21. Jamie

Jamie

One Week Later

It’sdéjà vu all over again.

Another release from the hospital. Another wheelchair. Another crowd of media vultures lurking outside, and another speedy getaway in a hired car that Wes has waiting outside.

The last week has been hell. I found myself in that fucking hospital again. But I was out of it for the first three days. On the fourth day I woke up to find both my mother and nurse Bertha staring at me with worried expressions on their faces.

Never get pneumonia. Just don’t. It’s a real bitch.

But my fever is gone for good now. Mom flew back to California this morning with Jess, and I can’t say I’m not relieved, especially about the latter being gone. I love Jess, but she was not in a good place this week. She felt so incredibly guilty that I’d gotten a high fever on her watch that she stuck to me like Velcro the whole time I was in the hospital. My mother had to send her home a couple of times when I couldn’t take any more of her overbearing brand of love.

Wes and I don’t speak as we step out of the elevator. My legs feel a bit wobbly, and I stumble when we’re halfway down the hall, but when Wes tries to take my arm, I scowl at him. I’m sick to death of being fussed over and treated like I’m an invalid.

Without a word, his hand drops to his side. We reach our apartment. Wes jams the key in the lock and pops the door open. Inside, he throws the bag with my stuff in it onto the floor and then stands in the middle of the living room, staring at me.

“You need anything?” His voice is gruff. “Food? Shower? Tea?”

Tea? Like I’m a little old lady whose delicate stomach can’t handle good old coffee?

Bitterness rises in my throat. I force myself to swallow it down, because it’s not fair to Wes. It’s not his fault I got laid out on my ass with pneumonia. And I know what a panic he’s been in this past week.

He played another two games on the road before he could even come to the hospital to see me. Not that I noticed in my passed-out state. But the team wouldn’t give him a hardship leave because my sister and mother were converging on the hospital.

He told me this morning that he doesn’t even remember those games, he was so pissed off and worried, calling Jess and Mom and Blake every free moment he had.

I should be kissing his feet for being a concerned, loving boyfriend. But I’m not. I’m just…mad. At him. At my body. At fucking everything. And the drugs the hospital pumped me full of this week are wreaking havoc on my system. I started a course of steroids this morning, and they’re making me feel strange. It’s like a superficial high that doesn’t quite match the anger and resentment churning in my stomach.

Wes watches me warily. “Babe?”

I realize I haven’t answered the question. “I don’t need anything,” I mumble. “Gonna take a nap.”

Disappointment crosses his expression. He doesn’t have a game today, and I know he was probably hoping to spend some time together. But I’m not good company right now. I’m sick of being sick. I hated being in the hospital. I hate that I can’t go back to work until…until who fucking knows when. I called Bill last night and he ordered me not to even think about coming back for at least another week.

I don’t need another week. I just need my life back.

“Okay,” Wes finally says. “I’ll just…” His gray eyes dart around, then land on the hall table, which is stacked high with mail. “Open the mail, maybe pay some bills.”

A scornful remark almost flies out. Do you even know how?

Since we moved in together, Wes hasn’t taken care of any house-related shit. Laundry. Bills. Cleaning. I do it all, because he’s too busy being an NHL sensation to—

Enough, an internal voice commands. Maybe it’s my conscience. Or the part of me that is madly, deeply in love with this man. Either way, I’m not being fair again.

So I inject genuine gratitude into my response. “Thanks. That would definitely make my life easier if you did that. And keep a lookout for the hospital bill—” I stop and gulp, because it just occurred to me that a two-week hospital visit might very well drain my savings account. Maybe even max out my credit cards. I’m not a Canadian citizen, so I’m not sure if my insurance will cover the entire stay.

“Oh, there won’t be one,” Wes says, waving a hand. “I already paid your deductible. Insurance covered the rest.”

I clench my jaw. He paid my bill?

Wes frowns when he notices my expression. “What’s wrong?”

My voice comes out harsher than I intend. “Let me know the amount you paid and I’ll transfer the money into your account.”

He’s quick to protest. “It’s not a big deal, babe. I’ve got plenty of cash. Why put financial strain on yourself when I’m perfectly capable of—”

“I’ll pay you back,” I grind out.

There’s a long pause. Then Wes nods. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“It’s what I want.” I don’t know why I’m being so snappy. It just grates that Wes settled my hospital bill without even telling me. I get that he’s got oodles of money, but I’m not his...his fucking mistress. We’re partners, and I’ll be damned if I let him pay for everything.

After a beat of hesitation, he steps forward and touches my cheek. He strokes my clean-shaven skin. I actually got to shave this morning. By myself. Woo-fucking-hoo. But I guess I should be thankful for small mercies.

“Jamie.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m glad you’re better.”

A lump clogs my throat. Goddamn it. The relief in his eyes spurs a rush of guilt. I know I’ve been an ass to him this week. I snapped at him when he came to visit me. I balked when he suggested that maybe my mom and sister should stay longer. I resented him when I watched him on the hospital TV, skating like a champion and scoring goals while I was flat on my back, pissing into a bedpan. And now I’m picking fights about money, of all things.

“Me too,” I murmur, leaning into his warm touch.

He rubs my bottom lip, then presses his mouth to mine in a soft, fleeting kiss. “Okay, go nap. I’ll be out here if you need me.”

I’m about to ask him to join me, but his phone rings before I can open my mouth. Wes’s hand leaves my face and slides into his pocket. His gorgeous face creases in frustration when he sees who’s calling.

“Frank,” he mumbles to me, then steps away to take the call.

I linger long enough to glean that Frank the PR Wonder is on Wes’s case again about interviews. Or rather, the lack of interviews, because Wes is still refusing to talk to the media. He was supposed to finally do that Sports Illustrated interview, but then I got sick again and he postponed.

Just another bullet point on the long list of things fucked up by my illness.

I duck into our room and sit on the bed, leaning my head against the stack of pillows. I’m not tired. The steroids I’m taking to clear my lungs ensure that I’m wide awake and unnaturally alert, so sleeping isn’t an option right now. I only told Wes that because…damn it, I’m being an ungrateful ass again. But I need space. I need one frickin’ hour to myself, without nurses hovering over me or Wes asking me if I need something.

After five minutes of staring at the wall, I open my laptop and check my email. Holy shit. There are hundreds of them. My mom confiscated my phone in the hospital because she said I didn’t need anything distracting me from my recovery. At the time, I bitched like a pre-teen girl whose texting privileges had been revoked. Now, I’m glad she did it. My inbox is overwhelming.

There are messages from my college teammates—some asking me if I’m okay and some wondering why I didn’t tell them I was gay. Dudes, the joke’s on me, too.

There are Get Well Soon e-cards from my family and friends, but those are overshadowed by the scary amount of emails from media outlets. Every sports magazine I’ve ever heard of. People. Local and not local newspapers.

As I scroll through the interview requests, my stomach feels queasy. My life—my sex life—is under a microscope, and I don’t like it. It suddenly gives me a new appreciation for Wes, because I realize his spotlight is twice as large as mine.

Another message catches my eye. It’s from my boss. He sent it when I was in the hospital the first time.

Dear Jamie,

You tried to tell me about an issue with your co-coach and homophobic language, but I didn’t listen as well as I should have. I’m truly sorry. Our policy is unambiguous—no employer or player should have to put up with discriminatory language or a hostile work environment.

Please allow me to help you do now what I should have helped you do then. Attached is the form for filing a complaint. As soon as you feel well enough to do so, fill it out so that we can properly investigate your complaint.

I’ve learned a difficult lesson this week, and I’d like to amend my previous response to your inquiry.

Sincerely,

Bill Braddock

I have no idea how to respond. Making a complaint now seems so petty. Since I was keeping my bisexuality a secret before, I’ll look like some kind of spy. Like I was taking notes while they weren’t paying attention.

Danton shouldn’t get away with spreading hate, but I have to walk back into that rink in a few days. I don’t want to give all my coworkers the impression that I’ve been writing down everything they ever said in the locker room.

I’m rereading the email for the fourth time when Wes enters the bedroom.

“Why don’t you put that away and get some rest?” my boyfriend suggests. His grip is firm as he takes the laptop from me and closes it. “You look tired.”

Damn it. I feel tired. I hadn’t five minutes ago, but now my eyelids are starting to droop. The act of checking a few measly emails drained me of energy, and that feeling of helplessness jams in my throat again. I hate being weak. I hate it, and the anger drives me to snap, “Yes, Mom.”

Hurt flashes in Wes’s eyes.

Guilt pounds into me again. “I’m…sorry,” I whisper. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay.” But he still looks upset as he quietly leaves the room.