Page 73 of Blindsided
“Grandad is an early riser,” I state, kissing her temple. She’s so cute like this that I debate blowing off my morning and crawling back under the covers with her. “I’ll be back in plenty of time for our ride to the airport, though, okay?”
She nods and turns to look up at me. Her green eyes twinkle in the darkness, and the wee smile she gives me makes my heart melt. “I’ll miss you.”
Her words pierce through me like my heart is made of butter. I puff out my chest and compose myself before replying, “I’ll be back soon.” I press a quick kiss to her lips and then head out.
My grandad’s flat in Dundonald is small and loads different than the way he and my gran lived when she was alive. It’s stark and plain, like a true bachelor pad, all memories of her erased from his life except for a wee photo of her on the mantle. It’s not just my grandad’s surroundings that have changed, but him as well. He’s become thinner since her passing, and for the first time in my life, he actually looks like a grandad.
For a man who says women are nothing more than a distraction, he’s definitely taken the loss of my gran to heart. I can’t blame the man. As much as my grandpa said that football was the most important thing in the world, I knew he loved my gran fiercely. Maybe the absence of her is what helped him warm to Freya so quickly? Maybe he sees that there’s more to life than football.
I’m seated across the kitchen table from him, both of us with cups of tea in hand, and I’m mentally preparing myself for the football talk that I’m certain is about to happen.
Nothing could have prepared me for the three words that eventually do come out of his mouth.
“I’m sick, Macky.”
I frown, my body tensing at the severe expression on his face. “Sick with what exactly?”
His eyes focus in on mine as he replies, “The cancer.”
“What?” I ask, moving back in my chair and pushing away from the table.
“I have cancer,” he repeats as his lips purse together with concern.
My heart plummets with that word again. TheCword. I release my cup of tea and ball my hands into fists on my lap. “How bad is it?”
“It’s bad,” he replies, his expression grave. “They say I’ve probably had it for years. Your gran was always on me about getting myself checked, and I just ignored her because I’m a damn fool.”
“Christ,” I reply, my eyes doing their best to blink away the shock. “So what’s the plan? Chemo? Radiation? Surgery?”
Grandad shakes his head. “None of that.”
I frown back at him. “Why not?”
There’s a grim twist to his mouth when he replies, “It’s too far gone, laddie.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I growl, denial and confusion overwhelming all my senses.
“Watch your tongue in my house,” he admonishes and then relaxes his face instantly. “I’ve only got months left, they say. Maybe a year if I’m lucky.”
“Months?” I stand up from the table, the sound of the chair scraping the hard wood loud in the quiet heaviness of the kitchen. “You’ve only got months to live?”
I push a hand through my hair and begin pacing back and forth. This can’t be happening. My grandad isn’t even that old. Losing Gran was hard enough, now him? There’s no way this is happening. He can’t be fucking dying. Not yet.
“We should get a second opinion,” I say, turning wide eyes on him.
Grandad offers me a sad smile. “We already did, Macky. Your dad and mum and even your wee sister have been shuttling me to all sorts of doctors for the past year.”
“The past year?” My voice is guttural as I splay my hands out on the table and eyeing him harshly. “And none of you wanted to tell me about any of this?”
“There was no need,” he retorts, staring up at me with pain all over his face. “You didn’t need anything else messing with your focus for your first year in the Premier League.”
“Fuck football!” I roar, my hands lifting from the table and slicing through my hair as my entire world begins to spin.
Grandad’s chair tips over as he stands to meet me toe-to-toe. “Don’t say that shite in my house, goddammit!”
I inhale a shaky breath, staring into his angry eyes and feeling so much betrayal that it physically hurts. “You should have told me.”
His face softens, his shield of stony Scottishness fading away before my very eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you until we knew for certain.”
