Page 64 of Bagging the Blueliner
“You have any acetaminophen? Maybe a sports drink? You need fluids.” My mind raced, trying to piece together a way to keep from dragging her to the emergency room tonight.
“Drugs are in the bathroom. The mirror pops open to reveal a cabinet. No sports drinks, but I have some electrolyte drink mix I use for hangovers.”
“Even better. I’ll be right back.”
Standing, I became a man on a mission. First, I returned to the kitchen to find where she kept the powdered electrolytes. Mixing the powder into a tall glass of water, I brought it to her, imploring her to take a few sips while I grabbed the medicine to help reduce her fever. Bringing the bottle back to her bedside, I handed her two tablets.
Placing them on her tongue, she took a sip of water but winced as the pills slid down her throat. “Ow.”
“Sore throat, too?” I asked.
“Yeah. You name it. I’ve got it.”
“I want you to try eating some of this soup. Should go down a little easier than the pills.”
A corner of her lips quirked up. “I am curious. What is basic bitch chicken noodle soup?”
I chucked. “Broth, chicken, and noodles. Since apparently, you hate vegetables.”
“What are you talking about? I love certain vegetables. Cucumbers, eggplants, a girthy carrot . . .”
“Sorry to disappoint. They were fresh out of girthy carrots at the corner store.”
“Pity.”
Taking the bowl from the bedside table, I dipped the spoon inside the clear broth before bringing it to her lips. She obligedme for a few minutes but eventually held her hand up when she’d had enough. I wasn’t going to fight her to take more, so long as she kept drinking the electrolyte mixture.
Turning my body to sit beside her against her headboard, I glanced at the TV on the opposite wall. One of the West Coast hockey games was playing. The volume was so low that I hadn’t noticed it when I first walked in.
Leave it to Hannah. Even sick, she couldn’t stay away from the game.
Gesturing to the screen, I asked, “You catch any of our game?”
Clearing the mucous from her chest, she responded, “Yeah. You played like shit.”
“I was too worried about you.”
“No. You don’t get to blame it on me. A great player knows how to separate his personal life from the game.”
“Well, maybe I could have ifsomeonehad warned me they wouldn’t be there tonight,” I accused.
“I refuse to be your excuse. Take accountability for your own actions.” Another bone-jarring cough racked her weak body.
“You’re infuriating.” With how softly I said it, you could mistake it as a term of endearment. Maybe when it came to Hannah, it was.
“And you’re not getting any younger. Now’s not a good time to be distracted.”
“Are you saying you’re a distraction?”
“Seems like that’s whatyou’resaying.”
“I’m fine.” I insisted.
“I’m glad at least one of us believes that.”
She was wasting her breath arguing with me when she needed rest, so I dropped it. “Want me to turn it off? You need to rest.”
“Turn it up a little. The sounds are comforting. Plus, we need to keep an eye on San Francisco. They could win the Western Conference.”
