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“And I’ll come up with a plan to get your girl back,” Milly adds.
“Can I help?” Hank asks her. “I just did that myself, and I gotta say, I’m pretty freaking great at it.”
“Are you?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
Smiling, I close my office door behind me.
This time, I don’t hesitate. I’m not conflicted anymore, which makes sitting down at my desk and hitting Miguel’s number easy. My pulse drums. Nerves are shot.
I keep breathing. One breath after another. I feel my heart rate begin to slow.
“There he is,” Miguel answers with a chuckle. “How're ya feeling, buddy?”
Buddy. That grates. This man is so far from my buddy it’s not even funny. Buddies care about what’s best for their friends, not what’s going to make them the most money.
“Don’t you sound fucking chipper,” I say.
“You actually don’t sound so bad yourself.”
“Listen, Miguel—”
“Rhett, before you—”
“Listen. I don’t want to waste your time, so I’m gonna get right to it. I’m not taking the contract. I’m also not your client anymore.”
A pause. And then another chuckle. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not.”
“How about you think about this a little more? Take—”
“I have thought about it. And I know in my bones I’m done after this season. I’m done with you too. Final answer.”
“But we still have time, Rhett. Plenty of it. I think it’s a mistake to make a call so soon. Think about how rare it is to hit it off with a coach the way you hit it off with Scott. C’mon—”
I look up at the thud just outside my office.
The front door being slammed shut.
It’s followed by footsteps. Fast ones. Someone’s running.
My stomach flips. Something’s wrong.
Miguel is talking, but I don’t hear it. I get up and yank open my door. There’s a commotion in the kitchen, so I stalk in that direction.
My stomach flips again when I see Emma standing there, tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I say, mouth going dry.
“It’s Amelia,” she replies. “She’s in the hospital.”
This time it’s my phone making the clatter as it falls to the floor. Blinking, I bend down to pick it up. Then I sprint to the kitchen. Hank grabs my keys off the counter and tosses them to me.
“Mission?” I say.
“Yes,” Emma replies. “Drive safe!”
“Who are you kidding?” Samuel asks.
He’s right. I drive like a bat out of hell, tossing the only bill I have—a hundred—at the hospital valet guy before I dash through the sliding doors.
I’ve never run faster than I do sprinting through the maze that is Mission Hospital.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Amelia
I stare down the dented cup of red Jell-O on the plastic tray that covers my lap. I’m not hungry, but the doctors say I need to eat.
I stick my spoon into the Jell-O and bring it to my mouth. The artificial cherry flavor doesn’t agree with me, so I drop the spoon and reach for my water instead. My stomach hurts much less than it did when I was admitted last night, but it still doesn’t feel great. Morphine helps. It also makes me feel a little loopy.
The blows just keep coming. Am I ever going to feel like myself again? Not just physically but mentally and emotionally too.
My grandmother left a little while ago to find some lunch for herself. I feel terrible for putting her through all this drama. Because really, that’s all my life has been lately—one shitstorm after another. It’s embarrassing.
I just want this part of my story to be over already.
Turning my head, I look out the window. The view is less than inspiring—a roof dotted with squat air conditioning units, a sliver of forlorn parking lot—and the sky is gray. Rose said it’s supposed to rain today, and I’m kinda glad. Shitty weather makes being stuck in a hospital bed slightly less depressing.
I miss him.
I miss both my boys.
Then again, they’re not really mine anymore.
Rose drove me to the hospital after my fever spiked to 104º, and my stomach hurt so badly I was curled into the fetal position on the back seat, unable to move. I am so, so grateful she was there, but the whole time I found myself wishing Rhett was too. He always made me laugh just when I needed it.
Turning my head the other way, I carefully lift my Kindle off the bedside table. The motion draws the IV line taut, making the back of my hand sting where the needle is inserted. I draw a sharp breath. I’m admittedly a sissy when it comes to pain, but when everything hurts, and you haven’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours, even the tiniest jabs make you see stars.
I downloaded a few historical romances by Olivia Gates. Historicals have always been comfort reads; give me a brooding highlander, a governess he can’t handle, and a foreboding castle where they’re trapped together for reasons, and I am one happy camper.
