I’m an observer.
A sly one at that.
I’ve been called many things throughout my hockey career, and though I sometimes clown around on the ice, what I do is a true art. In other words, I’m crafty. When slicing my skates against the ice, moving toward the puck with my witty remarks, my focus is on pinching off the forward, forcing them toward the boards and never even coming close to our goalie.
Coach wants to punch me ten times out of ten when I seem out of position, but he knows I have an unmatched ice awareness and always seem to be exactly where I’m needed when the puck spills out. Emory and I have grown up on the ice together, and at this point, we’re a package deal. I defend him, and he defends the net. It’s a flawless relationship.
He skates over to me in a rush after talking to Coach for a quick second. “We gotta go.” He pulls his mask off, and his sweaty hair flings off to the side.
“What? Why?” I pull my mask off and grin. “Don’t tell me. Coach told you that we’re both just so fuckin’ good that we don’t need practice.” I throw my stick up in the air, and our team captain ducks.
“You need practice on how to shut up,” Theo snaps, jumping over my stick.
“Ford.” Emory is stoic. My smile falls, and I already know what he’s about to say. He has his serious face on–which isn’t that far off from his regular face, but I know the difference.
“Where is she?” I ask, swiping down to snag my stick. We skate off to the side, and thankfully, practice is coming to an end, so we don’t have to persuade Coach that, although I’m not blood-related to the Olson family, I’m still considered as much, which means when there’s a family emergency, it also applies to me.
“Hospital.”
My heart sinks. I follow after Emory while quickly pulling my hockey gear from my body on the way to the locker room. Emory is too slow for my liking, so after I throw all my shit in a pile, I rush over to him and help him with his pads, even though he tries to slap my hands away. We’re in his car seconds later, and he shows me his phone.
I read the text and sigh.
Taytum. Taytum. Taytum.
She has caused so much trouble in my life, and she doesn’t even mean to.
Well, most of the time, she doesn’t. Other times, yeah, okay…she’s well aware. Like the other day, when she tagged along to a party because she knew I’d keep my eye on her instead of following the blonde so I could have five minutes of peace with a mindless puck bunny.
Rude.
Emory is on the phone with his parents when we make it to the endocrinology floor, but I can’t pay attention to what he’s saying. The sterile scent of alcohol burns my nose and pulls on my usually calm strings, sending my heart flying.
My shoulders are tense, and my skin is itchy.
I loathe hospitals, and anyone close to me knows it. Taytum is pretty much the only person I’d ever make the sacrifice for, which is becoming a nuisance, considering this is happening more and more lately.
By the time Emory and I make it outside her hospital door, he nods to her doctor, who is someone I now know on a first-name basis. Which isn’t a bad thing at this point because, in a couple of seconds, he may become my doctor too. My pulse is alarmingly high, and if the annoying beeping sounds in the hallway don’t cease, I’m going to snatch his stethoscope and plug my ears so I can hear nothing but the echoes.
“She’s sleeping,” Dr. McCarthy says, coming up beside Emory.
Doubtful. If I know Taytum as well as I think I do, she’s fake sleeping to get out of any conversation regarding her health.
“Let me guess.” Emory crosses his arms. “She’s refusing whatever you’re trying to sell her.”
The doctor sighs dramatically. “She’s my most stubborn patient. Her nonchalant behavior regarding her diabetes concerns me.” He scratches his head. “I want her to wear a glucose monitoring system at all times to track her sugar. Once we can be certain that the insulin is the correct dosage for her body, then she can use an insulin pump, and her forgetful moments will be a concern of the past.”
My assumption is that Taytum isn’t necessarily being forgetful.
She’s in denial.
Emory has his phone in his hand as he’s listening, likely typing everything out so he can repeat it back to his parents. “And what will an insulin pump do?”
I answer for the doctor. “Automatically inject the insulin at the right times and with the proper dosage. There is less risk of high and low sugars.” Dr. McCarthy stares at me, and I shrug. “I like to do research.”
He seems to take my answer with pride and continues. “Until we can be certain her blood sugar is staying in range with the glucose monitor, I don’t want her driving. Her levels are unstable, and they really shouldn’t be, since her body has reacted to the insulin perfectly fine. I think it’s her.”
The longer Dr. McCarthy talks, the higher my blood pressure goes.
Part of me wonders if he can see my pulse beating against my neck. He’s probably about to call some code so the nice people in the white coats will pick me up and lock me in the psych unit for my near panic attack from being in a hospital.
He steps forward and pats Emory on the shoulder after looking at me for a second too long, in my opinion. “See what you can do. I’ve always been a big advocate for listening to my patients, but their safety is my number one priority.”
Emory nods and dials his parents as soon as Dr. McCarthy walks away. I escape into Taytum’s room–anything to put me farther away from the annoying reminders that there are numerous patients hooked up to machines keeping them alive.
The door shuts quietly behind me, and I stop just as it hits me in the back. Seeing her, even in a hospital bed, cools the sweat trailing down my back.
I’ll blame it on the rush from practice, but it’s very clear that it’s due to the anxiety of being here. I’m like this every time I come to a hospital, and every time, I deny it until I’m blue in the face.
Taytum’s blonde hair lies in waves around her face, and I drop my eyes to her wrist, seeing the scrunchie there. She must have pulled it down in the midst of being wheeled up here, since she was clearly at practice if her tight, pink leotard has anything to say about it. Her ballet shoes are thrown onto the floor, and I smirk at the hospital gown that is bundled up beside the worn pair.
Refusing to wear a hospital gown is typical Taytum behavior.
“I know you’re not asleep,” I say, walking closer to her bed.
The faint beeping of the machine she’s hooked up to pulls my attention just as Emory opens the door and stomps into the room.
“Shh.” I put my hand up. “She’s asleep.”
I’ll throw you a bone, Tay.
She may act like she hates me, but she can’t deny that I have her back from time to time.
“Mom,” Emory lowers his voice. “Taytum is sleeping right now, but I’ll lower the volume and put you on speaker because Ford is in here. He can probably help.”
I shoot Emory a look because he knows I hate it when he puts me in this position, mainly because he knows I’ll do anything his parents ask of me.
I owe them, even if they refuse to acknowledge it.
“Hi, Ford.”
I lean toward Emory’s phone. “Hey, Ma.”
I have two mother figures in my life: my aunt Jo, who I call Mom, and then Emory and Taytum’s mom, who I call Ma most of the time. Neither one signed up to mother me but they both rose to the occasion anyway, and I know it hasn’t always been easy.
“Okay, boys. We are gonna need your help,” Mary-Ann says. “Since Dr. McCarthy doesn’t want Taytum to drive, you may need to step up.”
“We can do that,” I discreetly look past the phone and notice the tiniest crevice in between Taytum’s eyebrows. I knew she was awake.
“And we need to talk her into the glucose monitoring system. It will automatically track her sugar.”
“Maybe then she’ll take it more seriously if she knows she can’t lie about it,” Emory grumbles.
Mary-Ann sighs through the phone. “Emory, have some compassion. This whole thing is a learning curve, and her life has been turned upside down.”
The memory of Taytum in the hospital this summer still makes my heart finicky. I blame it on the fact that hospitals are a trigger to me, but that isn’t the only reason I get sick to my stomach with the thought.
I take my hand and rub it over my face as Mary-Ann continues on with our new job. “She simply cannot drive right now, and I want you to watch her at dance practice when you can…” There’s a pause. “Just in case.”
Oh, she’ll just love that.
The beeping noise that’s been faint since the moment I stepped into the hospital room is gaining more traction. I flick my attention past the little divot carved into Taytum’s forehead and watch her heart rate join the party. I creep toward the machine and put my back to it. In an attempt to de-escalate the rising tension and Taytum’s distress, I crack a joke.
“I can quit hockey and take up dancing. I’ll twirl beside Taytum and be the star of the show. That way, I can keep an extra-close eye on her.”
Emory rolls his eyes and ignores me–per usual–but the worry line in between Taytum’s closed eyes smooths.
Mary-Ann laughs quietly, but then she starts back up again. “Part of me wants to try to convince her to move home for a while. I’m sure the school would understand and put a pause on her scholarship.”
The beeping behind my back fires up, and I count backward in my head. 3, 2, 1…
“That is completely unnecessary!”
I turn my head and can’t help my smirk.
Taytum is in all her glory, commanding the room with her angry little scowl and flushed cheeks.
I won’t admit it out loud, but it’s highly amusing.
