me?
“Just go see him. Humor the guy. He’s with Amy, and he’s comically disoriented.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
He chuckles as he yanks off his jersey. “Come on. He’s always so well-behaved. Ren unfiltered is a rare treat. You should be thanking me.”
Grumbling, I stroll down the hall, take a few turns, and find my way. Ren’s propped up on an angled mattress, an IV, which I hope is just saline, in his arm. Amy’s chatting with Coach. They don’t notice when I walk in. But Ren does.
“Francesca.” He flashes a big, wide grin. Like a Loony Tunes big, wide grin. Holding up the arm that’s not bound in a sling, he waves.
Okay, then. There’s clearly something else in that IV drip.
“Francesca,” he says again, his eyes tracking me as I walk up to him. Nobody has the balls to call me by my full name. I made it very clear to everyone that my name is Frankie. But if anyone could get away with it, it’s concussed, delirious Ren. It helps that I have his full name to wield in retribution, too.
“Søren.” God, I love his name. It’s more Swedish than IKEA. Rather fun fact, his spelling is actually Danish. Being a bit of a foreign languages and linguistics lover—it’s a special interest of mine—I can tell you that ø is not in the Swedish alphabet. On one of our many flights, Ren told me its spelling was debated extensively between his Swedish mother’s preference for Sören and his American father’s love of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard.
Obviously, no one’s wondering where Ren gets his dorkdom. Ren’s naming process involved an existentialist theologian and multilingual debate. Pretty sure my parents just pulled an Italian name out of a hat and threw it at me.
“Got yourself good and banged up, there, huh?” I ask.
His eyes dart over my face. “Uh-huh. But I didn’t piss myself, and I know my birthday, so Amy said I’ll be okay.”
At hearing her name, Amy breaks her conversation with Coach and smiles at Ren. “Oh, he’s in rare form right now. Had to give him Percocet for his shoulder.”
“No social media!” Coach warns.
I lift my hands, demonstrating my innocence. “Not a camera in sight, I promise.” I glance at Ren. “You needed a narcotic for a bruised shoulder?”
“Give him some credit,” Amy says gently. “It’s slightly separated, and that hurts like hell.” She leans in and grins. “He also passed out when I inserted his IV.”
“Wow, Judas.” He narrows his eyes at her, then turns back toward me. “Redheads have been scientifically proven to need higher doses of pain relief, Francesca. We’re sensitive.”
“I’m teasing you, Ren the Red. I can’t imagine how much it hurts. That check was dangerously late and high.”
Coach grunts in agreement as he swigs from his water bottle. “Absolute bullshit. Glad they threw him out.” Patting Ren’s good shoulder, he tosses his water bottle in the recycling bin. “Time to round up the boys. Take it easy, Bergman. You did good, as always.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
When the door bangs shut, Ren clasps my hand suddenly, fingers curling around it. “Francesca, pay attention. This is important.”
He’s like a kid right now. Wide-eyed and deeply sincere. I let myself stare at his features, knowing he probably won’t remember. His hand holding mine feels oddly familiar. It’s warm and heavy, the scrape of his callouses soothing my skin.
“You need a masky thing-a-ma-bob. I have a fever. And I keep touching you. And breathing near you. Dr. Amy!” he hollers.
“Ren.” She laughs. “Right here, buddy. What’s up?”
“This here Francesca is…” He frowns. “Ah, I can’t think of the word right now. But it means her medicine makes her body very friendly towards the germs. She needs something so she’s safe from my plague.”
Amy grins at me, then directs herself to Ren. “While that’s very considerate of you, I’m confident your fever isn’t due to anything plague related. When I was assessing you, I noticed signs of a sinus infection. Remember, I told you I was going to give you some antibiotics?”
He stares at her. “I do not remember that.”
She pats his good arm. “That’s because you got your head knocked nicely. You told me you’d had a cold recently, and I told you it seems like you developed a secondary bacterial infection in your sinus cavity from it. That’s why you’re fevered.”
He squints at her one-eyed. “Can you maybe condense that to smaller words? I’m not following.”
“What I mean to say is,” she says gently, “that you aren’t contagious.