“YOU’RE GOING TO BE great. Don’t be nervous,” Vi coos as she strokes my hair over and over. I know she does it to calm herself more than me, so I bite my tongue to stop from telling her to piss off.
Two nurses just left my room after prepping me for surgery. One shaved my leg, the other started an IV drip. I already feel the effects of whatever meds they put in there to relax me, but they’re making me feel more emotional than calm.
I shift uncomfortably as I’m sprawled out on a hard, mobile bed that’s to take me to surgery any second. It’s different from the large VIP bed that smells like lemons and rain. Thank goodness for small favours, I think sullenly.
“You have to stop,” I growl, unable to bite my tongue any longer and shooing my sister’s hands off of me. My mood is dark, and the fact that I woke up to Beardie’s face instead of Indie’s didn’t help matters. “Where are Tan and Booker? Gareth?” I ask, feeling like I’m overwhelmed with the maternal hovering of my sister. Some annoying brotherly distractions could serve me well.
“They’re in the waiting room. I didn’t think you’d want everyone swarming you before the surgery. I can call them in here if you want,” she adds, her eyes bright and helpful.
I shake my head. She’s right. I’ll just get prickly and bark at them like I did yesterday. Best to just get this over with. “Dad?” I ask knowingly.
Her eyes turn soft. “Sorry, Cam. You know this is hard for him.”
Hard for him? I want to laugh. Imagine how it is for me since I’m the one going under. Surgery and my family do not have a good history, but nobody seems to be talking about that.
“Well, are we all ready for action?” Dr. Prichard’s deep voice bellows as he comes striding into the room, adjusting his blue scrub cap.
I look behind him, hoping to see Indie on his tail, but am disappointed when no one follows.
I’m angry. I’m angry that I’m angry. I’m angry that I care. She did exactly what she did yesterday and just left. I can’t get a read on her and it’s infuriating. I don’t like feeling powerless.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I murmur, trying not to roll my eyes.
“As I mentioned to you in our meeting yesterday, we’ll be video streaming the procedure to other clinics since it’s only the second time The Wilson Repair has been done in the UK. There are a lot of interested sports medicine surgeons eager to watch this all unfold. It’s exciting times in medical history.”
“You hear that, Cam?” Vi says, nudging me. “You’re helping other doctors by doing all of this. Isn’t that great?”
“Great,” I grind out. “Where’s…Dr. Porter?”
Dr. Prichard’s brows furrow. “Scrubbing in I’m sure. She had patients of mine she had to do rounds on before the surgery so…” His voice trails off and I look over to see what his eyes have zeroed in on. A pair of feminine red-framed glasses rest on my bedside table beside my Cross novel. I didn’t even realise she left those there. She must have run out in quite a hurry to leave those behind.
I glance back at Dr. Prichard’s narrowed eyes. “James Patterson fan, are you?” There’s a definite edge to his voice.
“For some time now,” I bite back, feeling certain we’re not talking about mystery authors. “It’s right up my alley.”
“I’m sure.” He forces out a laugh. It reminds me of Dr. Evil. All he’s missing is a facial scar and a hairless cat. “Well then, I best go join Indie and scrub in. This is a very big day for her. She had an article published in a medical journal on The Wilson Repair. Did you know that?”
“Why would I?” I feign ambivalence.
“She was an intern at the time and it’s how she got her job here. So she’d do about anything to scrub in on this procedure.”
I nod but remain silent. What is this spunk bubble trying to do? Create a divide? Well, I felt it before he even came in here, so he can pack away his cock feathers.
“We’ll see you in there, Mr. Harris.” He turns and walks out the door, and it takes all the control in my body not to throw my book at the back of his smartarse head.
“What was that all about?” Vi asks from beside me.
“Nothing,” I reply flatly. “Absolutely nothing.”
The amount of time it takes for an intern and a nurse to begin wheeling me through the hospital toward the OR is the same amount of time it takes for everything inside of me to crack. I feel like a bull in a china shop, ready to snap at any second.
First, a sleep and ditch from Indie. Then that prat of a doctor making it clear what I truly am to Indie: a step up in her career.
She never told me about the published article. When I think about how I told her I was scared, that I didn’t want to have the surgery, it’s no wonder she did anything she could to get me to stick around. She has everything to gain from this surgery. Hell, for all I know she’s laughing to her doctor friends about the footballer who actually believed she was a virgin.
As if I needed any more to Hulk out over, a text from my dad sends me toppling over the edge.
Dad: Cam, you may be a Gunner sooner rather than later. I’m so proud of you, Son. Call me after.
He can’t even bring himself to text the word “surgery.” His priority is all football and contracts instead of the fact that his son is going under the knife in less than thirty minutes. Defence mechanism or not, I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
My sister tries to hug me goodbye at the door, but I can’t even bring myself to embrace her back. I hand her my mobile and watch her retreat, envious that she’s out of the spotlight. She’s with Hayden and they’re going to have a baby. She’s always been the matriarch of our family. Our voice of reason. Our problem solver and our referee. When I think about all the times that Tanner and I have barged into her flat so she could settle a fight between us, it makes me wince. Now she’s going to be a proper mum to her own child. She’s not going to have time for our trivial shit anymore.
Everything is fucking changing. If I lose football after all this, I’ll truly have nothing. In a matter of two days, I went from having the world by the balls and being a sure-footed, footballer to an insecure, injured, emotionally-stunted pussy.
The nurse leans over me as she prepares to push me in. “Mr. Harris, are you all right? You’re looking pale.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” I brood.
A haze of neon lights cast over my head, and I look around to get my bearings. The OR is full of at least fifteen people all busying themselves with medical instruments. There’s a crew adjusting a huge telescope-looking camera above the operating table and a couple talking into headsets as they stand in front of some TV monitors.
They transfer me to the operating table and, before I lie back, my eyes land on a large glass window on the far wall. Behind the glass is Indie and Dr. Prichard. They are standing face-to-face, oblivious to our entry. I see his hand reach up and touch her cheek in a tender, intimate, and definitely familiar gesture.
Fury courses in my veins as I lie back on the table and, in a flash, my mind is made up. Whatever Indie Porter and I could have been will never happen. Camden Harris competes with no one, especially not wankers like Dr. Prichard. She’s not worth this much effort.
The anaesthetist is talking to me as he places sticky, round pads all over my chest and shoulders, but I can’t hear a word over the frustration roaring in my ears. He places a mask over my face, and the last thing I see before black is familiar, feminine, toffee-brown eyes behind a blue mask.
Bye, Felicia, I think ironically and do my best to ignore her tender touch on my shoulder as my vision fades to black.
