Chapter Nine

THE FOLLOWING morning he was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. He was lying in bed contemplating the ceiling, his fingers entwined with each other and resting on his chest. I was curled on my side facing him.

He must’ve sensed my awakening, because he turned his head and flashed me a cheery little smirk.

“What?” I asked self-consciously. Had I been snoring? Farting? Talking in my sleep?

“Nothing,” he said, the smirk not fading. “I’m just glad to be home—no training to get up and push through, no doctor appointments to go to. And you’re going to make me breakfast.”

“I am?” I asked in surprise.

“Yeah,” he said as though it were obvious. “I’m on crutches. I’m not allowed to put any weight on my knee. How am I meant to cook or even carry a bowl?”

“I’m sure Tracy will—”

Ambrose looked horrified. “I can’t wait that long.”

Okay. So Tracy wasn’t known for her morning personality.

I sighed and sat up. The slight movement of the bed made Ambrose wince. “Is it that sore?” I asked tentatively.

“I’m supposed to take the tablets with food,” he replied mournfully.

I didn’t fall for the act. “Oh, sure. So now you follow doctor’s orders. But the ‘don’t fly home for another week’ order was simply advice to be taken or left, right?”

He stuck out his bottom lip. “You stopped messaging. I had to come and make sure you remembered me.”

I dropped my gaze. Yes, I had stopped messaging him. But I couldn’t tell him why. So instead I flung the covers back and got out of bed. My pants were where I left them, and I snatched them up and slipped into them. When I turned back, Ambrose was still watching me, showing no sign he’d averted his eyes to give me a bit of privacy. I decided to ignore him.

“Okay. Do you need help getting up?”

“No. I think I’ll be okay. Just slower. You go and start breakfast, and I’ll be there by the time you finish.”

I wandered out to Tracy’s kitchen and began to rummage through her fridge. It wasn’t the first time. Tracy would be more horrified if I didn’t rummage through her fridge, thinking I was putting on airs and starving myself to death. I found eggs and some leftover roast chicken. A quick sniff told me it should be okay. I remembered the couple of times the meat wasn’t okay and I nearly poisoned myself and Ambrose at the same time.

Most of my memories were infused with him.

By the time Ambrose got up and used the facilities—I heard the toilet flush and then a bang and a curse as Ambrose navigated the small bathroom—then crutched his way to the kitchen, I nearly had the omelet cooked. I’d added the chicken and a few of the veggies I’d found. The plates were ready, so I whizzed over and pushed the button on the coffee machine and then rushed back to flip my creation. Ambrose perched himself on the barstool drawn up to the kitchen counter as I pushed the milk and sugar in his direction, plonked the first cup of coffee in front of him, changed the coffee pod in the machine, and pressed the button again. He put in two sugars and lots of milk and pushed the cup back in my direction.

“Thanks,” I said and took a grateful sip.

I found the tomato sauce in the cupboard. He liked to put that on everything. The second coffee was ready, so I passed it over. Ambrose only liked milk in his coffee, no sugar. I checked the omelet, grabbed a plate, and flipped my creation onto it, making sure I decoratively folded it in half. I passed it to Ambrose, put the milk back in the fridge, put the sugar jar away, and placed the pan in the sink. Then he cut the omelet in half, slid my portion onto the second plate, and looked around.

“Where’s your extra cheese?”

I felt my cheeks blush. “I’m not having any.”

Ambrose looked surprised. “You always sprinkle extra cheese on your portion.”

I sucked in one cheek, then admitted, “I’m trying to watch my weight.”

“Since when?”

I rolled my eyes. “Since this year, when I realized I’d be turning twenty-nine, and that’s only one year off thirty.”

His gaze slid down my body, and I tried not pull in my small gut. “Maybe you just need a little bit of exercise,” he suggested. “Aren’t audiobooks all the rage now? Listen while you jog.”

I picked up my knife and fork, leaned my hip against the counter, sliced a bit off my omelet, and said, “Ha. Me? Jog? I can’t. So I’ll do without the cheese.”

Ambrose sliced his omelet as he said, “I think it’s much healthier to jog than starve yourself.”

“Perhaps. But I’m still not going to jog.”

“What about riding?”

“A horse?” I was horrified. He wanted me to what?

“No, idiot. A bike. You could ride to work.”

I popped some more food into my mouth and chewed. Then I said, “I could also die of exhaustion.”

“Tad dramatic there,” he said mildly.

“I just don’t want to risk death,” I replied.

“So I guess you’re giving up sugar in your coffee too?”

I stared gravely at him. “That would be risking your death.”

Ambrose laughed, but it turned to a grimace and he clutched at his knee when he banged it against the counter. I was concerned. “Where are those tablets?”

I fetched the bag from the room and tipped the packets out on the counter. “What are they all?” I asked. Not all of them were prescription. Some looked like over-the-counter vitamins.

Ambrose picked up the boxes and stacked them. “Painkillers, serious painkillers, ‘knock you out so you can sleep’ painkillers, anti-inflammatories, acid reflux, sleeping tablets.” He stood the bottles up. “Iron, insomnia relief, zinc, calcium, magnesium, stress relief, probiotics, ginger, fish oil.”

I was shocked. “Did you rob a pharmacy?” I picked up a bottle and examined the label. “Do you need all this? Do you take them all?”

He pushed the stack of boxes over and selected two of them. “No, I didn’t rob a pharmacy. I bought them. Yes, at times I do need them. No, I don’t take them all at the same time. Yes, I know what they’re all for.”

“This is for nausea?” I asked in surprise. I was holding a bottle of vitamin ginger. “Because I’m assuming you don’t have morning sickness? And I’ve never known you to have motion sickness.”

He was washing some tablets down with coffee, but he paused to say, “Yeah. My stomach hasn’t been too good for a while—anxiety stuff, the doc reckons. That helps when I get really tense.”

I picked up another bottle. It was an herbal supplement for stress management. “Anxiety?”

Ambrose couldn’t meet my eyes. He went back to eating, and I filed the information away. It appeared Ambrose was also having trouble sleeping.

He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so I changed the subject. “So, do you have a doctor here in Perth all lined up to watch over your recovery?”

He wrinkled his nose. “No. Not yet. I rang Geoff—he’s the team doctor—and left a message to tell him I was flying to Perth. I guess he’ll fix me up on Monday after the weekend game is over.”

I gave him a hard look. “You’re telling me that you left a message with your team doctor. You didn’t even speak to him? Did you tell anyone that you were getting on the plane?”

“Sean and Daniel.”

Sean Fuerza and Daniel Egan. Both had been new recruits when Ambrose joined the team, and the three were good friends. Sean still played in the starting lineup in the forward pocket. Daniel had since retired due to injury, but I knew he was a good mate.

“Right,” I muttered. “Sean and Daniel. Did you actually tell them, or did you leave messages for them too?”

Ambrose hesitated. “Sean. Daniel was busy, so I left a message with his wife.”

“And what did Sean say? Did he tell you to think about what you were doing, or did he wish you luck?”

I could tell by the set of his jaw that Ambrose hadn’t had a happy conversation with Sean. I sighed.

“You’re an adult, Ambrose, but you’re not a doctor. When the doctors tell you to do something, you should listen to them. They’re the ones with all the experience and teaching.”

He chewed without answering, and I decided it would have to be another dropped conversation—for now.

“So tell me. What are your plans now that you’re home? First rest, then what? You can’t do physiotherapy twenty-four hours a day.”

“I’m not sure,” he said as he popped the last bit of omelet into his mouth. “Maybe I’ll catch up on my reading.”

He gave me a familiar look. He was winding me up.

“So you’re finally going to finish the Dr. Seuss series?” I asked, tongue in cheek. “Those tongue-twister books have some really hard words—like fox and box.”

He mock-glared at me. “Don’t laugh too hard. I’m going to borrow your books.”

“Hell, no.” The words burst out of me before I could stop them. “The last time you borrowed a book of mine, you gave it back to me with a bent cover.”

“I was fifteen. Can we shut up about that book yet? Now, will you be nice and get me another coffee, or do I have to be deprived?”

I muttered to myself as I made the second cup of coffee. I was just winding him up, and his happy grin told me he knew it. I heard a noise and turned my head to see Tracy shuffle into the kitchen in her robe. Her hair was mussed, and she looked tired.

“Good morning, Tracy. Can I make you coffee?”

She fetched a mug for me without speaking and headed to the fridge.

“Sorry about the phone call, Mum,” Ambrose apologized. “I wasn’t really thinking. I should’ve remembered you were working.”

“Water under the bridge,” Tracy said, which was her usual way of accepting apologies. “It’s nice to hear you boys bickering in my kitchen so early in the morning. I haven’t heard it for a long while.”

I scoffed. “When was the last time you heard it? When I was sixteen? And I was probably telling Ambrose to remember to get his algebra homework.”

Ambrose harrumphed. “And I was probably telling you that you wouldn’t be so tired and grumpy if you hadn’t stayed up to three o’clock in the morning reading some boring tomb of a book.”

“To which I would tell you reading makes you more intelligent and empathetic. And that I could tell you never read.”

“And I would tell you that reading never earned you any money or fame, that they didn’t give out Brownlow medals for reading.”

Tracy smiled at us while we bickered. Ambrose’s face lost that tense look, and I knew the painkillers were working.

We chatted a bit longer as Tracy took out cereal and shook it into a bowl. Ambrose had finished his second coffee.

“Okay,” I finally said. “I’d better get going. Ambrose is here, safe and sound. Actually, not quite sound, but safe. You look after him, Tracy.”

“What?” Ambrose said suddenly. “You’re leaving? I thought we were going to hang for the day?”

A lump formed in my stomach. He thought his old friend Shane would be at his beck and call?

“Nope. Sorry. I have real-life things to do—grocery shopping for one. I have mates to catch up with, and I need to go and visit my mother. You’re on your own, buddy.”

Tracy put her mug down. “Thanks for rescuing me by picking up Ambrose. I’m appreciative, even if he isn’t.”

“Hey, I’m appreciative,” Ambrose cried.

I ignored him and gathered my stuff from his bedroom. When I returned to the kitchen, Ambrose was staring morosely at his empty plate, and Tracy had disappeared.

“Rest,” I reminded him. “Ice and rest. Hawthorn needs you.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

I stared at him, not knowing where we stood with each other. He was easy enough to ignore when he was in Melbourne, but it was going to be harder if he was at Tracy’s all the time.

“I’ll see you. Tell your mum to message me, and I’ll understand if it’s a couple of weeks until she has me around to dinner. You’re probably going to be catching up with all your friends. I’m assuming you can’t drive as it’s your right knee. If you can’t go out, Tracy can cook for you all, if you ask nicely enough.”

At that Ambrose looked up. “You mean you’re not going to come over for dinner?”

I was surprised. “Of course I’ll come. But if you’re having your mates over, it’ll be awkward.”

“Then they can just deal with it,” Ambrose said stubbornly.

I had attended parties Ambrose had thrown in the past. It had been uncomfortable. After a couple of years, I stopped making excuses. His mates didn’t seem to know what to say to me. They had nothing in common with a gay bookworm who acted like wallpaper. A couple of times, I’d found a quiet corner and chatted with some girlfriend. Most of the time I hung around Tracy and left as soon as I could.

I shrugged. “Whatever you want.” I knew how to fake a flat tire now. I wouldn’t even have to fake it—I could simply send the same pictures I’d taken for Vinnie. Ambrose wouldn’t know. “Mum will be over too. I’m sure to be around then.”

He didn’t look happy, but Tracy returned, and I escaped out to my car.