Page 35 of Challenge
It bothers me to not be going to the match, but not as much as it would bother me to sit on the sidelines and not play. Plus, if I go to the match, I’ll be expected to talk to the press. I’m not ready for any of that until I have my follow-up surgery and can start training at full throttle again. I need to lie low for the next month or two. Then we’ll see how things turn out.
As I thumb through the pages, the familiar scent of paper and ink wakes a part of my brain that’s been dormant the last few days.
I’ve loved reading for as long as I can remember, and writing in the margins makes me feel like an active part of the story. I highlight plot points and underline areas that might be symbolic to what’s coming. I think I love puns so much because of the double entendres they can represent. Plus, I’ve always thought it might be something my mother would have appreciated about me.
Last year, Vi gave our brothers and me a bunch of poetry our mum had written. She was a full-blooded Swede so some of it had to be translated. She and our dad met while she attended University in London. Gareth told me once that he remembers Mum yelling at Dad in Swedish when they fought. I would have liked to have heard more, but pulling memories about Mum out of Gareth is more difficult than pulling teeth. Reading her poetry made me feel connected to her, though. Her poems were chock-full of symbolism and clever rhymes, not terribly unlike puns.
I start rereading my margin notes to familiarise myself with where the plot was headed last I left off. An unfamiliar script stops me in my tracks.
“What the hell?” I whisper and turn the book sideways to get a closer look.
It’s not that the woman did not know how to juggle, she just didn’t have the balls to try.
I touch my fingertips to the inked pun inside my treasured book and know instantly it had to be Indie who wrote it. After our bit about puns, there’s no one else it could have been. Did she do it when she left my room that night?
I recycle the words over and over in my mind, attempting to look for the hidden message within the phrase. That’s what I love most about puns. They aren’t just funny one-liners; most are full of symbolism. I know she’s trying to say something more than what’s written here.
I check the time and note that Indie should still be at work right now. After my harsh brush-off, I’m not sure she will be receptive to a phone call or a text, though.
Plus, mysteries are easier solved in person.
My well-rested brain kicks into overdrive. Before I realise it, I’m sliding my legs into a pair of jeans and throwing on a T-shirt.
Maybe my redheaded distraction still has some potential after all?
“IT’STEQUILASUNRISE TIME, baby!” Belle hoots, chasing me out the door of the hospital and into the unseasonably warm spring evening. She throws her arm around my shoulder and pulls me to her. “Stop moping now, Indie, darling. We have finished our nine-day stretch and we’re going to Club Taint as planned. We’re going to have a wild time.”
My lip curls. “My own bed sounds better right now.”
“No!” She halts me in my tracks and turns me to face her. “I let you mope these last few days at work, but now you’re done. You’ve earned the respect of the resident staff and most of the attendings. You should be feeling on top of the world after the week you’ve had. We need to celebrate!”
“I know,” I reply with a sigh, even though Prichard has been acting cold toward me ever since we finished Camden’s surgery. I keep trying to convince myself that maybe he wasn’t trying to kiss me in the OR, but his mood shift begs to differ.
“Who cares about that wanker, footballer Camden Harris? He’s probably gay. That’s the only logical conclusion.”
“He’s not gay,” I reply, horrified as the memory of his firmness creeps to the forefront of my mind. I can’t believe I groped him like that.
“Bisexual then. Who cares? He probably wanks off to images of football for God’s sake.” She turns, linking arms with me, and continues walking down the side of the hospital where we have to split off in different directions. “The Penis List is still a solid plan. You won’t convince me otherwise. We’re going to find an even better player tonight. One who’s much less needy. Footballers are dramatic pansies anyway. Let’s go for a rugby player. Or maybe one of those underground fighters. You need a bloke you won’t be inspired to break the rules for and thenget to know him.” She pierces me with her dark eyes. “This is happening, Indie. We have five days off. Now is our time.”
I exhale at the knowledge that fighting a determined Belle is useless. Deep down, I know she’s right. The whole scene with Camden was horrid. It reminded me of a time in primary school when I explained that the poemAutumnby Emily Dickinson wasn’t about the changing of the seasons, but about death and the decline of Christianity. Everyone laughed, even the teacher.
I’ve just always seen things differently and still do. The way he was so aloof and brushing me off outside the hospital after everything we talked in depth about is ridiculous. I can’t let him or anyone revert me back to that guileless, insecure girl ever again. That’s not who I am anymore.
I force a smile and push my black-framed glasses up my nose a bit. “You’re right,” I agree. It’s time to move on from Camden, and I’m ready for a night out with my best mate. “I’m sorry and I promise I won’t let one stupid arsehole spoil our Tequila Sunrise time.”
“Too right!” she sings, breaking away from me to head toward her flat in the opposite direction. Walking backwards she shouts, “Go home. Shower. Shave your wobbly bits…Do whatever you need to do to get tarted up and ready for our night.”
I turn the corner, still watching her retreat and frown when her face falls. “Indie…look out!”
Smack.I run right into a large hard object. I let out an embarrassingly girlie yelp and hunch over to grab my aching knee. I wince at the searing pain and glare at the metal pedestrian sign. The bastard has a lot of nerve being stuck in the concrete so firmly. As I release a slur of expletives, a pair of helpful warm hands wrap around me from behind.
“Holy fuck,” Belle says. Her voice sounds far away, though.If they aren’t Belle’s hands on me, then whose are they?
I turn around and find myself in the hands of The Penis Prodigy himself: Camden Harris. The setting London sun is bathing him in golden light, turning him into a beautiful bronze, god-like wonder.
“Are you kidding me?” I groan, looking down to rub my knee.
“Are you all right?” he asks. His deep voice is soft and low, vibrating through my body with concern as he hovers over me with his hands on my back.
