Tiller pointed his thumb at me. “Already here. Let’s get this party started. And if you can find me some pain pills, I’d be much obliged.”
I blinked at him. Tiller hated taking medicine. He didn’t like giving up control or forgetting what people said. It was one reason he never got drunk either. If he was asking for pain meds, he was way worse off than he was letting on.
I brushed the towel over his forehead again and then down his sweaty chest. “Close your eyes and listen to my voice. I’m going to tell you the story of what Wally did when he got recruited to play for Notre Dame.”
“He didn’t play for Notre Dame,” Tiller corrected.
“No. No, he did not. He ended up playing for Clemson. That’s what makes this a good story. Even my dad doesn’t know this one. I’m not sure Wally realizes anyone knows this story. It involves the Notre Dame coach’s daughter and some seriously poor decision-making on my brother’s part.”
He tried to laugh but winced. “Oh god. Tell me everything. I love a good Wally story.”
Over the next six hours of waiting and testing, I told him every Wally story I could think of and a few about Richie. When they finally gave him serious IV pain meds, he was able to relax enough to slip into sleep. I used that time to wipe him down, at least the parts of his body not covered by the hospital gown they’d changed him into. I didn’t want him caked in game sweat for the rest of the night, but I didn’t want to cause him any pain either.
Do not look at his body. He’s only this perfect because that’s his job. You’ve met enough of these assholes by now to know they’re not for you. Especially this one. Do your job.
I tried not to remember what it was like over five years ago when my father had walked in on Nelson humping me into the sofa in my parents’ family room or the helpless nausea I’d felt when I’d learned of Nelson’s trade to Seattle only ten days later. There were a million reasons I shouldn’t think of Tiller as anything other than my boss, but my father’s reaction was definitely the biggest, meanest one.
When Tiller was finally cleaned up as well as could be, I settled into a chair next to his bed in the little curtained off area where they’d stashed us between tests. I pulled out my phone and left Sam a voicemail update before texting Tiller’s mom.
Me: No concussion. Severe bruising to deltoid, biceps, and right pec. Dislocated shoulder. Possible radial nerve damage to non-dominant arm. Couple weeks in a sling.
Jill: Well, shit.
I laughed.
Me: That about covers it. He’s gonna be pissed when he sobers up.
Jill: How you gonna keep him still? Want me to come?
I thought about Tiller’s mom. Jillian Raine was a successful midwife in Denver. When she took unexpected time off, it inevitably disappointed several of her pregnant patients. She usually planned her vacations at least a year in advance to avoid disruptions.
Me: I think we’ll be okay. My plan is to get him hooked on Law & Order SVU. There are like four hundred episodes.
Jill: He loves that stuff. Has he done NCIS and Leverage? Hawaii Five-O?
I looked over at her son. He always looked vulnerable in a hospital gown. I hated it—hated seeing him less than a hundred percent. Mostly because I knew he hated it more than anything. His work was his life, whether that was a good thing or not.
Me: If all else fails, I can always put on Drag Race. The man can’t pass through a room where it’s playing without getting sucked in against his will.
Jill: You’re evil. I love it.
I shot a quick pic of Tiller in bed now that he had a little line of drool hanging out of his mouth and sent it to Jill. She responded with a laughing emoji.
Jill: Thank you for being there. I love you both.
Me: Love you too. Tell Moose the same.
Honestly, I was surprised Tiller’s dad hadn’t already been lighting up my phone with concern over Tiller’s injury status. I liked the man fine, but sometimes I wondered what Moose would do if Tiller could no longer play the game.
I sent my mom and dad an update although I was sure Coach was probably well aware of the situation. Within minutes, he responded.
Coach: Mikey? What are you doing at the hospital?
Me: Tiller’s still here for tests.
Coach: What does that have to do with you?
I felt my blood go cold. Ever since Tiller had offered to make my “one season only” gig permanent, my dad had been very vocal against it. He’d even gone so far as to get me a different job by sending me over to another player’s house under false pretenses. A straight, married player’s house.