Page 17 of Playing Her Game

“Methodist Hospital.”

“Good. Look at my finger.”

She moves her index finger slowly from side to side. I follow it with my eyes, but the movement turns my stomach. I swallow hard and concentrate on keeping the room where it belongs.

“Any nausea?”

“A little.” I undersell it.

“Headache?”

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“That's right.” She confirms.

“Can I use decimals?”

Her mouth twitches. “You can try.”

“Eight point seven five.”

“Very precise.”

“I have a gift.” I sigh.

“Let's hope it's wasn’t predicting the future.” She makes a note on her tablet. “We're going to get you into an exam room so the doctor can take a look.”

“Hildy needs attention as well.”

“I’m fine,” she says.

“We’ll see about adjoining rooms.” The nurse jokes.

“With a good view I hope.”

“Oh my God.” Hildy laughs, just a little.

The hospital smells like disinfectant, stale coffee, and something faintly metallic. Shoes squeak against the polished floor. A television murmurs behind a curtain, and a man at the nurses' station argues about how long he's been waiting. The nurse steers me around a cart loaded with folded blankets, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the dark reflection of a window.

White jersey. Red streaks. Hair plastered against my temple. A far cry from the image in the bathroom mirror at the arena.

I look away.

The exam room is barely large enough for the bed, a rolling stool, and a metal cart crowded with sealed packets and plastic containers. A monitor glows against the wall. The overhead fluorescent light hums just loudly enough to become impossible to ignore once I notice it.

The nurse helps me onto the bed. The paper beneath me crackles, and I wince at the sound.

“I'm going to get your vitals,” she says. “Then the doctor will be in.”

Hildy takes the chair beside me. Her face is pale beneath the arena makeup, and the scratch along her cheekbone stands out as a thin red line against her skin.

“What?” she asks when she catches me looking.

“Nothing.”