Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

Willa

T he gentle rays of the morning sun struggle to penetrate the grimy streets of downtown Pittsburgh. I stand outside the entrance of the homeless shelter, a dilapidated building nestled between boarded-up storefronts and graffiti-covered walls. The area is eerily quiet at this early hour, with only the occasional car passing by and a few homeless individuals shuffling past.

As I glance around, taking in the shelter's worn brick facade and the cracked sidewalks, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see King's name flash on the screen. It's only seven a.m. here, which means it's four a.m. in Vegas. I answer quickly, surprised but pleased to hear from him.

"Hey there," I say with a smile. "You're up early. Did you stay out all night gambling?"

King chuckles on the other end, his voice husky from lack of sleep. "No gambling for me. Just couldn't sleep. Figured I'd give you a call before you start your day."

I lean against the rough brick wall of the shelter, the chill of the early-morning air seeping through my coat. "Trouble sleeping? Is it because of Penn and everything that's been happening?"

There's a momentary pause before King responds, and I can almost hear him nodding. "Yeah, that's part of it. But also because I miss you. Got used to having you beside me in bed."

My heart swells at his words and I feel a twinge of longing. "I miss you too. But you'll be back soon."

"What does your day look like?" he asks.

"I'm working at a homeless shelter in downtown Pittsburgh today. Was just about to walk in when you called."

"Is it safe there?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.

I glance around and decide not to tell him the full truth. "Totally safe. Standing at the doorstep now."

"Please be careful. Have someone walk you to your car when you leave."

"I will," I reply automatically, although I've never had to do that before. I got a parallel spot half a block down today and I'll be out of here well before it gets dark. But I don't tell him any of that because he has a game tonight and therefore has more important things to worry about.

"I was hoping we could make plans for the weekend," King says in a change of subject. "We'll be flying back red-eye after playing the LA Kings, so I don't think I'll make the Ice Pups game that morning."

"I can totally handle it," I assure him.

"Maybe you can come over after and we can find something to do?" he poses. "That is, if you don't already have plans."

"Sounds like a great idea and I had no plans, but I do now. Anything in particular you want to do?"

There's a quiet pause as he ponders and then asks, "Would you think me a fuddy-duddy, old man if I said I'd love to just hang around the condo, eat junk food and watch movies?"

Laughing, I reply, "That sounds wonderful. We'll stay in pajamas all day."

"Or naked," he counters.

"That works too."

"Oh," he exclaims. "I want to get a Christmas tree and decorate it. Do you have yours up yet?"

"We do. Brittany, Izzy and I put it up Thanksgiving weekend."

"Which goes to show you that I don't hang at your house enough," King says, and it hits me that no… he doesn't. I always go over to his place.

"Would you like to come to my place on Saturday instead?" I ask, mentally calculating what that would look like with Brittany and Izzy around. It would be fine—fun, even—except there would be no nakedness.

Or getting him a Christmas tree.

"Maybe next time," he says, perhaps reading my mind. "I'd kind of like you all to myself and I'd love to get a tree."

"It's a plan then," I reply, eager for the weekend to hurry up and get here.

A sigh escapes King's lips, filled with warmth and longing. "I miss you."

"I miss you too, King. Can't wait to see you."

"Same here. Have a good day and be careful at the shelter."

"I will. Talk to you later."

Smiling, I tap my phone on my chin as I ponder the conversation but then realize I've got work to do so I head into the building.

I step inside, feeling the weight of the worn door as it closes behind me. The warmth of the interior is a welcome embrace after battling the cold outside. The reception area is simple yet clean, with faded walls adorned with motivational posters and community notices. A handful of plastic chairs are lined up against one wall, occupied by individuals patiently waiting for assistance.

The reception desk, a plain wooden counter, is manned by a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a kind smile. Her name tag reads Kathy and she greets me warmly as I approach, recognizing me as a regular visitor.

"Good morning, Dr. Montreaux," she says. "You're just in time. I'll buzz you through."

I return her smile gratefully. "Good morning, Kathy. Thank you."

She presses a button and I hear the familiar click of the mechanism unlocking. Pushing my way through the heavy metal door, I enter the main area of the shelter.

The space is functional rather than inviting, with rows of cots neatly arranged in the sleeping quarters. The smell of industrial cleaner lingers in the air, mingling with the aroma of breakfast being served in a nearby dining hall. Residents are beginning their day—some sitting on their cots while others line up for food. There is a mix of quiet conversations, clattering cutlery and the low drone of a television mounted in the corner.

I walk down a narrow hallway adorned with more motivational posters and community announcements until I reach the medical suite. The door is slightly ajar and I push it farther to enter a small but well-organized room. It's been painted a calming shade of blue, with white cabinets lining one wall and an examination table situated in the center. Shelves stocked with medical supplies and equipment are meticulously organized throughout the room.

My nurse assistant for the day, Sarah, is already there preparing for our morning appointments. She's a young woman with a bright smile and an air of serene competence that always puts me at ease.

"Good morning, Sarah," I greet her as I set my bag down on a chair by the door.

"Good morning, Dr. Montreaux," she replies warmly, looking up from her work. "Everything is ready for you. Our first patient is ready when you are."

I take a moment to scan the room, appreciating the small touches that make it feel more welcoming despite its clinical setting. Potted plants perched on the windowsill bring some much-needed greenery and drapes hang over the windows.

My heart is heavy with the realities I face here. No amount of experience makes it easier to see people struggling with their health in such dire conditions. The shelter's bustling with activity as volunteers and medical staff attend to the needs of the residents.

Sarah hands me the first file. "We've got a tough first case today. A man named Joe. He's an alcoholic and has uncontrolled diabetes. His leg is really swollen and discolored. I've been trying to convince him to go to the hospital, but he's refusing."

I sigh as I flip through the sparse notes. Most of these folks won't seek care so I don't have a lot to go on. "Let's call him in."

Sarah leaves and when she returns, Joe shuffles in slowly behind her, his face twisted in pain. His clothes are tattered, his hair is dirty and his skin bears the jaundiced hue of chronic alcoholism. I have no clue if he's a resident here because you don't have to be to access the medical care we offer. I'm guessing by his appearance he's out on the streets since the shelter has a strict ban against alcohol and drugs while in residence.

Sarah helps him up onto the exam table and I approach. "Good morning, Joe. I'm Dr. Montreaux. I understand you're experiencing some issues with your leg."

Slowly lifting his bloodshot eyes to meet mine, Joe grunts in confirmation. "Yeah, Doc. It's been killing me," he admits, wincing as he shifts uncomfortably.

"Can you show me what's bothering you?" I ask calmly.

Joe hesitates for a moment before slowly rolling up his pant leg to reveal a grotesquely swollen and discolored limb from the knee down. The skin is tight and glossy, with patches of angry red and purple with one area rubbed raw with an open wound.

"Joe, this looks quite serious," I state firmly yet empathetically. "This swelling and discoloration could indicate a bacterial infection known as cellulitis. It needs treatment and it's bad enough, I think a trip to the hospital would be warranted."

But Joe shakes his head stubbornly. "No hospitals, Doc. I just can't do it."

I understand the fear and reluctance many homeless individuals harbor toward healthcare, as well as their reluctance to leave the streets. Joe is likely worried about losing access to the alcohol he needs to avoid withdrawals.

"Okay, Joe," I say softly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I won't force you to go, but please understand that this is a serious matter. I will do my best to treat it here, but it is not a good substitute for what they can do for you in the hospital."

"Do what you can, Doc. I'll be fine."

I seriously doubt that, but I force myself to let it go. One of the things I had to learn early on as a doctor is that I cannot force people to do the right thing. I can only advise and treat as best I can.

"We'll start by cleaning the infected area and then I'll prescribe antibiotics to help fight the infection," I explain while donning gloves. "It may be uncomfortable, but we need to do this in order to promote healing in your leg."

Joe clenches his jaw but nods in agreement. "Understood."

Carefully and meticulously, I cleanse the infected area with an antiseptic solution, trying my best to minimize any discomfort. Despite the pain, Joe remains still and doesn't protest. Next, I apply a topical antibiotic ointment and cover the wound with a sterile bandage.

"In addition to this treatment, I will also give you a course of oral antibiotics," I inform him as I rummage in the prescription cabinet, handing over a small bottle of pills. "It's crucial that you take these exactly as prescribed, even if you begin feeling better. It's essential for your recovery."

He takes the bottle hesitantly and examines it before looking up at me with a mix of hope and apprehension. "Thanks, Doc. I'll make sure to take them."

I offer him a reassuring smile. "Good. And please, if your condition worsens or you start feeling very ill, promise me that you'll go to the hospital. Your life is worth fighting for, Joe."

He nods slowly but makes no such promises.

As he walks away, Sarah sighs. "It's so hard, isn't it? Knowing there's only so much we can do."

I nod, feeling the heavy weight of just the very first patient encounter. "It really is. But we have to keep trying."

?

By the time I leave the shelter around four p.m., I've reached my limit of sadness and despair over the things I've seen. I had brief moments of truly helping patients but for the most part, I couldn't do much but slap Band-Aids on significant issues. I feel drained, both physically and emotionally, as I slide into my car.

After starting it and putting on my seat belt, I pull out my phone to check messages. I've been so busy I haven't looked at it all day.

A smile slowly spreads across my face as I see a text from King. Hey, babe. Just thinking about you. Hope your day wasn't too tough. Remember, you're amazing at what you do. Can't wait to see you again.

A fullness within me speaks to not needing another damn thing from a man other than what King has already given me. He intuitively knows exactly what I needed to hear at the end of a long day, and he did it while preparing for a hockey game.

Weight lifts off my shoulders and the drive home is done while singing along to Taylor Swift. By the time I pull into my driveway, I'm in a good mood but when I spot the bouquet of fresh flowers on my doorstep, I am nearly giddy with delight.

I shut off the car, jog to the porch and snatch the card from the huge arrangement of pink, white, purple and blue flowers.

Just a little something to brighten the rest of your day. –King

Clutching the card to my chest, I close my eyes and savor the moment. The sheer romanticism in this tiny gesture has me swooning and I nearly can't stand it.

I lift the flowers, manage to wrangle open the door and call out to Brittany as I enter. "I'm home."

"In the kitchen," she calls back, and I smell the aroma of tomato sauce so I'm guessing it's pasta for dinner tonight.

I set the flowers on the kitchen table as Brittany turns from the stove and gasps at their loveliness. "You bitch."

"Why am I a bitch?" I ask with a laugh as I fluff the bouquet.

"Because you lucked out and got probably the one good guy left in the world," she says with an exaggerated whine, but I see the amused twinkle in her eye before she turns back to the stove. "We're having stuffed shells. Dinner will be ready in about an hour."

"Perfect," I say, letting my purse slide off my shoulder to the chair. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Knock yourself out," Brittany says, but as I turn to walk away, she adds, "Oh… and you might want to pop your head in on your niece. She's having an existential crisis."

I blink in surprise at my sister. "A six-year-old can have an existential crisis?"

"Apparently mine can. She's not sure hockey is her calling. She feels she's far too graceful for the rough-and-tumble nature of the sport."

"She said that to you?" I ask, agog.

Brittany snickers. "No, that's me paraphrasing but I think she said something along the lines of ‘I decided I want to be a figure skater like Aunt Willa.'"

"And what did you tell her?"

"That she signed up to play hockey and she's going to see it through, but if she wants to take up figure skating, we'll work it out."

I walk over to Brittany and wrap her in a hug. "You're such a good mother. You know exactly what to say and how to say it. I'm in awe of you."

My sister blushes and pushes me away. "You're just saying that because I'm jealous of your boyfriend and you want me to feel better."

"That's true," I quip, blowing her a kiss and heading out of the kitchen.

Just as I'm about to hit the staircase, I see a shadow approaching the front door through the side pane of frosted glass. I don't even wait for the doorbell to ring but rather swing it open, assuming it's one of the handful of Amazon deliveries we get each week.

Instead, I find Scott standing there, hand poised to push the button.

I immediately tense up, locking in tight for a fight. He shoots me a tentative smile. His eyes meet mine and I can see the turmoil within them.

"Willa, can we talk?" he asks quietly.

This demure demeanor throws me off, absolutely antithetical to his pompous arrogance, need to be right and disposition to fight. I hesitate for a moment but eventually nod, stepping aside to let him in. I lead him to my home office, a cozy room filled with bookshelves and my desk, and close the door behind us. Wanting space and a barrier between us, I take a seat behind my desk while Scott settles into the chair across from me.

"What's on your mind, Scott?" I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral.

He takes a deep breath and locks eyes with me. "I want to talk about Jack Kingston."

My heart skips a beat as his words send a chill down my spine. "What about him?"

Scott leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees, like he's trying to convey something important. "Willa, I'm worried about you. He's so young and a professional athlete. These guys are always traveling and they're not known for being faithful. You know about the puck bunnies, right?"

"I've heard the term." Kiera's words ring in my ears and I remember the female fans throwing themselves at King that night at Mario's.

My fears about the age difference have always centered around me being much older than King, so much so that I never considered his youth being an issue, nor did I ever pair that with any thought as to the potential consequences of his profession. Still, I'm skeptical of Scott's motives. "I appreciate your concern, but King isn't like that."

He shakes his head earnestly. "I'm not saying he is, but you can't be sure. These men… they have temptations all around them. I know how much I hurt you by cheating, and I don't want to see the same thing happen to you again. Just something to think about."

His words strike deeper than I'd like to admit. The doubts and fears that have always lingered in the back of my mind now come roaring to the surface. Can I trust King? Are all men cheaters, especially when they're constantly on the road? There's no way for me to know.

"I appreciate your concern. What else did you want to talk about?" I ask, convinced he's going to ask me to let him out of the alimony and the concerns about King are either just a cover or a mean-spirited attempt to make me doubtful.

But Scott shakes his head and stands. "Nothing else. That was it."

I don't like that at all. I want the Scott that is usually hell-bent on demeaning me but all I'm seeing is someone who appears legitimately concerned for me without asking for anything in return. It makes my guts twist up tight, my emotions in overload.

"I've got to get going. Plans with Allison tonight." Hearing her name—his former mistress and now girlfriend—used to cause me pain, but the fact that he referenced her in such a blasé manner infers that he's moving on with his life. It actually brings me comfort and God help me, lends credibility to his visit.

And the consequence of that makes me doubt King.

When he's gone, I head up to the primary suite to shower. My mind is filled with doubts and fears brought on by Scott's words. I think of the bouquet King sent, the joy they brought me now marred by suspicion. Did he send them because he feels guilty about something?

"Stop it, Willa," I growl out loud to myself.

But as much as I want to trust King and believe in what we have, Scott's words have left a mark and planted seeds of doubt that I can't ignore. The only way to prevent those seeds from taking root is to talk to King.