Chapter 21

: Andi

I f you’d asked me to predict how this visit was going to go, I’d never in a million years have picked anything remotely related to an ice bath. Of course, I hadn’t predicted helping myself to his home gym and wiping out on the treadmill in the process. But back to the ice bath ...

I’m kind of jealous of him. It makes sense that he has one. After a grueling game, it’d be nice to have a quick soak. I have nowhere in my apartment to put one.

That’s a first world problem for another day.

Right now, I’m nursing a probable concussion which is not even the worst of it. When I get home, I’ll unpack the disaster tonight was. And we haven’t even begun to figure out how to solve the initial problem.

Though, it could have been worse. He didn’t laugh at me. I would have bet money that Brandon Nix was the type to laugh when someone fell. Instead he was ... well, he’s being great. I certainly did not expect a caregiving side to him.

As I slide a faded Boston Buzzards T-shirt over my head and slip into a pair of Brandon’s shorts—sans bra and underwear—I realize that this looks bad. Really bad. Like if someone saw me, I might as well toss my entire career in the landfill bad.

There’d be no way to explain this away.

The truth sounds ridiculous.

Every interaction with Brandon Nix takes my situation and moves it from bad to worse. This is probably as bad as it can get.

I look at the bottle of Advil and wonder if I can take the whole thing. My head hurts so bad, I can’t imagine that two will even touch it. The room sways a little bit, so I sit down. Seriously, why does he have a wooden throne in the bathroom?

Knock. Knock.

“You okay in there?” The door opens a crack. “Andi, are you—what are you doing?” Brandon stops as he sees me, my hands braced on my knees, willing the room to stop swaying.

“Why do you have a throne in your bathroom?” In the grand scheme of things, this seems like a small, unimportant detail, but for some reason, I have to know.

“It’s called a hall tree.”

“It looks like the love child of a royal chair and a coat rack.”

“Are you okay?”

I look up at him and squint, trying to pull him into focus. “I have a concussion.”

He nods. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

I stand up and pretend that I don’t sway like I’m drunk. “I’ll be fine. We just need to get this all figured out so I can go home and try to keep myself awake for the next 24 hours.”

Brandon turns and I follow him out to the kitchen. “Actually, according to our trainer and team physician, they changed the protocol. Now rest is encouraged because it’s healing. You just have to have someone keep an eye on you.”

This man knows every weak point I have and how to poke it immediately. How do I admit there’s no one to take care of me? I’m not the one who gets taken care of.

“I’ll be fine. Let’s get this over with so I can go.”

Brandon looks at me for a minute before shaking his head. He turns and walks to the table where his laptop sits. He puts his glasses on as he sits down at the oak table. Seriously, was there a deal on oak?

Also, the glasses ...

“This is an interesting table.” I can’t help myself. It’s like my internal filter went flying out of my brain as it rattled around my skull on the treadmill.

Brandon doesn’t look up. “I bought the place furnished. Hence the hall tree. I’m not exactly the hall tree type. When I re-do a room, I get rid of what was in there and then add my own stuff. I haven’t got to the kitchen yet. Obviously.”

That makes so much more sense.

“How long have you lived here?”

He looks around. “Um, six years?” He says it as a question, like I know the actual answer. I look around too. The only room that looks like Brandon is the home gym.

“Cool.” I don’t know what else to say. Words are swimming around my bruised brain but not forming any sort of cohesive thought.

“Okay, back to why we’re meeting.” He’s all professional. The glasses give sexy businessman vibes. “I was thinking that maybe the only common ground we have is that we both have siblings that mean a lot to us. My sister is currently in recovery from a pill addiction. That’s what she’s doing in Wyoming. She’s on a ranch, trying to stay clean and sober.”

Those words cut through the fog. Well, now I feel like a piece of shit.

Also, this makes so much more sense as to why he flew off the handle last night.

I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry. My comments last night were way out of line.”

“You were being honest. It’s not like I’ve never thought them myself. Hell, I’ve thought things that were so much worse. It’s something I’m defensive about. I just don’t like hearing them from other people. Double standard, I know, but you know how it is with siblings.”

I do know how it is with siblings.

His apology goes a long way, but it’s still hard to trust someone like Brandon Nix with my career. I decide to take a page from his book and be brutally honest. “I don’t really like you, and I’m fairly confident the feeling is mutual. We don’t have to like each other, but if we both want to keep our jobs, we need to help each other. If I can’t come up with a reason we’ve been seen together, I’m done forever. The positive spin of a charitable venture may put you back in good graces and take you where you want to go. Do you think you can put on a show and work with me on some benevolent undertaking that will help us both out?”

It feels amazing to say what I’m actually thinking and feeling, instead of keeping it all bottled up.

Brandon keeps looking in his lap. I’m half tempted to stand up and look to see what’s so interesting, but I also don’t want to invite any lewd comments from him. Also, standing up seems like a lot of work at this moment.

“What do you say?” I gently nudge.

“We need to get this out there fast, don’t we?”

I am thinking about my meeting in three short days. “Yeah, but it’s probably too little too late for me. I’d like to try even so. I have nothing to lose at this point.”

“It’d be nice to create our own organization, but that seems like a lot of work. Maybe we can find an already existing charity and see if we can get involved?” Brandon muses.

He makes a good point. “Can you reach out to your agent or manager and ask them if they can research for you? And then maybe reach out on your behalf? I don’t have an agent, but if you can get your foot in the door, you can throw my name in it too. I’m willing to do whatever.”

Brandon’s laugh is low and bitter. “My agent is the most unlikeable fuckwad you’ve ever met. He hates me, and there’s no way in hell he’d want me to do something that doesn’t net the both of us a fat wad of cash.”

I want to school my reaction, but that takes more energy than I possess. “Tell me how you really feel.”

Brandon takes a deep inhale, indicating a tirade is on the way. While part of me would like to know, a larger part of me wants to die right now, so we need to stay on task.

I interject quickly. “Just kidding. Let’s just pick something on our own then.”

“What’s wrong with your brother?” Brandon asks abruptly.

Concussion or not, his words are like nails on a chalkboard. “Nothing’s wrong with him.”

Brandon rolls his eyes. “You said he had a terminal illness. What was it again? Something with muscles? I was only half listening. And what’s his name?”

Brandon is like so many people who don’t realize how it sounds when he asks what’s wrong. Benj as a person is perfect. Benj’s muscles are another story.

“Benjamin. I call him Benj. He has a disease called Spinal Muscular Atrophy. The nerve cells in his spinal cord that control his voluntary muscles don’t work, and it causes his muscles to waste away. It’s a genetic thing. When he was born, the life expectancy for his type was maybe upper twenties to early thirties. He’s thirty-two and doing so well apparently that he can go on a cross-country road trip with his girlfriend.”

“Can he walk?”

“No, he never could. He used to be able to sit on his own, but he’s gotten weaker as he’s aged. He uses a power wheelchair and will 100 percent run you over if you get in his way. His spine is super curved, and that can have a negative impact on his lungs and breathing. He can feel everything normally, and his cognition is super high. He’s way smarter than I am.”

“Okay, well your sob story is much better than mine.”

I’d take offense, but this is Brandon Nix. I don’t think he even knows what it means to think before you speak. On the other hand, he’s been surprisingly kind tonight, so maybe I’ll cut him some slack this one time.

“I think I should be the judge of that. What’s your sob story?”

He pushes his glasses up on top of his head, pulling his hair off his face. “I don’t have a sob story.”

I smile at his glib attempt at denial. “Your sister’s a recovering addict and you said your mom was dead. Of course, there’s a sob story.”

“You mean like the time my mom and sister were visiting me for my last U18 tournament and my sister was a new driver, but she was pretty good. They were just out driving around between games. It was the middle of the day. They were T-boned by a drunk driver and my mom was killed. Jess was hurt but also saw our mom die a gruesome death, and it messed her up. She became addicted to the pain pills they prescribed her because of her injuries.”

My lips form a small O. “I’m sorry.”

“Listen, I don’t want your pity.” He stands up and begins pacing.

“I’m not giving you pity. I’m just saying I’m sorry because it’s a sucky thing to have happened. Just like having a brother with a genetic mutation that robs him of movement while keeping his brain totally functioning. It sucks. Sometimes there’s nothing more to say than that.”

Brandon turns back and looks at me. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I agree with you. It fucking sucks.”

That it does.