Powerplay Read online

  Because the officer was telling her about a court appearance she might have to make, depending on the statement made by the guy she hit.

  Meg could scarcely take it all in. “Which hospital did he go to?” she blurted out.

  “Northwestern Memorial is the closest one,” the officer said. “But, ma’am, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to show up there. The family might call security.”

  Meg stepped back. “I have to . . . I have to know . . .”

  She turned from the officer, who merely watched her go. The front bumper of her car had fared much better than the man, and she climbed into the car. Perhaps she shouldn’t be driving, but she couldn’t very well leave her car here.

  Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, she drove to the hospital. Somehow she made it to visitor’s parking and managed to pull in straight. Then she locked her car and headed into the main lobby.

  The bright fluorescent lights buzzed above her, making her realize that the headache she’d had since that morning was now piercing. Her gaze zeroed in on the information desk, and she walked to it, eyeing the twenty-something girl with dark-pink lips working behind the counter. What were the chances of her giving Meg the room number of a man she didn’t even know the name of?

  Before Meg could say a word, the front doors of the hospital slid open.

  “Where is he?” a man said into his phone. He strode toward the information desk, his brows like angry slashes across his forehead. “What do you mean, you don’t know? I thought you talked to the cops.”

  The lobby beyond the information desk quieted as those sitting in chairs looked in the direction of the man on the phone.

  “All right,” the man said, his voice less fierce now and more resigned as he stopped in front of the information desk. He loosened his tie. “If you’re sure it’s Northwestern Memorial, then I’m here now. Just get here as fast as you can.”

  Meg, as unobtrusively as she could, edged away. She’d wait until this man was helped before she inquired with her question.

  The man hung up, and without a glance at Meg, he gazed at the receptionist. “I need the room number of Jackson Emerson. He was brought in about an hour ago. Some bimbo hit him with a car. Unbelievable.”

  Kudos to the young woman behind the counter, who didn’t seem fazed by the harsh words. She merely typed a few things into her computer, then looked up. “Relation?”

  The man straightened. “I’m his father.”

  “I need to see your ID, please.”

  He huffed but in a smooth motion pulled his wallet from the inside of his suit coat pocket. Then he slid his ID across the counter.

  “Very well, Mr. Emerson,” the woman said. “Your son is in room 208.”

  He nodded and was already on the phone before he stepped away from the information desk. “Jax is in room 208. Meet me there.” He clicked off his phone and walked toward the elevators.

  Meg discovered she was gripping the edge of the information desk. Not just because she’d nearly come face-to-face with the father of the man she’d hit with a car. But because the man she’d hit was Jax Emerson. Star forward of the Chicago Flyers.

  She hadn’t recognized him . . . well, out of context she wasn’t surprised, and he hadn’t been wearing pads, a uniform, and a helmet. And his eyes had been closed—those intense eyes that stared into the camera, right through the television screen, when he was being interviewed off the ice.

  Breathe, Meg.

  208. Room 208.

  She turned from the information desk and found a lobby chair to sit in. There was no way she’d go to his hospital room when he had family there. Besides, she was pretty sure his dad was the last person she wanted to talk to right now.

  The hospital door swooshed open, and a man strode in. Another expensive-looking man. This one wore a short goatee and a blazer over a pinstriped shirt. He strode past the information desk, straight to the elevators.

  A member of the Emerson family?

  Meg’s pulse hadn’t slowed down, and she knew it wouldn’t until she found out Jax Emerson’s prognosis. This entire week had been pretty lousy, and today had been the pinnacle of that lousiness when she’d gotten the final spreadsheets from her accountant and found out that she had maybe six weeks before she’d have to close down Meg’s Loft. With the rent increase she’d been notified of last week, she had known she’d be cutting things really close. Turned out, it was too close.

  Meg would have to move her shop to online exclusive, which meant she could still eat and pay expenses but not do what she loved the most: spend her days in a shop, talking fashion and clothing with customers, handling the fabrics, and arranging displays. Sales might be her bread and butter, but her passion was simply the clothing itself.

  Meg closed her eyes against the bright fluorescent lights, against the people coming and going, against the ringing phone at the information desk. When her stomach rumbled, she knew it was because she hadn’t eaten for hours. How long would Jax’s father be at the hospital? The rest of the day? All night?

  The hospital doors opened again, and several men walked in. Everyone in the lobby stared. These were not regular men. They were the size of mountains, and Meg’s sinking heart told her that they were the pro hockey teammates of Jax Emerson.

  She felt the blood drain from her face. How serious were Jax’s injuries? And how could she find out?

  Her stomach rumbled again, but there was no way Meg could eat.

  The television in the lobby had been playing some mundane sitcom, but now a news flash came onto the screen: Breaking news! Jax Emerson, star player of pro hockey team the Chicago Flyers, was badly injured earlier today when he was hit by a car while crossing the street . . .

  Meg stared in horror at the female reporter. Behind her was the hospital’s emergency entrance sign. The media was at the hospital, and Jax Emerson was seriously injured.

  “I need this out,” Jax said, pushing up on his elbows. He was hooked up to some machine with various tubes and wires, none of them necessary.

  “Please lie back down, sir,” the nurse said, a woman who reminded him of a prison warden, from her iron-gray hair to her no-nonsense blue eyes.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I heard the doctor.”

  Nurse Prim set her hands on her hips. Her name wasn’t really Prim, but it fit her better than what her nametag said: Sonnie.

  “The doctor wants you kept overnight for observation,” she said. “Then plenty of rest at home and a follow-up in seven days, with more X-rays.”

  Jax hid a groan as he shifted to a sitting position. Yeah, he ached, and yeah, things were throbbing, but nothing was broken, torn, or sprained. No concussion either, which was a minor miracle. Only a bit of road rash on his back and shoulder and a deep bruise on his left hip. Something that wouldn’t get in the way of anything. Like he had said, he was fine.

  The doctor was being overcautious, what with Jax’s father, coach, and assistant coach all breathing down his neck. Of course the doctor was going to recommend a very thorough follow-up. “If nothing’s broken now, then nothing’s going to show up on an X-ray in another week. Unless I get hit by a car again.” The humor went right past Nurse Prim. Not even a hint of a smile.

  Jax swung his legs over the bed, slowly because of his hip. He’d refused strong pain medication because he fully intended to leave the hospital tonight. Discharged or not. The droning television in the corner told him that the media had been outside the hospital earlier that day, and the last thing he intended to do was another interview. One interview in a day had been plenty.

  Besides, the newscasters had had a field day, from reporting all kinds of injuries, like dislocated limbs and a serious concussion, to informing the greater population of Chicago that Jax Emerson would be out for the rest of the season.

  Hell. That was the farthest thing from the truth as possible. Unless things went horribly south with his conversation with his dad about his contract, because he intended to confr
ont his coach as well.

  Jax set his feet upon the cold ground. It was after midnight, the perfect time to escape the hospital without the media hounding him. Now, where was his phone?

  “Sir,” Nurse Prim said, “I’ll need to get the doctor if you insist on getting up. His orders were very specific.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, although the room had begun to tilt. He waited a moment, then gripped the railing of the bed as he stood . . . just in case. The dizziness had faded, though, so he tugged out the IV in his hand.

  “Mr. Emerson,” Nurse Prim said in a startled voice. “You can’t do that!”

  “I already did,” Jax said. He wasn’t trying to be a jerk, but he wasn’t staying here either. His clothing was folded up on a nearby chair. Kudos to the hospital for getting him undressed and into a hospital gown. “Now if you’ll give me a bit of privacy . . . Sonnie.”

  Her lips flattened, and she set her hands on her hips. “I’ll be right back, sir. Please don’t try to dress by yourself. If the doctor does allow you to leave early, then I’ll send a male nurse to help you with your clothing, and you’ll need to be released to a family member who can drive you. Hospital rules.”

  How hard would it be to convince a Lyft driver to pretend he was a brother? Fifty bucks should do it.

  Jax tugged at the tie holding his hospital gown together.

  Nurse Prim’s eyes widened, and she spun in her white tennis shoes and hurried out of the room. She left the door open a strategic three inches as if he couldn’t be trusted behind a closed door. Whatever. Jax had nothing to hide.

  Now the room was tilting again. He exhaled, then shuffled to the chair. It took a bit of effort, but soon he was dressed, and his phone and wallet were located. A quick glance at the screen told him he had dozens of missed calls and texts.

  Well, he’d seen his dad, his agent, his coaches, and a bunch of his Flyers teammates, and he’d answered a call from his mom, who was on her way back from Europe even though he told her he was fine.

  The Pit had about fifty-five texts, and Jax was pretty sure they were all about him and his mishap. The group chat named The Pit consisted of the guys he’d played with on the Northbrook Hockey Elite team years ago, when they were all in high school. Last month, they’d all connected at a fundraiser to help out the club that had given them all their start. Five of Jax’s original team had gone pro—well, now six, with the recent signing of Clint McCarthy to the St. Louis Hawks.

  Despite some of the differences between the team members, they’d all mellowed over the years, and the fundraiser ended up being a surprisingly good time. Thus, The Pit was born.

  He opened the group chat, and without reading a single text, he wrote: Leaving the hospital now. I’m not in a coma. I’m not out for the season. Since when did you all start believing the media?

  His phone started to ding with replies, but Jax pocketed the thing, because he had a nurse to avoid.

  The hospital door opened, and Jax tensed, expecting to see Nurse Prim and the doctor, or perhaps a male nurse or other various hospital personnel there to tell him that he must stay put. Instead, it was a woman who was decidedly not wearing hospital scrubs or any sort of dangling ID tag. No, she wore a cropped white turtleneck above striped trousers that made her legs look a mile long. Her hair was as black as the night outside, and it hung in waves about her shoulders. And she had an elegant, standoffish presence about her. As if she was too good for the mundane things and regular people around her.

  He wouldn’t be surprised if she was some sort of runway model, the type of woman he stayed far, far away from. Women who had no problem taking bribes from his father. Who had no problem using wealthy pro athletes for their own gains.

  But this woman looked like she’d been crying, if her smudged makeup was any indication, along with her red-rimmed eyes. Green eyes with a splash of brown.

  Her eyes widened when their gazes connected, and she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” She stopped talking and simply stared at him.

  “I think you have the wrong room, ma’am.” He guessed her to be about thirty, a couple of years older than he was. Was she crying because her family member was seriously sick?

  “You’re . . . you’re walking. And you’re dressed.”

  Jax furrowed his brow. “I am . . . are you a nurse or something?” Maybe she was off duty? Or just checking in before her shift?

  Her cheeks pinked. “Oh, no. I’m . . .” Her green eyes glimmered with tears.

  Now what was wrong? She was going to cry again?

  “I’m glad to see you up and walking,” she continued, her voice trembling now. She was definitely going to cry. “I thought . . . the news said . . .”

  Jax folded his arms. This woman was pretty—beautiful, really, in her tragic way—and under normal circumstances he might have wanted to linger and chat despite his aversion to supermodel-type women. But the circumstances weren’t usual, and she was a hot mess of tears; besides, Nurse Prim could be back any moment.

  “The media sensationalizes things,” Jax said. “I’m fine. A bit of bruising, but I’ll live.”

  She took a shallow breath, blinking rapidly. “And your career? It’s not over?”

  Jax scoffed. “That’s to be determined, but not because I was hit by a car today.”

  The woman covered her mouth, and tears filled her eyes.

  Now what had he said?

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I didn’t see you until it was too late. I wasn’t going very fast, because the light had just turned, and I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late.”

  It was Jax’s turn to stare at her. This woman wasn’t in the wrong room. She’d come to see him because she was the one who’d hit him with her car. “You were the driver?”

  A small cry came from her throat, and she nodded. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Mr. Emerson.” Nurse Prim’s voice cut in like a shard of glass. She appeared behind the crying woman like a dark cloud. “I spoke with the doctor, and he’s cleared you for release as long as you have someone to drive you.”

  Jax looked from Nurse Prim’s stern blue gaze to the watery green eyes of the mystery woman. “My girlfriend’s here to drive me home.”

  “Oh.” Nurse Prim turned to the woman. “And what’s your name, ma’am?”

  The woman’s eyes widened. But credit went to her for straightening her shoulders and saying in a steady voice, “Meg Bailey.”

  Perhaps getting a ride from a stranger who had hit him with her car just hours before wasn’t the smartest decision of his life, but desperation called for desperate choices.

  “All right, Miss Bailey,” Nurse Prim said. “If you can sign here. I also need to see some ID.”

  Jax watched Meg pull out her driver’s license from a silvery-looking handbag slung on her shoulder. Was Meg short for something? Margaret? Megan?

  “And your signature, Mr. Emerson.” The nurse handed him the clipboard.

  He scrawled his name, then said, “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “Ready, honey?” Jax asked.

  Meg blinked those green eyes of hers, an incredulous expression stamped on her face. At least it had stopped her tears.

  “Ready,” she said, her voice a note above a mouse’s.

  And with Nurse Prim’s gaze on him, Jax moved through the doorway and took ahold of Meg’s hand. She didn’t resist—and it might be odd to hold the hand of a complete stranger, but her hand was warm and smooth. Not bad for the situation.

  They were about ten paces away from the nurse when Jax whispered, “I might need to lean on you a bit. Do you mind?”

  Meg looked up at him, worry flashing in her eyes. “Should you even be walking?”

  “I’m fine.” He released her hand. “The walls are moving a bit, though.”

  “Maybe you should stay the night.”

  “Hush.” He draped an arm about her shoulders, and after a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her a
rm around his waist.

  For a willowy woman, she was surprisingly solid and steady, even in those heeled boots of hers. He guessed her to be five-nine without the boots.

  He leaned a bit more, and her arm tightened about him. Did he smell vanilla? It had to be her shampoo or her perfume. He wasn’t a big fan of cloying perfume, but frankly, anything smelled better than the antiseptic hospital.

  They stepped into the elevator, and Jax pressed the Lobby button. He released his hold on Meg and leaned against the elevator wall. As the doors dinged shut, he released a breath. He was on his way. Finally. Yeah, things were still aching and throbbing, but his king-sized bed was sounding like heaven about now. He closed his eyes as the elevator descended. The vertigo was coming back.

  “You okay?” Meg asked in a soft voice.

  “I’m fine.” He’d been saying that a lot tonight. “But a distraction would be nice. Tell me about yourself, Meg Bailey.”

  She made a sound that resembled a cough.

  “Got a cold?” He opened his eyes to look over at her.

  “Um, no, I just . . . It’s not something I thought you’d ask.”

  The elevators dinged open.

  Meg slipped her arm around his waist again, and they moved forward as one. Jax spied the hospital exit. Not too much farther. “I don’t care what you talk about, but I need to get out of my own head for a while.”

  “Okay,” Meg said as they walked across the lobby, her heeled boots tapping on the floor. “I’m a thoroughbred Chicagoan, born and raised here. After high school, I went through a fashion-merchandising program, then worked in retail for a while. About five years ago, I opened my own boutique.”

  Jax nodded. “So a businesswoman, huh?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “Impressive.”

  He thought he heard the surprise in her voice when she said, “Long hours are not too glamourous, but I love it all the same.”

  “That’s retail for you, right?”

  They reached the hospital exit, and the doors slid open.

  “My car’s over here,” she said.