Challenge (39 page)

“Right,” I grind out through clenched teeth. Shaking my head, I sign my name with the pen he hands me and feel something sharp digging into my back.

“Thanks, Son. We’ll see you in there…or after.” He winks and scampers away with an infuriatingly patronising waggle to his walk. He hasn’t a care in the world, oblivious to the fact that he’s completely crushed mine.

Here I thought Indie came to my flat to talk me into having the surgery because there was an ounce of her that actually cared—a tiny shred that might want what’s best for my well-being.

Well, Camden. This isn’t the first time she’s made you look like a fucking wanker.

If I could be any more done, I would be on fire.

As we begin moving down the hallway, I lean forward in the bed and ask, “Nurse, can you check my back and tell me if there’s a knife sticking in it?”

I
PRESS DOWN ON THE
metal bar with my foot to kick on the water in the wash basin and begin the exhaustive process of scrubbing in for surgery. I don’t wear rings, watches, or bracelets because it’s one less step I have to deal with. I start with rubbing the antimicrobial soap scrub on my hands and arms, then move to cleaning out the subungual areas with a nail file. After that, it’s the two-minute timed scrubs on each side of my fingers, between my fingers, and the back and front of both hands. Finally, I move on to my arms. The whole process lasts ages.

Ages that I can do nothing but think about Camden and what he’s doing. Who’s with him? How he’s feeling? Is he nervous? Did he have a blowout with his dad, and is that why he’s having the surgery? I want to know all of these things and could have figured a lot of them out if I’d stopped by his room before the procedure. But I was a coward.

My heart is over-flowing with new feelings. Feelings that don’t do well bottled up. Saying any of this to Camden right now would be selfish, though. This procedure is difficult enough on him without adding our personal drama into the mix. I just have to hold my tongue, get through this, and hope that we can figure things out afterwards.

“Ah, Indie! There you are,” Prichard’s voice says from behind me as I go to do my final hand rinse. “You’re scrubbed in early.”

I want to tell him it’s because he tried to kiss me the last time we were in this room together, but I bite my tongue. “Just wanting to make sure everything is setup right.”

He cuts me a look as he ties his mask around his face and says, “I just came from Mr. Harris’ room.”

“Oh?” I ask, trying to remain calm but wanting to know everything in an instant. “How did he seem?”

“He seemed fine. Just fine. I got him to sign a release form so you can reference him in your interview with
The British Medical Journal
after surgery. It was something the hospital PR gal said we needed. I reserved the consult room in Hallway D for you to sit and talk with them when we wrap up here.”

“You told Cam—I mean, Mr. Harris about the article?” I ask, my voice tight and pinched.

Prichard moves over next to me at the basin and eyes me from behind his mask. “I did. Is that a problem?” he asks, revealing nothing with his eyes.

“No, no problem at all,” I grind, grateful that Prichard can’t see me chewing on my lip nervously behind my mask.

He begins scrubbing in, still watching me instead of his hands. “He seemed a bit put-off by it, but he signed anyway.”

My mind goes haywire.

What must Camden be thinking? Does he think I only came to him because of the article? Damnit, I should have told him! Why do I suck so bad at relationships? I can’t seem to stop screwing things up with him. Maybe I can catch him before the surgery.

Movement through the window to the OR catches my eye, and I see a nurse pushing Camden in on a stretcher. The pained look on his face makes me feel a sudden and overwhelming urge to draw a foul.

A
N OVERWHELMING SENSE OF
D
ÉJÀ
Vu casts over me when the nurse positions me in the OR. Once again, Dr. Prichard says something that leaves me reeling minutes before I’m going to be put under. God, what an arrogant arsehole.

And, once again, Indie is in the forefront of my mind. After everything my father said about my mum and how she was all he loved, I wanted it. I wanted a chance to care for someone that much. To put it above football. Above everything.

And, bloody hell, I hate the fact that after all he said, it was Indie’s face that crept into my mind. My heart. My soul.

But if what Dr. Prichard said is true, then I’ve been reading her all wrong since day one. When I held her in my arms that night at Old George and felt her pain, I wanted to move mountains to take it away. I would’ve given anything. Been anything. Done anything. I wanted to be whatever she needed in that moment.

I think some deep, dark part of my mind thought that when this surgery was all over, there would be hope for Indie and me. That maybe by getting me out of the hospital and away from the stress of her job, we’d have a fighting chance. Her coming to me a couple days ago to convince me to have the surgery filled me with the hope that perhaps she cared more about me than she did about all this hospital bullshit.

Now it’s all for naught.

Now it feels like all of this was truly just so she could get ahead. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Well, maybe she’s just like her family and is incapable of truly hugging someone and accepting all that entails.

She used me like a puppet, and lying here on this table while they literally stick cords to my body means I’m still letting her pull the strings.

It has to stop.

I shove away a hand that’s sticking a pad to my chest.

“Mr. Harris, we’re just getting these in place. Then we’ll have you move to this table.”

“I’m not doing this.” My voice sounds distant and mumbly.

“What’s that?” a mask-covered face asks, moving to stand over me.

“I said I’m not doing this. I don’t want the surgery.” I swallow against the meds coursing through my veins and will myself to think clearly.

“Mr. Harris,” a new nurse states, joining the other person standing above me. Her brows knit together as she adds, “We can give you something stronger for the nerves.”

“You already gave me a bunch of shit and I hate it. I said I’m not having this surgery. I meant it. Get me out of here.” I move to sit up but my head spins.

Several hands reach out and grab my shoulders, attempting to lay me back down. But I’m stronger than all of them, even doped up on painkillers. I swing my legs off the stretcher, wincing at the rubbing sensation in my knee that I feel whenever I twist it a certain way. It’s probably the magical graft that Indie put in—the one that needs to come out. Well, fuck it. It can wait. I begin ripping off the sticky pads on my chest and sides.

“Mr. Harris, please! We can help you with whatever you need.”

“I need to leave,” I growl, but my dramatic scene comes to a screeching halt when familiar toffee eyes find mine.

Indie is standing four feet in front of me, gowned completely in blue from her head to her toes. Red, curly hair peeks out the bottom of her scrub cap as her eyes squint sympathetically through cheetah-print glasses. She’s holding her freshly washed hands up in front of herself, and her mouth is covered by a mask as she asks, “Cam, what’s the matter?”

I laugh incredulously and glance over at Dr. Prichard. He’s currently scrubbing his hands in the sink and watching the scene through the window like the creepy voyeur he is.

“Like you even care,” I answer.

Pulling her brows together, she takes a step forward. “Of course I care. What is it?”

“You could have told me about the medical journal. You could have mentioned it and I would have listened. But this was all an act, wasn’t it? All you care about is this bloody surgery and getting your name on paper.”

Her face turns pink as she looks around the OR. “Can you all please clear out?” she asks firmly.

The staff stare in wonder, unmoving.

“Clear out!” she shouts, and everyone scampers with a jolt out the door, leaving us behind with only the hum of machines and the beeping of monitors to keep us company.

Despite their departure, I can feel their eyes on us through the windows. Indie notices the same thing and sighs heavily at the ridiculous fishbowl we find ourselves in. She turns to face me again, pulling down her mask and revealing those large red lips that are now pursed into a frown. “I wanted to tell you about the feature, but not until you made up your mind about the surgery.”

“Why the hell not?” I bark.

“Because I was afraid that if you knew about it, you’d go through with the surgery just for me and not for yourself.”

This gives me pause. “Thinking pretty highly of yourself again I see.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, I think highly of
you
, Camden. And I think you’re the type to put the well-being of others above your own.” She swallows nervously. “What’s really wrong? It’s more than the article.”

I squint harshly at her, frustrated that she really doesn’t see it. All the possibility. “It’s everything. And it’s nothing.”

I move to stand up, but Indie moves closer to me and reaches out. Her hands are cool and damp on my arms. I pause, watching her chew her lip with worry.

“You need this surgery, Cam. That’s not me speaking as your doctor but as your friend. Regardless of whether or not you ever kick a ball again in your entire life, you’re going to want a properly operating knee.”

I shake my head angrily. “You think we’re mates? I can’t even trust you right now.”

“Of course you can,” she says urgently, looking up at me with wide, hurt eyes.

“Well, what am I supposed to think, Indie? I get here and find out about this publication right before I get wheeled into the place where you’re going to dice me up. My dad shows up and tells me all this stuff about my mum that makes me think of
you
, and I feel like the biggest jerk on the planet because I’m in this alone. I’m fucking lost and the only thing I know I want, I can’t have!”

“What is that?” she asks with a gasp.

“You! Bloody hell, I want you, Specs. After all this bullshit and stress and low after low, all I want is you. But you don’t want me.”