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A giggle behind him broke into his thoughts and Booker turned around. The receptionist from earlier was sitting at the nurses’ station staring at him. He hated that kind of attention; the kind women gave only because of the jersey he wore on the field. Trying to avoid her, he turned the other way. As he did, the same ringing from earlier started.
Booker checked his pockets. Crap! He still had Dee’s phone. With hurried steps, he went back to the room. Behind the curtain he could hear the phlebotomist talking. Still feeling guilty for landing her in the hospital and not wanting to make matters worse, Booker answered the call.
“Mom, why didn’t you answer my text?”
Booker’s mouth went dry. Mom? Dee had a son?
“Are you there?” The kid went on and Booker begged his brain to catch up. It finally did after the voice on the line repeated the question a second time.
“I’m here,” Booker said.
“You don’t sound like my mom.”
Booker rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not. This is her boss. Booker.”
Silence. Booker elaborated. “Booker Watson.”
Inaudible whispers came through the speakers until finally the boy responded. “I thought mom was lying when she told me she worked for you. THE Booker Watson?”
At that, Booker laughed. “Always believe your mom. Yes, THE Booker Watson. Nice to, uh, meet you…”
“Elijah. You, too. But, where’s my mom?”
Booker hesitated a moment before deciding that honesty was the best policy in this case. “She’s at the hospital.”
“The hospital!” Shuffling came through the receiver. “I’m on my way.”
“Wait, Elijah, she’s fine. The doctor wants to obs—”
The call dropped and Booker fought the urge to punch the wall. He’d set out to help Dee, but so far he’d managed to do everything but. Including scaring her son.
Was the son old enough to drive? Dee certainly didn’t look old enough to have a child of driving age. Then, again, he knew next to nothing about her. An issue he planned on remedying soon. Even if he couldn’t explore the attraction between them, he could be an honorable boss and get to know the lady responsible for his respectable social media persona.
Booker slid Dee’s phone into his pocket. Doing so reminded him, he hadn’t checked his own cell in hours. He pulled it out and started scrolling the notifications. Among his mother’s hateful spews, Sanchez shared memes, and his agent’s pleas to call him, a text from a former teammate, Dallas, stood out.
WYATT’S IN THE HOSPITAL. I’M STUCK IN DALLAS FOR A GAME. CAN’T GET TO HIM. WILL YOU CHECK ON HIM? HE SAYS HE’S FINE, BUT I CALL BULLCRAP. YOU KNOW HOW HE IS.
Booker did know. Wyatt Jones could have a bullet hole in his chest and would call it a scratch. He’d seen it first-hand when the three of them spent a summer together working out before Booker and Dallas started their pro football careers. The kid became like a brother to him. An obnoxious, daredevil, know-it-all kind of brother. Booker typed back: WHICH HOSPITAL? ROOM?
When the reply came in, Booker barely believed his eyes but decided to run with the hand that fate had dealt him. He knocked on the side of the wall next to the curtain. As soon as Dee’s voice called to come in, he wasted no time.
He took his old seat while the phlebotomist finished up.
The lady shook the vials and put them in the holder. Then, she looked at Dee. “Hold that gauze on until the bleeding stops. If you need anything, hit the nurse button.”
Dee nodded. “Thank you.”
With that, she left the room. Alone again with Dee, Booker’s temperature began to rise. More so as he contemplated how to tell her about her son’s call. He fished the phone from his pocket and handed it to her.
“I accidentally stole this.”
Giving him a shake of her head, she took the phone. “Of course, you did.”
“It gets better. Your son called.”
“Elijah?” Dee sat up. “Is he ok?”
“Depends.” Booker grinned as he answered, but his good humor went unreciprocated. Instead, panic flashed across her face. He hurried on. “If him being on his way to see you is ok, then, yeah, he’s fine.”
