was looking for a new agent before his old contract expired, she’d met with Brandt over dinner and before the evening ended she’d agreed to represent him. The result was a three-year deal for what she’d thought of as an obscene amount of money for tossing a football, her commission netting her close to seven figures.
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Brandt Wainwright.”
“I said I’ll call him, Aziza Wainwright.”
Aziza smiled. “Good. Now, let’s get you upstairs.”
Reaching into her dress pocket, she took out a plastic ID badge marked “Visitor,” clipping it to the collar of Brandt’s black golf shirt. He looked splendidly fit sitting in the chair. His face was tanned and his cropped hair was growing out. She hoped the children would recognize him without the long hair.
Punching the button for the elevator, Aziza pushed the chair into the car when the doors opened. They were the only passengers in the car that rose quickly and smoothly to the floor housing the pediatric wing.
Brandt felt his heart rate kick into a higher gear when he heard childish voices raised in laughter coming from the end of the hallway. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d visit a hospital to entertain young children; it would be the first time he’d come and been able to identify with them.
He maneuvered his chair into an atrium and within seconds the laughter evaporated like a drop of water on a hot griddle. Children lay in beds; others were in wheelchairs with tubes inserted in their noses and hands. Several others sat on love seats, chairs and chaises, staring at him as if he were an extraterrestrial.
The chin of one boy quivered as he choked back tears. “You’re not the Viking.” His voice was pregnant with disappointment as tears rolled down his face.
Brandt swallowed the lump in his throat. These children were expecting to see a giant of a man with long hair, palming a football with one hand. They wanted to see their hero, but saw someone sitting in a wheelchair they didn’t recognize. His head came around, glaring when a photographer snapped several frames in rapid succession.
Aziza sprang into action. She smiled at the stunned faces of the young patients. “When you asked for Brandt Wainwright to come to visit, you thought he would look like the photograph over in the corner.”
“Why is he in a wheelchair?” wailed a young girl, also seated in a wheelchair.
Brandt pushed his chair closer to her. “I’m in a chair because I can’t walk.”
“Why not?” asked a young boy with a tube feeding oxygen into his nose.
“I broke my legs.” Gasps followed his statement.
“How?” asked another child.
Brandt told the children and medical staff filling the room about the deer that had appeared in the road in front of his vehicle and how in his attempt to avoid hitting the animal he had crashed his SUV into a tree. Their rapt gazes didn’t waver when he told them wearing a seat belt had saved his life, otherwise he would’ve been ejected from the vehicle.
Videotapes were activated and tape recorders turned on when the children conducted a press conference, asking Brandt questions about how he was rescued, his stay in the hospital, his rehabilitation and whether he missed playing football.
Brandt answered their questions simply, intelligently, and then shocked the children when he asked them if they would sign his casts. Aziza, who’d had a supply of footballs delivered to the hospital, had him personally sign a ball and photographs for each child.
Doctors, nurses and hospital staff floated in and out of the atrium, watching in awe as Brandt Wainwright entertained their young patients, recounting games when he’d had the breath knocked out of him after he was sacked. The children were served cups of ice cream with football-shaped cupcakes before nurses and aides came to escort them back to their rooms, Brandt giving each a high-five or handshake.
He caught a brief glimpse of the man who’d caused Ciara so much emotional pain when he walked into the atrium to talk to a young girl with a dressing over her left ear. When the child turned her head Brandt saw that she was missing her right ear. Dr. Victor Seabrook may have met success as a brilliant plastic surgeon, but he was an abysmal failure when it came to women, Brandt thought.
An approaching reporter shoved a tape recorder under his nose. “When do you think you’ll be able to return to playing football?”
Brandt recognized the television sportscaster. “I will answer that