Winter tilts her head and gives me a thoroughly unimpressed look. “You must be kidding me.”
“Listen, I know you said it was a secret, but it’s just us here. So you can stop pretending that wasn’t the best sex you’ve ever had. How many times did I make you—”
“Theo. Shut up,” she snaps, but it’s not her usual Tinkerbell vibe. There’s an edge of something I can’t quite place.
Pain.
And it silences me.
The minutes filled with silence stretch between us. The hum of the road beneath the ambulance tires and the light rattle of the drawers in the back are our only companions.
Anxiety replaces discomfort as the main thing I’m feeling. There’s an unfamiliar heaviness. I didn’t expect to see her again, and I for sure didn’t expect the cold shoulder—even from her.
“How many concussions have you had, Theo?” Her voice is emotionless, but confident. Very doctor-y.
I sigh. “A lot.”
“How many is a lot?”
“We talking diagnosed or suspected?”
Her head flips away. “Jesus Christ.”
“Last time I got one, I was told not to get any more.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Probably three concussions ago.”
Her head taps back against the single seat she’s strapped into. “I can’t even tell if you’re joking right now.”
“I’m not joking, just trying to lighten the blow. No pun intended.”
I see her shake her head, but she says nothing. I am joking a little bit. It’s keeping me from falling into a pit of despair over watching the most epic season circle the drain before my eyes. All my hard work and sacrifice gone up in a puff of smoke because I did a friend a favor and offered to do a demo ride at his small-town rodeo on an “easy” bull.
Epically stupid. Just like many of the decisions I’ve made in my life.
“When I started out, I didn’t think wearing a helmet looked as cool.”
“Yeah, brain injuries make you look so cool,” she scoffs, jaw popping with tension.
“Have you seen the episode of Grey’s Anatomy where McDreamy dies?”
Her expression is one you’d use on a child, full of deprecation. But it’s a little lighter somehow.
I’ll take it. I love watching this woman thaw.
“Are you telling me you watch Grey’s Anatomy?”
“Every episode of all eighteen seasons.”
She looks confused. “Why?”
I go to shrug and instantly regret it. “My mom loves it. When I was younger and lived with her, we watched it together every Thursday. Now, I watch it on my own and then call her so we can talk about it. It’s the only reason I still have cable.”
“How often?” Winter’s eyes are comically wide.
“Every week. Well, while the season is running.”
She stares at me like I’m some exotic animal in a zoo. “That’s . . .”
“Are you going to say weird? Don’t bother. You won’t convince me. I never thought it was that weird. Sure, the guys have made fun of me for it along the way. But I don’t give a fuck. She’s my mom. Seems like the least I can do for her.”
Winter almost jolts in her seat before she drops her eyes to her lap. Her voice is hushed when she says, “I wasn’t going to say weird.”
“You’re gonna make sure they do a CT scan so that doesn’t happen, right?”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“Remember? We were talking about the episode where Derek dies. You sure I’m the one with a concussion?”
“I’m not Meredith. And you are certainly no McDreamy.”
“They got married on a Post-it note.”
Her brows scrunch. “And?”
“And we made a sex contract on a coaster. What was it? One night only. We never tell anyone . . .”
I don’t need to ask. I know what’s on that coaster, and I’m trying to see if she does too.
The ambulance stops, and she stares at me, not even a twitch of her lips. Blank and icy and thoroughly unimpressed. “That’s not funny, Theo.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny—”
“Okay, we’re here,” the paramedic announces as he yanks the doors open.
I see the reflection of flashing red lights bouncing off the hospital.
And the silhouette of Winter escaping the ambulance, getting away from me as fast as possible.
My eyes blink open to take in the hospital room around me. Dim lights. A steady beeping. Dryness in my mouth.
“You must enjoy spending time at the hospital,” Rhett quips from beside me.
I squeeze my eyes shut once more to get my bearings and eventually grumble out, “I hope your stupid rodeo was a huge success, asshole. Where’s my dog? One of the girls was watching him.”
The sound of Rhett shifting in a vinyl hospital chair joins the chorus of beeps. “Don’t worry, Summer has him. He might as well be a child, considering she just sent me a photo of him in our bed with her. And it’s not my fault you dropped that inside shoulder like a rookie. Right down the well you go.”
My eyes open only so that I can shoot him a glare. “Hilarious. The best season of my life is trashed because I did you a solid and you’re sitting here telling me what I did wrong. Next time, you ride the fucking bull yourself. You’re the one everyone wants to see anyway.”
His lips flatten and his arms cross. “People were there to see you, Theo. Don’t kid yourself.”
I glance away, noting that whatever drugs they gave me after surgery are doing a great job because there’s no pain to speak of. “People are there to see me because I’m Gabriel Silva’s son and your protégé. Not because I have any accolades of my own.”
Rhett’s amber eyes narrow on me, his hands steepled beneath his chin. “That’s not true.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Eaton. Tell me what I’m known for in the WBRF?”
His lips twitch. “Chasing tail.”
I swallow my frustration and focus on the ceiling. I fucking hate that for me.
“Theo, you’re gonna bust a tooth grinding your molars like that. Everyone knows who you are because you’re piecing together one of the most impressive seasons anyone has seen. A better run than your dad or I ever went on. That’s for sure.”
“So much for that.”
“Don’t be a pessimist. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m allowed to have a moment, Rhett. I’ve seen you brood over shit. I remember how hard you sulked when you first got saddled with Summer as your babysitter. This is ten times worse. I don’t have to always be in a good mood.”
“You’ll be back this season. You’re far enough ahead that you can pull it off. We’ll make sure that you—”
A slightly raised voice cuts in from the hallway through the open door. “You didn’t check his head?”
A deeper one responds. “He was perfectly alert. Laughing. Joking. I’m heading in there now. He’s already awake.”
“Have you not seen the episode of Grey’s Anatomy where Derek Shepherd dies? It was one little CT scan to double-check the brain of a man who has had multiple head injuries—”
“Winter, relax.”
Rhett’s eyes widen at me. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Winter Hamilton likes you. She’s been a fucking terror out there, checking your charts and demanding updates.”
I’m about to respond to that, but a stout man with gray hair wanders into my room.
He stops near my bed, glasses dropped low on his nose, while he stares down at a clipboard. “Mr. Silva, I’m Dr. Forrester. Nice to see you’re awake. Surgery went well—”
Winter storms in behind him, doing her best crabby Tinkerbell impression, and I can’t help but smile. “How’s your head?”
“Winter,” the older doctor admonishes her.
It annoys me. He introduces himself as doctor but calls Winter by her first name.
“Doctor Hamilton,” I correct, letting steel seep into my voice.
The man glances at me, head quirking to the side. “Yes? What about her?”
“You keep calling her Winter. But she works here, right? It’s Dr. Hamilton, isn’t it?”
An awkward hush permeates the space. Three sets of eyes lock on mine. Rhett’s amused. Dr. Forrester’s taken aback. And Winter’s confused.
The man clears his throat and offers me a flat smile. “Right, well, yes. Dr. Hamilton here is concerned about head trauma, but I’ve assured her that you are most likely concussed. The helmet is what saved you.”
“I’ll take him for a CT myself, then.”
The other doctor lets out a beleaguered sigh and Rhett fails to stifle a laugh.
I have to confess I’m a little lost as to why Winter cares so much about this. I’m not mad about it though. If she wants to play doctor, I’ll be the patient.
“I think Dr. Hamilton is right,” I pipe up, lasering my eyes in on hers even though I’m addressing the other doctor in the room. “I’d like to go for a CT, just to be safe. I’d hate to pull a McDreamy.” Her lips flatten and she looks away. I’m pretty sure that’s her version of holding back a laugh. “But first, how did surgery go? All fixed up? When can I get back on?”