“Sloane?”
Chandler had picked up on the second ring. I’d spent the last five minutes gathering enough courage to press the button, and now that he was there, I had absolutely nothing to say.
“Sloane, hey.” His voice sharpened. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
I tried to answer, but my throat felt like somebody had dragged sandpaper across it. “I’m okay,” I managed, which was a generous interpretation of the word. “Still at the hospital. Sixth floor.”
He went quiet long enough for me to hear something scrape against the floor on his end. “Do you need me to call your dads?”
“No. They’re here. Well, Pops is looking for coffee, and Dad went home to shower.” I took a careful breath and glanced at the clock above the door. “I called because I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh.” He sounded surprised, which was fair considering I’d spent the last five weeks making sure he knew I didn’t want to talk. “Okay. I’m listening.”
I picked at a loose thread on my blanket, trying to figure out how to ask him to come without making it sound like an emergency. “Can you come? Not right this second if you’re busy. I know it’s Saturday, and you probably have stuff going on.”
“I’m not busy.” There was a pause, followed by the faint jingle of keys. “Are you sure you want me there?”
I closed my eyes. He had every reason to ask. I’d spent weeks making sure he understood I wanted him gone, and now I was calling out of nowhere and asking him to believe the opposite.
“I’m sure,” I whispered, rubbing the blanket between my fingers while I waited for his answer.
“Okay. I’ll come as soon as I can.” He hesitated before adding, “I’m glad you called, Sloane.”
After we hung up, I set the phone on my blanket and looked at it. I had no idea what to do with my hands. I couldn’t pace, and getting up to look out the window meant asking somebody to help me into the wheelchair. Instead, I sat there listening to the IV pump and rehearsing an apology that got worse every time I tried to improve it.
I wanted to tell Chandler I was sorry. I wanted to tell him I loved him and ask about soccer, Dashiell, and whether he’d eaten an actual meal on his birthday. Mostly, I wanted to see him walk through the door and know I hadn’t waited too long.
Stetson came back a few minutes later with a bottle of water and a cup of applesauce. He stopped beside my bed when he noticed the phone in my lap. “You okay?” he asked, setting the applesauce on my tray.
“I called Chandler.” I watched his face, waiting for the inevitable commentary.
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh. How’d that go?” He pulled the chair closer and sat down, looking more interested than he had a moment ago.
“He’s coming.”
Stetson nodded, and the corners of his mouth started creeping upward. “Cool. You want me to go?”
“Eventually. He’s not here yet, and I’m not sitting here by myself for an hour while you celebrate in the hallway.”
“Wow. Kicked out of my own overnight shift.” He reached for his phone and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll text Dad that you’re awake. And before you start worrying, I’m not telling Chandler what to say.”
“Good.” I took the water bottle he offered and managed a small sip.
“I’m also not telling you what to say.” He gave me a pointed look over the top of his phone. “Mostly because you never listen.”
I would’ve thrown a pillow at him if lifting one didn’t feel like an athletic event. Instead, I rolled my eyes and watched him settle back into his chair, satisfied that he’d contributed something useful to the conversation.
By the time Chandler arrived, the evening light outside had faded to a dull blue. Stetson met him in the hallway. Their voices were too low to make out until my brother said, “She’s awake. Just don’t make me regret being a supportive brother.”
Chandler appeared in the doorway a moment later, wearing a gray hoodie, dark jeans, and the same worn sneakers he always claimed had another six months left in them. His strawberry-blond hair stood up at the crown where he’d clearly run his hands through it on the drive. He looked tired enough that I wanted to ask when he’d last slept properly, but I wasn’t sure I had any room to talk.
He stopped when he saw me, and I suddenly remembered I wasn’t wearing a beanie. My lips were cracked, my skin had that hospital-gray look, and an IV line disappeared beneath my gown. I wanted to apologize for all of it, as if he’d caught me doing something embarrassing.
“Hi,” I whispered, trying to smile without stretching my lips too much.
“Hi.” His eyes moved over my face, then to the chair beside the bed. “Can I come in?”
“Please.” I shifted against the pillows to make room for him beside the bed.
He pulled the chair close enough that I wouldn’t have to strain to see him. He didn’t reach for my hand, and although I wished he would, I understood why he didn’t. I’d been the one who told him not to come back.
“You look tired,” I said, studying the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
He glanced at my face and raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold opening from you.”
A laugh escaped before I could stop it, and my throat immediately punished me. Chandler leaned forward, concerned, but I waved him off and reached for my water. The laugh had been worth it, even if swallowing afterward wasn’t particularly enjoyable.
For a minute, we listened to a cart rattle down the hall. I’d thought seeing him would make everything easier, but every word I’d rehearsed suddenly seemed too small for the space between us.
“I was cruel to you on Valentine’s Day,” I said finally. My voice scraped, so I took another careful sip of water before continuing. “I was angry about Coach Hartman, and I had a right to be upset that you didn’t tell me. But I said things I knew would hurt you. I wanted you to leave before you could decide to leave on your own.”
Chandler watched me without interrupting, his hands resting loosely between his knees. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, which was unusual enough to make me nervous.
“I kept telling myself I was doing it for you,” I continued. “That you could get back to soccer and your friends and everything you were supposed to be doing instead of sitting in waiting rooms with me.” I rubbed my thumb over the edge of the blanket, trying to keep my voice steady. “I was scared you’d give up something important and resent me. Or that you’d stay and I’d get worse, and then you’d have to live with all of it.”
“You don’t have to explain being scared.” He leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. “I know you’ve had a lot going on.”
“I know. But I do have to explain being mean.” I looked down at my hands, remembering how carefully I’d chosen my words that night. “You didn’t deserve that.”
He was quiet for a moment before looking down at his own hands. “I should’ve told you about conditioning. I kept thinking if I could make it work without you knowing, then it wouldn’t be another thing for you to worry about. Coach made it pretty clear that wasn’t a plan.”
“Did you talk to him?” I asked, watching him rub the back of his neck.
“Yeah. After Valentine’s Day. We talked for a long time.” Chandler gave a humorless little laugh. “He was not impressed with my decision-making skills.”
“What happens now?” I asked, trying not to sound as worried as I felt.
“I have to show up, train, and earn back the trust I messed up. There’s still a chance for me to play, but I can’t keep treating practice like something I can skip without consequences.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “I love soccer, Sloane. I didn’t stop loving it because I love you.”
I watched him for a moment, thinking about all the practices and games he’d worked toward since we were kids. He’d never been the kind of person who did anything halfway, especially when it came to soccer, and I hated knowing he’d put that at risk without telling me.
“I don’t want to be the reason you lose it,” I said, reaching for my water again.
“You’re not responsible for every choice I make.” He paused, watching me struggle with the cap before reaching over to loosen it. “And I’m not responsible for deciding what you can handle, either. We both did that.”
I nodded, taking the bottle from him. It was the closest we’d come to agreeing about what had happened in weeks, and neither of us seemed particularly interested in starting another argument.
“I love you,” I whispered. “I never stopped. I just got really good at pretending I could.”
His eyes shone, and he looked toward the window for a second before turning back to me. “I love you too,” he said, his voice quieter than before.
He didn’t promise that nothing would ever go wrong again. Instead, he reached for my hand, slowly enough that I could choose whether to meet him halfway. I slipped my fingers between his, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine.
“Your hands are freezing,” he said, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “Do they not believe in heat up here?”
“Apparently not. It’s part of the luxury package.” I glanced toward the thermostat, which Pops had been adjusting for days without any noticeable improvement. “That and the food.”
Chandler smiled, then looked down at our joined hands. “Does this mean we’re okay?”
“I don’t know if we’re magically okay,” I admitted. “I want to try, though. I want us to talk about stuff instead of deciding what the other person needs.”
“Good, because I have several complaints about your communication style.” He leaned back in the chair, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Get in line.” I gave his hand a small squeeze, and he smiled at me with the same crooked expression that had been getting him out of trouble for years.
I looked at our joined hands, then at his mouth. “I was going to kiss you, but my mouth is currently a public-health warning.”
“Then I’ll wait.” He brought the back of my hand against his cheek for a moment before lowering it to the blanket. “I’m pretty good at waiting.”
I smiled, although I wished he hadn’t needed quite so much practice lately. When he shifted his chair a little closer, I rested my head against the pillows and kept my hand in his.
Dad arrived twenty minutes later carrying coffee and a paper bag of breakfast sandwiches he’d somehow convinced the cafeteria to make after breakfast hours. He saw Chandler beside my bed and stopped, his eyes dropping briefly to our joined hands.
Chandler started to stand, but Dad waved him back into the chair. “Stay where you are. You’ve got the comfortable one.” He set the bag on the counter, studied my face for a second, and added, “You look less miserable.”
“High praise,” I croaked, watching him unpack the sandwiches.
Pops came in behind him with his own coffee, took in the scene, and grinned. “Well, this is an improvement over the last few weeks.”
“Pops,” I warned, already recognizing the expression on his face.
“What? I didn’t say a word.” He set his coffee beside Dad’s and looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“You said several,” I pointed out, which only made his grin wider.
“Fine. I’m delighted. Arrest me.” He leaned over to kiss my forehead before moving toward the window.
Stetson, who’d returned from the vending machines with a granola bar, leaned against the doorway. “Can we all be normal about this for thirty seconds?” he asked, looking between Pops and me.
“No,” Pops and I said together, earning an exhausted sigh from my brother.
That made Chandler laugh, which made Dad smile into his coffee. I was still in a hospital bed, still weak, and still waiting for my mouth to heal enough to eat something that wasn’t soft and depressing. But Chandler’s hand was resting beside mine on the blanket, and I didn’t feel the need to pull away when my family noticed.
Later, when Angelina came to check my vitals, Chandler stepped aside without being asked. He washed his hands again before returning to the chair and straightened the tubing that had gotten caught beneath the edge of my tray.
We talked about Dashiell after dinner. Chandler had been working with him on Saturdays, keeping sessions short and familiar. Some days Dash did well, while other days he retreated to the corner and watched the door.
“I thought he’d forgotten everything,” I admitted, looking at the latest entry in the training notebook.
“He hasn’t.” Chandler tapped the page with his finger. “He still knows the cues. He just gets overwhelmed. We’re doing more breaks and less proving things.”
I glanced at him over the notebook. “That sounds suspiciously like advice for people.”
“Don’t tell Miss Davison. She’ll start charging us for therapy.” He grinned when I rolled my eyes, then turned the page to show me the notes from Thursday.
We went through the notebook together until my voice gave out. Chandler read the entries aloud while I pointed at things he’d missed. He had a habit of writing good session when what he meant was Dashiell only hid under the bench twice. I made him add actual details, and he called me a tyrant before writing them anyway.
When he left later that evening, it was because he had somewhere to be the next morning. He told me he had training followed by dinner with Uncle Jake, and I told him to go instead of trying to convince him to stay until visiting hours ended.
“Text me when you get home,” I whispered as he stood beside the bed, gathering his things.
“I will.” He leaned down and rested his forehead lightly against mine for a moment. “Get some sleep, okay?”
I nodded and watched him leave, then reached for the notebook again.