Part 6 (2/2)
”Hold on,” he takes the phone away from his mouth and calls out to someone, ”Hey! I'll be right back.”
”What are you doing?” I ask.
”Finding a private spot,” he mutters and I hear him walking. A door opens, then closes. ”As I was saying, you're killing me because I want to taste you, everywhere.”
I stop chewing the now-cardboard chocolate in my mouth and swallow hard.
”Excuse me?” I whisper.
”I want to slowly undress you and taste every delectable inch of you. I want you squirming and wet.”
”Mission accomplished,” I mutter and then slap my hand over my mouth as he laughs.
”I want to see you Sunday night.”
”I work Sunday night. I'm on swings this weekend. I don't get off work until two am.”
”Do you work that s.h.i.+ft often?” he asks quietly and I frown at the change in his tone.
”It's a rotation. We all work all the s.h.i.+fts. But I only work three twelve hour days a week, so it's not so bad.”
”So, let me get this straight. You go home in the middle of the night to a house in North Seattle with no alarm system?” His voice is steel, and my stomach clenches.
”It's no big deal, Will.”
”I'm installing an alarm system in your townhouse on Monday.” His voice is firm.
”No, you're not.” What the h.e.l.l?
”Yes, I am. Don't argue with me on this, Megan. I'm gone a lot; I need to know you're safe.”
”Will, we've been out on one date...”
”A-ha! So it was a date,” he exclaims triumphantly.
”Don't change the subject. You don't need to install anything in my house. I'm fine.”
”We'll see.”
”Is that a 'we'll see' so I shut up and you do it anyway?” I ask suspiciously.
”Yes. Your safety isn't something I'll f.u.c.k with. If you have to go home in the middle of the night alone, I need to know that you're safe.”
”Will, I...”
”I have to go,” he interrupts, and I'm instantly disappointed in not only the loss of his fun and carefree tone, but that I won't see him all weekend. ”Are you going to watch the game on Sunday?” he asks, his tone softened.
”Is it a morning or afternoon game?” I ask.
”Afternoon.”
”Yeah, I usually watch the games with the kids. I'll be watching in between work stuff.”
”Okay, pay attention at half-time. I'll make sure I'm on camera as we head off the field, and I'll say hi.”
”Seriously?”
”Yep, watch for me.”
”Okay. Have a safe trip.”
”You be safe, sweetheart. I'll text you when I can.”
”Okay, bye.”
”Later.”
And he's gone.
”NO NO NO!!” Nick exclaims from his position on the leather couch in the lounge on Sunday afternoon. There are roughly a dozen patients, parents, a few staff on their breaks, all with their eyes glued to the enormous television watching the football game.
The kids are wearing the team gear that the guys gave them last week. Will had a spread of food delivered around noon of sandwiches, chips, popcorn and soda.
What is it with this man and food?
So everyone is munching and enjoying the game. Instead of a hospital lounge, it looks like someone's living room during the Super Bowl.
The kids love the sense of normalcy, and I can't wait to thank Will for it.
Everyone groans as Will is tackled on the field and I hold my breath until he gets back up and walks steadily to his teammates.
Dear G.o.d, I can't watch him get tackled again. How does he not get hurt?
The first half of the game comes to an end, and Will's team is winning, twenty-one to seven.
My eyes are glued to the television, watching intently for my message from Will, and sure enough, right before they go to commercial, he's on the screen. His hair is wet with sweat and plastered to his forehead, face is dirty, and he's breathing hard from exertion, but he grins at the camera and taps his nose with his forefinger, then points to the camera and mouths, ”miss you.”
Well, s.h.i.+t, he's sweet.
Without over-thinking it, I pull my phone out and text him.
Miss you, too, football star.
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