Thad called while we were en route saying they took Theo into surgery for an emergency appendectomy. A routine surgery he said, nothing Anniston should be concerned about. She begged to differ, crying and going on about how she needed to be with him, that he wouldn’t do well with being sedated without her. Thad didn’t elaborate on how he did, just that now he’s recovering comfortably in a room, the surgery only lasting an hour.
“Anniston.” I touch her shoulder, startling her.
“Hmm?”
“I asked you if you knew where to go?”
She shakes her head, hitting the elevator button one more time. “Thad just said they were moving him to more of a private room on the third floor since the media was swarming in the lobby.”
The elevator opens and we shuffle in, selecting the third floor. “I’m going to call Thad,” I say, already pressing send on his contact in my phone.
He answers on the first ring. “Room 310,” he says and then, “You may want to prepare her.”
“For what?”
The elevator dings and Anniston takes off down the hall. She grabs the first person in scrubs she sees. “Theo Von Bremen. What room is he in?”
The guy she’s grabbed looks at her hand clutching his scrubs and then at me. I give him an apologetic smile before I say, “Thad says it’s room 310, Ans.”
Letting go of the guy, she looks at the signage above his head, finding her direction, and sprints down the hall without a thank you.
I jog to catch up, telling Thad, “Too late to prepare her. She’s coming in hot.” I hang up at Thad’s groan and follow a rampant Anniston into the last room at the end of the hall.
She draws to halt and I literally have seconds to stop my momentum before I plow right over her.
“Who the fuck are you?” She’s pointing to a tall blonde in a dress far too tight for the average adult to be wearing.
The recovery room is small, dimly lit by an overhead lamp by the sink when I enter. I glance over at Theo, lying in the narrow hospital bed. His face is pale, eyes heavy and sunken with dark circles underneath. The hospital gown he has on is pulled slightly off his left shoulder, displaying his sculpted deltoids. I can’t tell if he’s awake or just choosing to ignore his guests by feigning sleep.
“What?” The unknown girl looks around, confused. “I’m Charity, Theo’s publicist.” She’s eyeing Anniston up and down, assessing her like a threat. It’s blatantly clear she has no idea who Anniston is. She’s new, that much is a given, as every staff member I’ve encountered is well aware of Anniston’s presence in Theo’s life. The fact that this Barbie is clueless is going to be a treat.
“Theo, time for your friend to go home. You can play with her again when you feel better,” Anniston instructs the speechless, openmouthed audience which includes Theo’s brother and who I assume are his mother and father.
Theo smiles, his eyes still closed. And against my will, dammit, I fucking smile, too. Anniston’s comment is rude, but funny all the same.
Theo’s voice is heavily medicated when he slurs, “I’ll call you, Chelsea. Thanks for coming.”
Charity’s face turns crimson. “For the hundredth time, my name is Charity, Theo.”
Theo’s eyes never open and he doesn’t respond. Thankfully, Thad breaks the awkward silence. “Sorry. He knows that. He is in pain and the medication makes him a little delirious.”
Anniston interrupts, her patience wearing thin. “No. He’s just an asshole and can’t be bothered with learning your name. Thanks for coming down to check on him. Thad will show you out.”
You might be the publicist sweetheart, but it’s obvious Anniston runs this show. Part-time or not.
Charity storms out of the room without a word. I look at the shocked faces staring at Anniston. No one speaks.
Well, except Theo. His voice has magically returned since “Chelsea” is gone. “Dr. McCallister. What can I do for you?” He smiles, his eyes still closed, feeling the effects of anesthesia.
“Well, for one you can tell me why they pay you millions to play ball. If I paid you millions, I’d expect that you stand on that mound and endure a little stomach ache to win my damn game.” She blows out a breath and begins to tap her foot. She doesn’t mean the shitty thing she just said. I think sometimes her way of coping is to be mean, to close herself off by saying something hateful. No one wants to feel like the fate of their sanity rests in one person’s hand. I fear Theo and I may have the same anchor.
“But here we are,” she continues, walking slowly to Theo’s side. “Players are such pussies nowadays. A damn hangnail and y’all are on the bench in need of rehab for a week.”
Theo laughs and opens his eyes but then grabs his side and winces. “Don’t make me laugh, Ans.”
His mother shuffles her feet and looks around nervously. The twins look more like her than their father. Her dark hair gleams brilliantly down her back, her blue eyes shine with unshed tears. She still hasn’t spoken to either of us or acknowledged us in any way, and I wonder if she really is a snooty aristocrat as Anniston once said. She doesn’t look too awful to me but this is the only time I’ve ever been around Theo’s parents.
“Well, sweetheart, I think we are going to go and let you two catch up.” His mother goes to Theo’s bedside, kisses his cheek and runs a hand through his messy hair. “Get some rest. We will see you in the morning.” His father approaches behind her and pats his arm, saying nothing. Apparently, that’s all it takes for them to communicate.
