With a bag full of Hawks stuff in one hand, I duck into the hospital cafeteria to get a quick bite to eat. I never eat before a game. I’m always too nervous. And I was so eager to get here, I plain forgot to grab some food along the way. Hospital food will have to do.
Standing in line, there is a guy in front of me talking on his phone.
“Just ask Kirsten,” he says. “She’ll tell you I’m not exaggerating. There is no way she’ll ever model again. She looks fucking hideous. It’s sad really. I mean the day she got the call. Her career was over before it even started. I guess I should wait a few days before I toss her to the curb.”
“Tony!” I hear a woman call from across the cafeteria.
He quickly ends his phone conversation. “Gotta go, man.” He puts his phone in his pocket and draws the girl into his arms, juggling his coffee and candy bar in one hand.
“Hey, babe,” he says, planting a kiss on her cherry-red lips.
“Next,” the cashier says, beckoning the guy forward. He pays the lady before leading little Miss Red Lips out the cafeteria door.
I take my food with me, scarfing down my sandwich on the way to Murphy Cavenaugh’s room. Earlier, I texted my brother-in-law, Kyle, to see if he could tell me where I could find Murphy. As an ER doc, Kyle wasn’t on duty when Murphy was brought in a few hours ago, but he’s on-call tonight and texted me Murphy’s room number on the third floor. Damn. Apparently, the guy was hurt badly enough to get admitted which makes me feel even worse.
The door to room 315 is open, so I stand in the doorway for a second before entering. I look down at my phone to double check the room number, because I’m pretty sure I have the wrong room. Sculpted, tan legs peek out from beneath the bed sheets and I can see waves of long blonde hair cascading down the front of the patient’s hospital gown. I can’t see the patient’s face from behind her magazine, but my guess is that I definitely have the wrong room. This is no old dairy farmer.
The magazine gets flung across the room and the woman on the bed, who I can now see has a terribly injured face, screams before breaking down in sobs.
I try to make my escape, knowing I’m in the wrong place, but the handles of the bag I’m holding choose this very second to break, and the bag falls down, spilling the contents at my feet.
I look over at her in apology for invading her privacy as she tries to wipe tears from the side of her face that isn’t damaged.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, looking horrified. “I wasn’t screaming at you.”
“No, it’s me who’s sorry. I’ll just pick up my things and leave you alone. I must have the wrong room. I was looking for a Mr. Cavenaugh.”
Her one good eye narrows, and she winces as if it hurts like a mother to make that small facial movement. “Um, I’m obviously not a ‘mister,’ but my name is Cavenaugh,” she says. “Are you one of my doctors?”
I laugh as I clean up my mess and pack everything back into the bag as best I can. “No. Definitely not a doctor, for which you should be grateful seeing as I just spilled everything on the floor.”
She attempts to smile, and even behind the damage on her face, I can tell she has a beautiful smile.
“I’m looking for a guy named Murphy,” I say.
She points to her chest. “I’m Murphy. But I’m not a guy.”
I look to where her fingers are pointing. No. She is definitely not a guy.
“You’re Murphy?” I ask. “Murphy Cavenaugh?”
“The one and only,” she says. “At least I think so, but I haven’t Googled my name in a while so I can’t be sure.”
I take in her face and it all makes sense now. Oh, God. The entire left side of her face is battered. There is a deep reddish-purple bruise in the exact shape of a goddamn baseball, and there are fresh stitches right below her swollen-shut eye. Shit.
I walk into her room. “Then I’m afraid I owe you a big apology,” I say.
“Apology for what?”
“I’m Caden Kessler,” I tell her.
She stares at me blankly. “I’m sorry. You say your name as if I should know who you are. But you’ll have to forgive me, because I don’t. Are you from my agency?” Her face falls into a frown. “Oh no, please tell me you haven’t been sent here to fire me.”
“Agency?”
“My modeling agency.”
Double shit. This girl is a fucking model? Of course she is. I can tell that she’s gorgeous, even with a swollen and bruised face.
“I’m sorry. Maybe I should start over,” I say. I walk up and hold my hand out to her. “I’m Caden Kessler from the New York Nighthawks. It’s my home run ball that did this to you.”
Her jaw drops as she shakes my hand. “Really? You, uh, why … no, it was my own stupidity that did this,” she says, motioning to her face. “I was on my phone and not paying attention to the game. I was only there because my boyfriend and roommate made me go. Baseball isn’t really my thing.”
My hand comes up to cover my chest as I feign abhorrence. “What? You don’t like baseball? Who doesn’t like baseball?”
The right side of her face pinks up in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that to you.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” I look down at the bag. “But now I feel kind of silly bringing you all this stuff.”
She peeks down at what I’m holding. “You brought me something?” she asks, like a curious schoolgirl.
I look around her bare room. “I did. But if I’d known you were a woman, I’d have come with an armful of flowers, too.”
She looks at her empty side table and then her eyes fall. “I’m sure my boyfriend will bring some tomorrow. He was here with me until just a little while ago.”
“Of course he will,” I say, putting the torn bag on the bed next to her. “Maybe your boyfriend will like this stuff. Go ahead.” I motion for her to open it.
I watch her as she pretends to be impressed when she pulls out a replica of my #8 jersey, a signed baseball, some autographed photos, a hat, and VIP tickets to one of our last home games at the end of this month.
“Thank you,” she says politely. “Tony will be over the moon to get all this.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Tony?” I ask. “Your boyfriend’s name is Tony?”
“Yeah. Why?”
Tony—the asshole from the cafeteria who said she looked hideous? The guy who said he was going to break up with her? The prick who kissed another woman while his girlfriend lies in a hospital bed as the result of an injury from a game he dragged her to?
“Uh, I just thought maybe I could personalize some of this stuff with his name.”
“Sure. He’d like that.”
What I’d really like to do is personalize the douchebag’s face with my fist.
Should I tell her what I heard? What I saw? I mean, she doesn’t know me from Adam, so maybe she wouldn’t even believe me. But damn, he’s going to cut her loose like a dead fish. It’s a low blow considering what she’s going through.
“What did the doctors say about your injury?”
She explains what the doctor told her. The more she tells me, the worse I feel. Surgery. Titanium plate. Scars. She’s a goddamn model for Christ’s sake. What is she going to do?
A nurse comes in the room, bringing an ice pack that Murphy needs to put on her face for twenty minutes. My cue to leave.
“Would it be okay if I visit you again tomorrow?” I ask.
“Why would you want to do that?”
The nurse laughs and then scolds her, saying something about when a handsome man wants to come calling, let him.
“Because this is all my fault and the least I can do is come sit with you for a while. It probably gets pretty boring around here.”
She shrugs. “I suppose you can if you want to, but please don’t feel obligated. I’m sure Tony will keep me company all day.”
“It won’t be out of obligation, Murphy. I’m coming because I want to.” I get up to leave, but turn around before walking out. “What’s your favorite flower, by the way?”
“I love all of them, but I’d have to say orchids, lilies and roses are my favorites.”
“Duly noted. See you tomorrow, Murphy Cavenaugh.”
“See you then, Caden Kessler.”
I walk out of her room and go find Kyle. Because I have to know if things are as bad as she said.