4. Sammy

Sammy

It’s surprising to me that, after everything, I still like the smell of hospitals.

Most people hate the smell because they associate it with death and trauma—with the place you always go after something terrible happens. But in the same way I always feel joy when I hear a siren—they’re in the process of saving a life —I almost feel comforted by the scent.

Beyond the alcohol and cleaners and bland, clean air is the soothing comfort of hushed noises and steady beeping. And there’s something I like about that. Something about the sound of ice being scooped a few rooms away, the low murmur of doctors and nurses talking in the hall. The flutter of the fresh, white sheets. Organized carts and a thousand little dials and knobs I don’t understand—it all helps to put me at ease.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, clearing my throat and knocking when I step up to his door. Of course, he doesn’t answer, so I push into the room.

He’s in his bed, like usual, head propped up on a pillow. I can still remember when his face was covered in bandages, white gauze and tape littered over his forehead, the stain of iodine on his skin for weeks.

“Sorry I didn’t make it in yesterday,” I laugh a bit under my breath. “Isaac and I got caught up in breakaway drills, then Brett sent an S.O.S. because he needed help deciding on a birthday gift for Fallon—except the problem was he had too much stuff, and thought she would be mad.”

I settle into my routine—tossing out the flowers I brought a few days ago and arranging the new ones on his side table. Flipping on the TV to the Sports Center, like he likes, but muted enough that me talking and the stereo aren’t too much all at once.

“When Isaac and I got to the mall, Brett had his entire SUV full of gifts. I’m talking multiple bags full of designer clothes, two things of jewelry. He lost his mind. They turned his credit card off because they thought it was stolen.”

Chuckling, I settle down into the chair next to his bed and keep talking. Telling him about Brett and how pissed the salespeople were when he ended up returning most of the stuff. Talking about my recent training. Mentioning this new coach I’m supposed to meet.

“I mean,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ve been too afraid to even Google the guy. It’s like, on one hand, it feels like an amazing opportunity. And you know I’ve never shied away from a chance to improve my game. But, on the other hand, it feels like—like, what’s wrong with me that I might need something like this? Coach didn’t need something like this. Devon didn’t need something like this, and look at the season he had. He literally broke records the season that Brett was out. Just…decided that he was going to do it.”

I fiddle with the blanket and adjust the remote on the side of his bed. Anything to keep from looking right at him.

Dad’s hand is resting on the bed, and when I reach out to touch it, it’s cold. Unmoving. A spike of fear rolls through me, but when I look at the monitor beside him, the lines are moving steadily. I watch his heartbeat bounce for a moment, then, gently, I tuck his hand under the blanket so it can stay warm.

“Anyway,” I start, clearing my throat, “I—”

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse—I think her name is Madeline—pokes her head around the curtain.

“So sorry to interrupt,” she says, and I look at the clock, realizing for the first time that I’ve been here for hours, just chatting with my dad. My throat hurts from talking so much, and that familiar lump is hanging around.

“But we have him scheduled for a bath today,” the nurse explains. “Do you want us to wait?”

“No, no.” I jump up and collect my jacket from the back of the chair. “I have an appointment at two, anyway. I won’t keep you guys from doing your jobs.”

“Really, Sammy, it’s not a problem—”

I wince at that name, but swallow the feeling down. I’m already shrugging my jacket on, even though the early morning chill is surely long gone, and when I walk outside, I’ll be slapped with the midday heat.

“Maddy,” I say, smiling when her face lights up. It shouldn’t be so astounding that I make an effort to remember their names, but some of the staff act like it’s incredibly unusual. “Seriously, please. I have to go anyway.”

She pushes a cart in with everything she needs to give him a sponge bath, and I slink along the other side, stopping briefly at the door as she moves to the other side of the room to wash her hands and fill the basin.

“Bye, Dad,” I say, pushing the lump in my throat away. “Love you.”

***

“This is just a temporary office space, of course,” the redhead explains, talking quickly as she shepherds me from the front of the building and to the elevator. “Our office back in Los Angeles is much more accommodating. But Coach Aldine insisted it was best if we met you here.”

“It’s super cool of you guys to come all this way,” I say stuffing my hands in my pockets. She nods once and turns crisply, facing the elevator door as we ride up, a tablet held tightly to her chest.

When she met me at the door, I barely had time to process her before she was whisking me inside. If she’s this intense, I hate to see what Dr. Finley Asher is like.

“Of course, Finn and I have been studying up on you,” she continues, and I look over her quickly to see if there’s a name tag anywhere on her clothes. She’s wearing a striped navy blouse tucked into white pants. There’s a red headband in her straight, red hair, and the entire thing reminds me a bit of a sailor.

“Of…course,” I say, when she looks at me and I realize I haven’t responded to her.

In truth, I have no idea what an arrangement like this is supposed to look like. But I’ll just have to trust that the professional coach knows what he’s doing.

When we get to the top floor of the building—one of the many modernized classics in the downtown area—the redhead steps out of the elevator quickly, turning and forging ahead.

The view from the windows is pretty, with all of Burlington laid out before us. It’s not a large city, and this isn’t even the tallest building here. There’s an apartment building and a senior living center that are both taller. But this is the office space my lawyer is in, so it’s not surprising to me that the coach would take up their business here, too.

As I follow the redhead down the hall, I wonder if Dr. Finley Asher is planning to see any other clients while in Vermont. The thought of him working with me and my teammates at the same time makes my stomach twist.

“Here we are,” the woman says, coming to a stop in front of the door and smiling prettily at me.

“Thanks,” I breathe, then, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“Oh,” she says, blinking, as though it never occurred to her that I might want to know it. “Penelope O’Malley. But you can call me Penny.”

“Right, thanks. Sammy,” I say, holding out my hand. She blinks again, a small smile shaping over her face. Instead of taking my hand, she gestures to the door with her head.

“I know,” she says, which makes me blush. “Finn is waiting.”

With that, she turns and walks quickly to a little desk in the reception area, sitting quickly and opening a laptop. She’s already typing on it by the time I push the office door open.

“Hey—” I start, then stop when I see the woman in front of me getting out of her seat. Words leave my mind as I look at her, my body feeling like it’s been caught in a beam from an alien spaceship.

She’s tall, which is one of the first things I notice as she stands from her spot behind the desk. There’s something so mature about her beauty—elegant cheekbones, shaped eyebrows, and a mouth that’s slightly turned down, slightly open even before she speaks. On the left, her hair is pushed behind her ear, showing off her neck and jaw, which is slightly square and well-defined.

“Sammy?”

I blink, actually finding it hard to swallow for a moment. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s going to think I’m a creep if I keep staring at her, so I nod, take a step forward, and thrust a hand in her direction.

“Right. Sammy. Braun,” I say, watching as she assesses me, then puts her own hand out for me to take. It’s small and warm and dry in mine, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how badly my palms are sweating. Pulling my hand from hers and nodding, I take a seat in front of her desk.

“Dr. Finley Asher,” she says, her voice so calm and collected I wonder if she noticed the sweaty palms.

I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans as she talks. Maybe I’m not the suavest man in the entire room—the guys have made sure to remind me of that at every turn—but I’m not usually this bad. Bumbling. Nervous. Sweaty.

But the mid-day sunlight from the windows is glinting off her dark hair and streaking over her desk, her eyes darting up to meet mine, a dark, cerulean blue. Her eyes actually have a glint in them, and I realize I’m staring again.

“…get started,” she’s saying.

“Right.” I reposition myself in my chair. I need to focus—it’s a dick move not to hear what she’s saying. If my mother was here, she’d be disappointed in me for not listening to a woman when she speaks.

“Thank you for sending over the information you did,” she says, clasping her hands together and looking right at me. It feels like looking into the sun. “It gave my team and me the ability to start forming a plan for you. But I’m afraid we’re still far behind where I’d like to be at this stage—so there’s more information we need to sort out.”

“Whatever you need,” I say, reaching for a more I’m a professional athlete and fully grown man, so I have my shit together voice.

“Great,” she says, the word snappy. One by one, she starts setting forms on the desk, gesturing for me to sign them. I do—if Grey trusts her, I trust her. Besides, I have the suspicion that I would seriously struggle to not immediately do whatever this woman told me to.

“Okay, Sammy,” she continues, putting the files away and re-fixing her gaze on me. “I’m going to cut right to the chase. We’re going to do all these tests on you and we’re going to find out all sorts of tiny little improvements we can make to optimize your life, and you’re going to do them, right?”

“Of course.” I nod, thinking of LeBron James and his oxygen chamber. I’ve never considered myself to be the kind of guy who could do stuff like that, but Coach seems to think it’s a good idea.

“Perfect, but here’s the thing that nobody wants to face up to…” When she says this, her face turns deadly serious, and she leans over the table, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head. “There is something in your life holding you back. Something you can’t admit to. Something you won’t own up to. And we can make all these tiny improvements—and they will help—but nothing is going to help as much as you finally facing that thing you’ve been ignoring. Does that make sense?”

I feel the air crush out of my chest like I’ve been clamped on either side. My vision goes a little hazy. The way she’s looking at me—like she knows everything. And all at once, I don’t like it one bit.

When I stand up, the chair I’m sitting in falls over, clattering loudly. I can feel my chest rising and falling, and I clear my throat, trying to balance not being rude with needing to get the hell out of here.

“Sorry, uh—” I reach down and pick up the chair. “This is, actually—I don’t think this is going to be right for me.”

With that, I get my hand on the door handle and pull it open, heart already relaxing at the idea of getting out of this office and away from Dr. Finley Asher.