Home > Back Check (Boston Rebels #2)(7)

Back Check (Boston Rebels #2)(7)
Author: R.J. Scott

He went to a crouch near her and picked up a teddy, making it dance in front of her.

“Hi, Sophie.”

She side-eyed him, but the big man with the dancing bear couldn’t pull her from the intense concentration needed for pushing a square brick in a round hole.

“Can she hear me?” he asked quickly, glancing up at me.

“She’s not deaf. She has cancer,” I snapped because hell, I was so confused by everything and worried, and this big hockey player was asking stupid questions. “Did no one tell you anything?”

“Yes, they did. I’m sorry. I don’t mean…” He stood up and smoothed his suit pants, then shrugged. “I only found out two days ago, and it’s a shock to know that I have a daughter. But you have to know that—”

“Will you do it?” I interrupted him.

He shot me a confused glance. “Sorry?”

“Will you go through with this procedure and try to save Sophie?”

His bewilderment cleared in a second, and he became focused and unwavering. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I’ll do everything in my power to help Sophie. She can have anything she needs from me so that she can live.”

I examined his expression, but there was no confusion or shock. There was only icy determination in his beautiful eyes, so like Sophie’s, and I believed him.

“Okay.”

He rolled his neck, dropped his stance, and held out a hand again.

“Between us, we’ll work this out. Agreed?”

I didn’t hesitate because this was Sophie, and she was my everything, so I shook his hand.

“Agreed.”

Why did I feel as if I’d just made a deal with the devil?

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

Joachim


If ever a man needed an AA meeting, it was now, and I was that man.

The time for hemming and hawing about finding a group had passed when the word had come back that not only was I a match for the sick little girl—Sophie—but I was also genetically linked. The team had been thrilled at first. What a marvelous PR coup! To have the new guy—the known drunkard who was battling the devil in a bottle in a new town—be a match for a tiny little cherub battling cancer. The public relations teams had probably creamed their shorts. Then they found out that I’d impregnated a woman, left her in the dust, and never once checked on her or the child that I’d created. Not that I knew there had been a pregnancy… oh, and that night that Sophie had been conceived? I was drunk. Had to have been because I had no recollection of the woman—Ashley—or the night in question. Oh, and to boot, the woman had died while birthing the babe and her brother had taken over to raise the child.

Yeah, the PR people weren’t quite so happy with me now. They could join the group. I wasn’t pleased with me either. In fact, I was disgusted with me and the curdled legacy of my addiction. They were “spinning things” according to some young man with a tense set to his face when I’d met with them yesterday. Or had it been the day before? Fuck if I knew anymore. My life had been turned upside down. And I had yet to find a sponsor. The call of the gin bottle had been getting louder with each new and devastating announcement.

“… that will be the best way to handle this. What do you think, Joachim?”

I crashed back from the stratosphere at the sound of my name. I looked across the shiny walnut table the team had arranged for us to use in one of the conference rooms at Massachusetts Children’s Hospital, which was where the transplant would take place. My agent Frank was staring at me, as were several pediatric oncologists, my attorney, surgeons, some lady from the hospital board, the team owner, Nick Sinclair, who for some ungodly reason had demanded to be present for all discussions, and Isaac. The girl—Sophie—was napping in Sinclair’s lap, her head on his shoulder, clutching the stuffed Rebels mascot Eddie Eagle to her chest. Seemed my boss had a way with kids that I lacked. Sophie had warmed to him instantly. Me? Not so much.

“I’m sorry I missed what was said,” I meekly confessed. Isaac was chewing on his thumbnail, his gaze darting steadily from his daughter… no, my daughter not his… my daughter. “Can you repeat what I missed?”

Frank, a tall man who resembled Liam Neeson minus the Irish accent, gave me his kindest smile. It was a farce of a smile. I’d seen that toothy grin appear right before Frank went in for the kill during negotiations with any team that I had played with. Guess Franklin Krensky was the closest thing to family that I had.

Not any more…

“It’s fine, buddy, we know everyone is still a little dazed,” Frank said, then reached out to pat me on the arm. Huh. That was above and beyond. Frank generally wasn’t overly demonstrative, but perhaps he assumed we needed to put on a show for… who? The child? The attractive uncle? The team owner? “We were discussing where Mr. Bailey and his niece would be staying until the procedure in four days.”

“Oh, I assumed they would stay with me. I’ve settled on a new house.” I looked around the table, my gaze landing on Isaac. “It has a yellow ceiling that I plan to get painted. And the second bedroom is blue—the previous owners had sons—but I’m sure Sophie won’t mind until I can contact a painter. It’s on my to-do list.”

I was supposed to call the painter three days ago. But somehow among the maelstrom that was my life now, I’d forgotten.

“No thank you. We’ll stay in the hotel that the team has graciously provided,” Isaac replied. I glanced to my lawyer, who shrugged. “Is that a problem? If the team isn’t happy paying for the room, I can—”

“The team is thrilled to help financially in any way it can. You don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Bailey,” Nick announced, then flashed the room that sleek, white smile of his. He then started talking about the Rebels and their donations to the hospital and the rooms that would be needed here for the child and me. Sophie. Damn it. Why was I having such trouble with making that paternal connection? I’d yearned for family for years now. Perhaps if I just stepped outside to get some air?

There was that bar we passed on Blossom Street. Just a short walk away. Some fresh air. A Tom Collins to calm your nerves and clear the cobwebs. What is one drink going to hurt? You’ve been through hell the past week, Loafy.

Loafy. Shit. How dare the devil inside my head use the nickname Moral had crowned me with just the other day? Fucker. The dirty fucker. A shudder of want coursed through me. I shot to my feet right in the middle of some speech one of the oncologists was making. My chair slammed into the brightly colored wall. Everything here was bright and happy. The walls, the floors, the ceilings. Everything but the sick children like Sophie. My daughter. Who was dying…

Everyone looked at me. I swiped at the cold sweat on my brow.

“I need some air. Excuse me, please.” And with that, I bolted out the door to the nearest bank of elevators. I pounded on the G button with a mouth as dry as the Sahara, hands shaking steadily. Okay this was not good. I really needed to find a meeting before I did something stupid and—

“Mr. Löfgren, are you okay?” I spun from the lifts at the sound of Isaac Bailey’s strained voice. He was holding Sophie now, the little girl awake and smiling. At me. “Did I say something wrong? If you really want us to stay with you, we will, but I don’t know you well and this is all so…” He floundered a bit.

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