19. Jamie

Jamie

Wes is already gonewhen I pry my tired eyes open the next morning. There’s a green post-it note on his pillow, and I groggily reach for it.

Wanted to say goodbye with a BJ but you were so out of it I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Call you when I land in Nashville. Blake’s on the couch if you need ’im. Jess gets in at eleven. Love you.

His familiar scrawl soothes me, but the words he’d written? Not so much. I don’t need a babysitter, let alone two of them. What I do need is to get out of this bed, throw some clothes on, and go to my morning practice.

I’ve got people depending on me, damn it. Braddock may have given me the week off (or rather, he gave me an indefinite amount of time off, until I “get better”) but there’s no way I’m skipping work. We have an important tournament coming up in a few weeks. The kids need to be ready for it. My goalie needs to be ready. It makes me sick that another coach might be working with Dunlop just because I have a stupid cough and—

I nearly hack up a lung as I sit up in bed. Fuck. My eyes water, chest aching as I grip my side and cough so hard I fear I might’ve cracked a rib.

Heavy footsteps pound in the hallway. In a heartbeat, Blake appears at the door sporting a pair of plaid boxers and a serious case of bedhead. “Cheezus! You all right, J-Bomb?” he demands. “What can I get you? Water? Pain meds?”

I glare at him through another round of wild coughing. When he steps closer, I whip up my hand and choke out, “I’m fine.”

Disbelieving green eyes stare back at me. “You’re not fine. You sound like you’re about to drop dead any second. I’m calling Wesley!”

Luckily, my coughing fit stops at that moment. I stumble out of bed. “You don’t need to call Wes,” I say tersely. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Oh yeah? Then why you wobbling around like a…what wobbles? A little horse, right? A foal.” He looks pleased with himself. “Why you wobbling around like a foal? Hey—where you going?”

I stop in front of the door to our private bath. “I’m taking a leak,” I say through clenched teeth. “Is that allowed?”

Blake follows me right into the bathroom. To my annoyance, he crosses his huge arms over his huge chest and says, “Wesley said I can’t let you outta my sight. In case you fall or something.”

Oh my fucking God. “You want to hold my dick for me too?” I mutter.

He chuckles. “Naw, I’ll leave the dick-holding to your man. I’ll just watch.”

There is nothing more mortifying than taking a piss while your boyfriend’s giant teammate stands there watching. He then proceeds to follow me around the bedroom as I make a very labored effort to get dressed.

“You don’t need to doll up on my account,” he remarks as I button up my shirt.

“Not for you,” I bite out. “I’ve got practice in an hour.”

“Oh no he di-in’t.” Next thing I know, Blake is in front of me again. Unbuttoning my shirt. My weak attempts to bat his hands away are unsuccessful. “You’re not going anywhere except back to bed,” he orders. “Or on the couch, if you wanna watch some of the morning talk shows with me. You like The View? I do. Those broads are fun. I was on there once, d’ya know that? I hit on Whoopi. Struck out.” He pouts. “Bummer, huh?”

“Blake.”

He stops. “Yeah?”

“Stop. Fucking. Talking.” I’m being rude. I know I am. But holy hell, my head is killing me. My chest aches. My legs can barely support my own weight. Don’t my ears deserve some comfort? Can’t this behemoth shut up for five goddamn seconds?

A hurt look crosses his face. “Ah, okay. Sorry.” Then his features harden, and in that moment I can see why he’s so formidable in the ice. His don’t-mess-with-me glare is terrifying. “But you’re not going to practice, J-Bomb. Better wrap your head around that, because it. Ain’t. Happening.”

Blakeand I watch The View. In silence. I’ve suddenly got that Joni Mitchell song blaring in my head, about not knowing what I have ’til it’s gone. I actually miss Blake’s nonsensical chatter. The silence is excruciating. It makes me overly aware of my unsteady breathing, the wheeze in my chest every time I inhale. Whenever I hack, Blake silently reaches over and pats my back through the coughing fit. Once I’m done, he hands me a glass of water in an unspoken command to drink. Fuck. He really is a good guy.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

His head tips toward me.

“I'm sorry I told you to shut up, okay? I’m just not used to accepting help from anyone. I’m not used to being…” Helpless. I can’t even say the word. And now I feel my face getting hot, but I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment and frustration, or if my fever might be back. My sweatpants and hoodie are kinda damp, now that I think about it. I’m sweating.

“S’all good,” Blake mumbles.

I reach over and clap my hand over his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “No, it’s not. I was an ass, and I’m sorry. You’re a good friend, Blake.”

After a beat, he breaks out in a broad grin. “Damn right I am. Apology accepted, Mr. Cranky Pants. I know you’re just grumpy because—” He halts, frowning. “Your hand feels like an oven mitt. Well, if the oven mitt was in the oven getting roasted. Is your fever back?”

“No.” He gives me a wary look, but at least he doesn’t leap off the couch in search of a thermometer. I don’t think we have one, anyway.

He does bring me a glass of ice water and a bunch of pills, which I force myself to swallow. Unfortunately, they happen to be the drowsy kind, so it’s not long before I’m snoring on the couch.

I’m not sure how long I sleep for, but eventually I register the sounds of dogs barking. There’s a high-pitched Chihuahua and she sounds very pissed off. The Rottweiler she’s barking at…maybe he thinks the Chihuahua is in heat? He sounds kinda happy. Do Chihuahuas and Rottweilers breed? Are their offspring called Rottuas?

“Chiweilers,” I mumble.

The dogs stop barking.

“Did he just say ‘chiweilers’?” a female voice demands. “What the hell is a chiweiler?”

“Rottweiler Chihuahua mix breed,” comes a deep male voice. “Fucking duh.”

My eyes snap open and I groan when I see Blake and my sister Jessica in front of the couch. They’re both staring at me like I’ve grown horns and a pimp mustache.

Then Jess says, “Jamie!” and throws herself at me, hugging me tight enough to make my ribs ache. “Are you okay, Jamester? How are you feeling? Wow, you feel a little hot.”

“Shit,” Blake says irritably. “Is the fever back?”

“I’ve got this—I can take it from here. So buh-bye, you big mountain of man meat. I’m on duty now.”

Blake stubbornly shakes his head. “I promised Wesley I’d take care of him.”

“I give you permission to break that promise. Now shoo!”

“Guys…would you…” My voice sounds hoarse “…please stop yelling? My head is killing me.”

Concern washes over Jess’s brown eyes. Followed by the heat of accusation as she spins toward Blake again. “You didn’t tell me he had a headache!”

“I didn’t know!”

“What kind of nurse are you?”

“The kind who plays hockey!”

Their voices are raised again. I want to strangle them both. Groaning, I sit up and rub both fists against my eyes. “What time is it?”

“One,” Jess says. “Did you eat lunch?”

“Um…”

“Breakfast?” she prods. Then she glares at Blake. “You didn’t feed him? How’s he supposed to get well if he’s starving?”

“I’m not really hungry,” I offer. But it’s no use. The two of them are bickering again. This time the argument is over what I’ll be eating to regain my strength. Blake’s idea involves a trip to Tim Hortons, so he walks out the door.

I slump down on the sofa again, and for many blessed minutes nobody bothers me, because Jess is rattling around in the kitchen cooking something. The ache in my head eases a little. Time slips by, and the only sound is the TV trying to sell me luxury cars and pharmaceuticals.

The peace is shattered when the door opens again, admitting Blake. “I have food, J-Babe!”

“What did you call me?” Jess yelps from the kitchen.

“How did you get in?” I slur from the couch.

“Made myself a key,” Blake says, dropping it into his pocket. He sets a big box down on the table and pops it open. “Brought you a turkey club on a honey cruller! All the food groups in one handy package.”

“A…” I must have misunderstood, because I swear he said he brought me a sandwich on a donut. That is just wrong.

Jess marches toward the couch with a plate in her hand. “Keep that away from him,” she snaps. “I made him an organic kale omelet.” She thrusts the plate onto my lap and sticks a fork in my hand.

Not to be outdone, Blake plops a scary looking donut club sandwich on the plate beside it.

I want to tell both of them where to shove it, but that will only lead to more arguing. So instead I take a small bite of the omelet. And then a nibble of Blake’s creation.

Chewing. Swallowing. These are things I used to find easy. But my head aches and my stomach isn’t at all sure about this. I chase another bite of omelet—heavy on the kale—with a syrupy bite of donut.

“That’s health food right there,” Blake crows.

Jess puts her hands on her hips and begins to argue. And I can’t take it anymore. The room spins for a moment before my vision clears, but the rush of nausea that floods my gut only gets stronger.

“Fuck,” I choke out.

I heave myself off the couch. The hall bathroom seems too far away, but I just make it, slamming the door behind me and then bending over the toilet to ralph my brains out.

I'm still gasping and trembling when I feel warm hands on my shoulders. My vision is fuzzy again. A cold, wet cloth sweeps over my face.

“You need to go back to bed,” Jess says softly.

I think she might be right. So I clean myself up for a second and then stumble to my room. I crawl under the covers and listen while Jess and Blake yell at each other over whose breakfast made me boot.

The wooziness stayswith me all day. I think I’m pretty feverish, but I don’t say anything, because I don’t want any attention. Rest is the only thing I need.

Jess claims that we’re low on groceries, which may or may not be true. But she sends Blake out with a list, maybe to keep him busy. The two of them forget about me for a while, which is perfect.

I have more fever dreams, though. There are periods of complete confusion when I open my eyes and don’t know where the hell I am. I feel cold, my entire body breaking out in shivers as ice flows through my veins. No, wait, I’m hot. It’s blistering in this room. Jesus Christ, do we live in a furnace?

I frantically rip off my hoodie and sweats, but the fabric just stays tangled around my limbs.

“Furnace,” I say to the walls. “Feel like a furnace.”

The room doesn’t answer back.

The next time I wake up, it’s dark out. I don’t know what time it is, or what day.

I don’t know why I’m so out of it. They told me I didn’t have the sheep flu. They said it was just the normal flu, damn it. I should be getting better.

So why do I feel worse?

I miss Wes. I want Wes. Did I talk to him today? I don’t remember. But I want to hear his voice. Instead, I hear a strange sound, like a Chihuahua and a Rottweiler mating. There are weird little yips and low grunts, and the low hum of the vibrating chair.

Weird.

I’m just trying to make sense of the noises when the phone lights up on the nightstand. Even though I’m bleary, the display clearly says WES, and I’m overjoyed.

“Hello?” I slur into the phone. “Do we have dogs?”