21. Lark

Chapter twenty-one

Lark

F uck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I stare into the dark, warm fridge filled with now rotting food and my insulin.

"Goddamn it," I groan, working to pull the fridge out from the wall, thankful that it isn't heavier.

Hanging just barely out of the wall is the plug. The plug that apparently decided the connection between itself and the wall was not strong enough to hold on any longer. Much like mine and Tyler's. What an unfortunate yet fitting metaphor.

Amidst my mental breakdown, my phone pings with a text.

Daddy-O

You still coming to the game today, little bird?

Yeah, just some technical difficulties, but I'll be there just as soon as I stop at the office! Love you, see you soon.

Daddy-O

Alright… Let me know if you need me, okay?

Always.

Apparently, we’re lying today, Lark? Maybe he’s right. Maybe I really do need to quit with my unrelenting need for independence.

Daddy-O

Love you, kid.

Alright, the clinic isn't too far from here, but it's in the opposite direction of the stadium. Though I don't really have much choice, do I?

"Come on, Tiny. We’ve gotta get going," I tell him, waving at Rex before we make the run to my car.

As soon as we pull into the parking lot of Toute la Famille, I hop out, leaving the car running for Tiny, who's blissfully unaware of my internal panic as I make a mad dash inside.

"Hey, Lark! You don't work today, do you?" Betty asks me from behind the counter.

"No, I'm on my way to meet my dad at the game, but my new fridge wasn't plugged in properly, so my insulin went bad overnight." I groan loudly.

Her face twists. “I’m sorry, Lark. Is there anything I can do to help?”

"No, don’t worry about it. I was just gonna grab my backup stash from the fridge in my office," I explain as I rush back there.

Popping the door to the small fridge open, I grab for the only vial in here, and my heart sinks to my stomach at the sight. I've fucked up. Again.

There's maybe half a dose left in this tiny vial of short-acting insulin, but it'll have to do.

You need to get a fucking pump, Lark.

There’s a pounding in my temples. I should’ve just used the warm insulin. It might not be as effective, but I’d have been able to get a full dose. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty though.

At least I hadn't eaten anything yet. Of course this would happen on a Sunday when I'm due to change my damn continuous glucose monitor anyway, and of course, I forgot to put a new one on when I took the other off. My dead fridge has officially thrown off my entire day.

"No use in whining about it now. I'll just inject what I've got and call the pharmacy on the way to the game," I whisper to myself, preparing the syringe.

After disposing of the sharp, I run back to the front, waving at Betty as I go.

"Alright, Tiny, we're cookin' with gas here!" Her big, speckled head peers up from her seat in the back before she settles back in for the drive.

***

We rush along the side of the field, heading toward the bench my dad is always hovering by. He may own the team, but he's far more involved than most of these executives. He genuinely loves soccer and adores this team. And as it turns out, the coach is his best friend.

When he spots me, his arms open wide for me to step into him. He presses a kiss to my head. "Hey, little bird. What were those technical difficulties you speak of?"

He crouches down beside Tiny, giving him scratches behind the ears and pressing a kiss between his eyes.

"The fridge wasn't plugged all the way in, apparently, so my insulin got warm." His eyes flash up to meet mine, worry etched into his thick brows. "Don't worry. I stopped by the clinic and injected what I had left. I've already called the pharmacy, too, so it should be ready for me to pick up on the way home from here."

"You worry your old man, you know that?" he asks, groaning.

I shake my head, giving him a sly smile. "You are definitely not old." I roll my eyes, steering the conversation away from my lack of insulin.

"Maybe not, but some days, I think you age me." He chuckles, mussing my hair as if nothing's changed since I was a child.

"Oh, hush. Focus on the game," I tell him. Tiny and I arrived about twenty minutes into it, so the Divine Flyers are up by one goal.

Tiny stands by my side, his eyes tracking the men rushing behind the ball across the field. The sun is high in the sky, but the light breeze makes this the perfect weather for game day.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had the chance to attend one, but I’m glad to be here, and not just because of my new neighbor.

My eyes zero in on the man I've been thinking about a lot lately. Too much, in fact.

Gianni De Laurentiis rushes the field; his particular style of play as a striker has always been of interest to me. He doesn't play the position as a center-forward like most opt to. Instead, he acts as a target, allowing the sheer strength of his muscular legs to carry him across the field with ease, luring the other players away from their goal, and when the moment comes, he strikes . Literally.

His lithe body dashes back and forth as if he isn't using any energy at all. He's so fast that I almost find it hard to track him, but my body feels honed into him. Gianni has the speed of a jaguar and the stealth of one too. He's mesmerizing, strategic, and everything it takes to be an incredible player on the field.

His sinewy muscles drip with sweat, and just as soon as he gives Angel a silent instruction, the ball is being passed to him and driven right into the net. His teammates cheer, rushing to him on the field, slapping him on the shoulder, and dancing with excitement. Gianni pants with his hands on his hips, regaining control of his breathing as he returns their excitement with a guarded smile.

Dad watches me out of the corner of his eye, a brow quirked in question. "He gets better every day, doesn't he?" Dad asks from beside me, curious eyes still assessing me.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," I grunt, flushing with embarrassment, and thankfully, he lets it go.

***

The game is nearing the end, with the Divine Flyers in the lead.

My attention is still focused on Gianni as I'm seemingly unable to take my eyes off that gorgeous man, but Tiny stands abruptly at my side, staring me down, and what I’d thought was just a response to heat suddenly feels like so much more.

A heaviness settles in my chest, and my pulse begins to race.

Dad's eyes grow with worry as he takes this in. "Lark, did you eat anything after you took your insulin at the clinic this morning?"

"No." I groan, fully aware of why he's so concerned. I start to feel lightheaded, the edges of my periphery blurring.

Tiny places a paw steadily on my thigh, continuing to stare at me expectantly. "I'll be right back. I'll grab an electrolyte drink, just please, sit the hell down," Dad pleads with me, turning to run up the sideline.

Nodding my head, I move to take a seat on the turf, knowing that if I sit on the bench, I could pass out and hurt myself or someone around me, but as I do, my legs feel weak, and my vision goes black.