and ignore her. I know from our past conversations, there’s no changing her mind on this. She wants to see me settled down and married ‘before she dies’ (guilt trip, anyone?) and she’s not subtle about it.
“If you can’t find someone at work, maybe I can set you up? My friend Sandra from bingo has a lovely grandson just about your age. He’s a little shorter than you’d like, but he’s single…”
I groan, shovelling the remaining scraps into my mouth, ready to make my escape. “No thanks, Yia-Yia.” I swallow, standing up and putting my plate in the dishwasher. “I’m good on my own.”
She huffs and I know I’m only getting a brief reprieve from this matchmaking talk. I need to find a way to get her off my back, before she actually follows through with setting me up with this poor hapless stranger. A short one at that.
“I’m going to take a shower and then we can watch one of your reality TV shows together.”
Her eyes light up and I know I’ve hit the distraction jackpot. There are few things in the world that she loves more than watching an episode of Real Housewives of Somewhere or Other.
“I’ll make some popcorn.”
My already full stomach protests, but I keep quiet, knowing it’s useless to fight her on anything food-related. I run upstairs to the bathroom we all share, stripping out of my clothes and gratefully stepping under the steaming hot water. Even though I changed out of my scrubs at the end of my shift into my normal clothes, I still feel the grottiness of the day clinging to me.
I lather the soap on my body and hope I can use it to wash the events of the day off me along with the dirt and residual vomit. So what if Matthew reappeared in my life for a brief moment? Really, it should mean nothing to me. He should mean nothing to me. We studied together for a few short months when I was sixteen. He promptly shattered my fragile teenage heart and then today he held my hand and told me he thinks I’m pretty. None of these things are life-changing; I need to be a grownup about this.
With a nod, I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the water wash over me, only to see Matthew’s handsome face in my head. His lips turn up in a dopey smile before he utters the words that just won’t stay on mute in my brain:
You’ve always been the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
Grr! My eyes flash open.
Matthew, it’s lucky your visit to the ER is only another blip in my life, or I’d be in danger of falling for you all over again.
CHAPTER 7
Two days and fourteen hours of looking over my shoulder later, waiting for the other shoe to drop, I’m finally confident that Matthew will not turn up out of nowhere again and disrupt my carefully curated life. His absence has not been as welcomed by most of my co-workers, who are all still buzzing after having been touched by his celebrity aura.
Amy is one such staff member.
“He’s not going to show up,” I say. She’s currently looking at the ER entrance longingly again and it’s bugging me. “Stop being a groupie.”
She sighs and sits back down at the nurses’ station. It’s been a quiet morning so far; too much time to think about the handsome soccer star who’d graced us with his presence.
“It’s not like he’d be able to sneak in, anyway. The media are glued to his side.” She makes a disgusted face and I quietly agree. The way the paparazzi stalk Matthew feels wrong, overly intrusive, given he just seems to want to play his sport and win games for his country.
Oh, and date supermodels. Maybe that’s why the photographers won’t leave him alone?
“Do you think he’s going to play this weekend?” This question has been on constant rotation in the morning, lunchtime and evening news. THE INJURY THAT HAS STOPPED THE NATION, the headlines read. I personally think it’s all overly dramatic and that if Matthew can’t play, there are half a dozen other young men who can kick a ball as well as he can (OK, not as well, but pretty darn good).
Amy shrugs, her knowledge on all things sport limited to which uniform looks the best. “I heard he’s playing because the game is crucial or something. Oliver has been nervously following the news since Wednesday.” Oliver is Amy’s older brother and a big soccer fan, apparently. “He was so annoyed that I didn’t get Matthew’s autograph. Or a selfie or something.”
This clearly illustrates Matthew’s level of fame in our sports-mad country, when even someone as level-headed as I know Oliver to be wanted to sneak into his orbit.
“I don’t think he should play.” I whisper this for fear of backlash from my co-workers. It’s like blasphemy to even put this out into the universe. “He dislocated his shoulder. I did a bit of research and it’s not a small injury. Surely, he shouldn’t be out there playing.”
“I hear he’s starting on the bench.”
The deep, rich, smooth-like-honey voice speaks from behind me, and I don’t need Amy’s frozen expression to tell me who it is. How did he get in here unannounced?
I turn slowly to face him. He looks better. His arm is no longer in a sling, and the bruise on his cheekbone has faded. His face is cleanly shaved, his hair is neatly done and he’s smiling and he looks…delicious.
“You worried about me, New Girl?”
I send a mortified look back at Amy, who’s watching on, her jaw hanging open.
“Who says we’re talking about you?” I rally.
