Hard Beat

The smart thing would be to get a hotel, wait for shift change, and then head back to the hospitals, flash her picture, and try with the different employees. If I’m here, I’d better satisfy my need to be thorough when investigating a story, because that’s how I’m trying to treat this, like it’s a story. It’s the only way I can approach the Beaux situation and consider the possibility I might not get the outcome I want. Put the filter up, turn the emotions off, treat it like the hard beat I had in the Middle East.

I start the car and turn out of the parking lot with thoughts of heading to a hotel, grabbing a quick shower, and then heading back to the hospital circuit. “And Ramirez hits one hard.” The announcer from the game breaks through my scattered thoughts. “It’s going, going, and it’s gone! A home run for the rookie to tie the game.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, but the minute they do, I flip a U-turn across the double yellow line and head back to the hospital because an idea has seated itself – and I swear that I know it’s going to be the break I’ve been looking for. Within minutes, I’m at Saint Luke’s, where I buy flowers in the gift shop, and then head to the front desk to greet the new person manning the desk.

“Hi there, what can I do for you today?”

I fidget back and forth as if I’m antsy, a nervous smile plastered to my face so that I can play the part, but at the same time I am nervous. “I think I’m at the right hospital. I just… I just need to see her.” While I speak, I dig in my pocket to make sure my boarding pass falls onto the desk between us.

“Calm down, sir,” she says sweetly, her head angled to the side and her eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses. “Who are you looking for?”

“My girlfriend. I’ve been in the Middle East, and she was hurt. Brought here or University… I can’t remember which one because it was such a whirlwind, but I was able to get leave from my unit and I got here as soon as I could and I came straight from the airport and now I just need to find her to make sure she’s okay,” I ramble on as her smile softens.

“Of course you’re flustered. Thank you for your service, sir,” she says, and I nod at the assumption she makes about my being in the military, hating myself for implying it but at the same time, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do and everyone loves a man in the service. Especially a middle-aged woman who could have sons of her own and can appreciate a man trying to get home to the woman he loves. “Now what’s her name and I can look her up for you, see what room she’s in?”

“Thank you so much.” I set the vase of flowers down and keep up the act to look scattered by collecting my boarding pass and stuffing it in my pocket. “Her name is BJ or Beaux Croslyn… but she goes by Rookie, Rookie Croslyn. So I’d try that,” I say, my hopes lodged in my throat as I spell out the last name for her.

“Just give me one second, sweetheart,” she says. Her fingernails click over the keyboard as I watch the reflection of the screen in her glasses, the blue hue an easy thing to see, but it’s the slight frown on her lips as her eyes flicker back to mine that has my heart stopping in my chest. She knows something. The hesitation, the pause in her fingers, and furrow of her brow tell me more than any words could. “I’m so sorry. There’s no one by that name,” she responds, shattering any hope I’d had. A defeated thank-you is on my lips when she murmurs to herself, “Only a Rookie Thomas.”

“That’s her!” I all but shout as I’m overcome with emotion. There’s no need to continue my Oscar-worthy performance because my heart leaps into my throat when I hear the name. It can’t be a mistake. Beaux used my nickname for her and my surname – the thought that she’s kept a part of my feelings for her alive knocks me back a step.

She has to be telling me something. What it is, though, I have no idea.

The receptionist’s face smiles broadly, all trace of the hesitancy I saw moments before gone. “Well good news, Mr…”

“C-Clint,” I stutter, her comment giving me an instant high, that buzz that’s been nonexistent since I left Germany running rampant for the first time.

K. Bromberg's books