Dylan herded me into the elevator’s cabin when the doors opened like a border collie would a wayward sheep. A smaller version of Shaw, Dylan Shawfield’s body was cut from days of physical work, not days in the gym. Bearded, tanned, and a little more rugged, the younger brother had always gone his own way—more subdued and maybe a little more laidback. Even his walk conveyed ease as he smiled and greeted everyone.
“It’s probably best if we just wait until he’s home. We can call there to check on him,” I said, trying again.
He repeated the movement inside, not acknowledging my weak protestations.
“I know your brother. He’s going to hate visitors,” I said, adjusting my tote bag.
Dylan stared at the ascending numbers over the doors, a slight tilt of his lips. “You either forgot who you’re talking about, or you’re lying to yourself.”
“He’s probably in pain, or maybe he’s resting…” I mumbled.
He ignored my protest.
Then, another, more likely, scenario occurred to me. I huffed and turned to him. “He’s probably with Riley. Maybe they want some time alone. His people are probably very concerned?—”
That got his full attention, and he zeroed in on me. “We are his people.” The elevator dinged. Dylan took a step out and then stopped abruptly to cock his head at me. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, of course.” I thought so.
No. He was right. Before the fans, bright lights, agents, and all the extras—before his fame and success—we were his people.
I followed Dylan, fighting my default response of minimizing my importance in Shaw’s life. It had been ingrained in me for the past decade because he was a multi-million-dollar household name and a celebrity football star, while I’d been a regular mom, married to a man who didn’t appreciate the friendship we once shared.
We were once each other’s people. Now, we were heart-warming nostalgia with a dash of regret and awkwardness.
Nostalgia wasn’t what Shaw needed now, and time had changed both of us. We’d outgrown each other. I wasn’t the person he’d relied on, and our support had limits—didn’t it?
We stopped in front of a hospital room, and I adjusted my tote, straightened my back, and smoothed my ponytail. Dylan viewed me over his shoulder with his hand on the handle and an
almost devious half-grin on his face. “Besides, my brother wanted to see you and Aaron after the game. He’d be disappointed if you didn’t come.” Then Dylan stepped into the room.
“Well, good morning, man.” Shaw’s booming voice was a bit hoarse as Dylan preceded me. “Did you bring me anything? I’m starving.”
I forced a smile and stepped forward, pushing the privacy curtain out of my way to see Shaw sitting there in a hospital bed. His smile was a bit loopy but completely brilliant.
I wanted to hug him and tell him he would be fine. I wished to God this chasm I felt with him would just disappear. Did he feel it?
Eventually, we’d fill it. We had to. I had to.
“I brought you a surprise,” Dylan said and followed up, in a completely deadpan voice, “just not something you can…necessarily…eat.”
“Dylan!” My indignation flew out of my mouth before I realized I had given in to his innuendo. It would’ve been wiser to ignore his smart-ass remark. Heat traveled up my neck and over my cheeks.
Dylan’s smile was broad and unrepentant. Then all other repercussions were cut off with the arrival of Shaw’s girlfriend, Riley Lynn—model/media personality/aspiring actress. The woman made entering a hospital room an event. She was gorgeous—and not in a fake way, but a genetics-jackpot kind of way.
We parted for her like the Red Sea as she eyed us, politely smiled, and casually dismissed us as unimportant.
Her act was wasted on us. “Shaw, baby.” She strutted to his bed in faux-leather pants, high-heeled boots, and an amazing blouse that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe—including my purse and what was in my wallet. She leaned over and gave him a light kiss on his forehead, brushed away her lip gloss, and patted his hand. “How are you, honey?”
Shaw held the same dopey gaze. “Hey, Riles.”
His eyes traveled back to focus on Dylan and me. “I’m good. Look, Dylan and Kelcie came to visit me.”
“I see that,” she said with a sweet voice that didn’t do anything to authenticate her acting credentials. She scooted herself up to sit on his bed. “Has Ayva called? What about your doctor? What did they say about your prognosis?”
His dopey smile was still in place, and his eyebrows reached higher as his eyelids drooped lower. He seemed to be trying to focus on her. “Hm?”
She spoke slower and louder, jutting her chin out closer to his face, as if he were hard of hearing. “What did the doctor say about when you will get out of here?” Then she lowered her voice, pointedly keeping her back to us to keep the conversation private. “What did they say about how long you will be out for?”
