Page 13 of Wicked Player

When her heart exploded, we’d have instant access to the Emergency Room.

Sensing my growing frustration as only my assistant could, Pat walked up and stepped in between Karen and me. “How about we let Gage run through his speech again, shall we? That way we can be assured he won’t mess it up out there.”

Karen’s eyes went wide and she gaped like a fish. “Mess up?” She whipped her head toward me, panic paling her already light skin. “Mess up? You can’t. We have to get this right.”

I lifted my phone. My speech was on it, but I didn’t have to look at the screen to know what I wanted to say. I’d grown up in hospitals like this, the outsider kid who wasn’t ill but still had to practically live in them. I could rehearse my speech in my sleep at this point.

“I’ve got it, Karen. And I won’t mess up. I promise.”

Unless I couldn’t get my mind off the woman from last night. I went to bed thinking of her, jacking off when I never felt the need after a night at Velvet. Then again in the morning and that wasn’t because of male need, either. It was pure blonde hair and petite curves on my mind. God, she was fucking incredible. So obedient, so pliant….so damnintoeverything we did. I wanted a repeat and badly. I had already stopped myself from getting a hold of Tristan more than once. I should have been focusing on the day and the upcoming weeks. The upcoming game on Sunday. Instead, my mind was back in that room with blonde hair so sparkling white splayed out on gray sheets. Soft little whimpers, louder begs and pleas. Damn. Yeah.

Shit. Get her out of my head for three hours. That was what I needed to do. Listening to Karen droll on and on wasn’t helping a damn thing. She started talking and I spaced out.

“Well, good. The local news reporters are taking their seats. We have the Raleigh stations sitting up front and the rest of the state’s newscasters behind them. There’s also ESPN and your old college even sent a reporter. Really, Gage, this press conference is important.”

Like I didn’t know. And Karen was past the point of irritating me. She was now officially pissing me the fuck off.

I’d donated millions to this project, working closely with the contractors and the hospital to get this children and family wing built from the ground up. It took two years of fundraising and lobbying my friends and any connections I had to get this thing to open up.

That I was now in a place of prosperity to be able to build something like this should have made me feel like a king. I could throw millions around and make dozens if not hundreds of people happy, even if it was on a temporary basis.

But that was the thing about happiness—it was so often temporary. Instead, all of this work, the culmination of years of planning and hard work, didn’t make me feel successful.

“I need a break.”

At Karen’s shocked expression, I lifted a hand. “Thirty minutes. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

I took the elevator to the fifth floor of the children’s hospital. I had no destination in mind, just the burning need to relax and get my head in the game. In an hour, I was going to stand in a room full of reporters holding a press conference where I’d explain why this was so important to me, why I threw so much of my own money into this project—sixty-five percent of the total cost— and what the plans were for the next two weeks before the official ribbon cutting ceremony on the Sunday of our bye week. As a bonus, I’d gotten guys and friends from the local NHL and NBA teams to come on out too. It’d be hours of interacting with the kids, and every guy who volunteered had approached me because most of the men I knew playing professional sports were really fucking awesome.

Soon, I found myself outside a familiar door. My feet pulled to an abrupt stop.

I peeked in through the window and like every time I saw him, my chest tightened at the sight of Brandon. Nine years old. Leukemia. Second appearance. His cheeks were swollen and puffy from chemo. His bald head covered with a Rough Riders stocking hat. If he turned the other way, it’d have my number eighteen on the back.

He’d been in and out of this hospital ever since I was traded to the Rough Riders.

Nine fucking years old and he had spent almost half his life in a room with bright yellow walls, beeping machines, and the taste of chemo in his mouth.

A warmth pressed to my forearm and I flinched from the sudden contact.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Gage.”

Brandon’s mom Penny was there, smiling at me like she always did. That one where her lips turned up at the same time the rest of her expression pulled down. It fucking killed me every time I saw it.

It didn’t take a genius to understand why I was particularly drawn to this family, this patient.

Brandon Miller was fighting to live and conquer the same disease that had killed my little brother.

“He’s not looking better.” I could hardly pull my eyes from his frail body, tucked and covered by at least a half-dozen blankets.

Her hand on my arm squeezed tightly. She was cold and shivery, strong as steel. I met them during his first round of chemo when I stopped for a children’s visit to hand out jerseys and footballs. People thought I did it for the PR, but they were wrong.

I did it because I knew how much my brother would have loved it.

“He has moments, and if they can get the infection to go away, we’ll see improvement soon.”

Penny was always so hopeful. She never doubted her kid would, in fact, beat this horrible disease. Hell, she even found a way to smile after her husband left her, claiming the stress and fear was too much for him. Maybe all she had was hope to cling to. She was the most amazing woman I’d ever met outside my mom.

“I’ll let him sleep, but if he wakes up, have a nurse come get me? I have a press conference to do here this afternoon.” I dropped my head. “No joke, Penny. I don’t care if I’m in the middle of speaking and I’ll let the nurse’s station know. He wakes up, I want someone to come get me.”

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