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Fuck. I miss her.
One of the interns on the training staff, Charlie, tiptoes into my room like he’s worried he’s going to disturb me.
“I’m awake,” I say abruptly, causing him to jump.
He ignores my tone. “I’ve got your stuff here, Mr. Jones.”
He holds up my bag and then looks around. It’s a standard hospital room. On one side, there’s about three feet between the bed and the wall. On the other side is a variety of machines, most of which they didn’t need to use on me. The single chair is shoved underneath a tray; presumably the tray moves and will provide me with sustenance at some point. The lone window is small and permanently closed. It isn’t exactly homey, but it’s functional, which, from the hospital’s perspective, is clearly better.
“Bring it here,” I say, gesturing him toward me. “When can I leave?”
He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not sure.”
I grimace. It’s not the answer I was hoping for.
He sets the bag I left in my locker next to me on the bed. I immediately grab it and start digging around. It takes a second, but eventually I find my phone. I yank it out. The screen is packed with text messages, social media alerts, and missed calls. Nothing makes people reach out like an injury. I quickly scroll through the missed calls. I should call my mom first. She’s probably climbing the walls with worry.
I tap her number. The phone barely starts ringing when she answers. I speak to her and my father on speakerphone. I assure them that I’m fine, and they don’t need to get on a plane. She asks a million questions. He reminds me to listen to the doctors.
When I hang up, I click on my messages.
“Ummmm…Mr. Jones.” Charlie pauses, his eyes locked on my phone. “You’ve got a concussion.”
“I know. They told me.”
He hesitates and then says, “You should avoid screens.”
He makes it sound like a suggestion, like you should eat more vegetables, or you should exercise every day, so I merely nod in agreement.
I try to ignore Charlie as I focus on the messages from Cam. He’s on a plane, on his way to my bedside. He must have hit the airport immediately after I was injured because he’ll be landing in a little over an hour. Relief hits me hard. It’ll be nice to see his face. Maybe he’ll be able to coordinate my release.
I keep scrolling. Teammate. Teammate. Teammate. I’m astonished by the number of teammates who’ve sent me messages. I didn’t even have some of their numbers.
Emotion clogs my throat. I’m a part of this team in a way I haven’t been in a couple of years.
My heart stops when I see a message from Ellie. I hope you’re okay.
She reached out. Because she still cares?
I click on the message bar and my fingers hover over the letters.
“Mr. Jones,” Charlie says hesitantly before I type anything. “Would you like me to read your messages for you? Or respond to them?”
My eyes narrow. “You don’t have to stay.” Subtext: I don’t want you to stay.
Charlie doesn’t budge.
“Charlie, you don’t have to stay.”
He shrugs. “It’s no problem. If I leave, you’ll be alone.”
Isn’t that a depressing thought? If Charlie, an intern, leaves my hospital room, there’s no one to fill his place. Sure, my parents offered to come out. And Cam is on his way. But in a city I’ve lived in since March, there isn’t a single person I can call to come sit with me in the hospital. I think about what Ellie told me. And what Randy said. And what Amber said.
I’m an idiot.
I let one game affect every decision I made afterwards. I let it affect me professionally. And personally. What’s the point of being great if, at the end of the day, you’re alone?
I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling. Charlie shifts in his chair, but he doesn’t leave. I want to pick up my phone, but I also want privacy for what I need to do.
