The Last Shot Read online

  The Last Shot

  Sara Hubbard

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. ANNIE

  2. ETHAN

  3. ANNIE

  4. ETHAN

  5. ANNIE

  6. ETHAN

  7. ANNIE

  8. ETHAN

  9. ANNIE

  10. ETHAN

  11. ANNIE

  12. ETHAN

  13. ANNIE

  14. ETHAN

  15. ANNIE

  16. ETHAN

  17. ANNIE

  18. ANNIE

  19. ETHAN

  20. ANNIE

  21. ETHAN

  22. ANNIE

  23. ETHAN

  24. ANNIE

  25. ETHAN

  26. ANNIE

  27. ETHAN

  28. ANNIE

  29. ETHAN

  30. ETHAN

  31. ANNIE

  32. ETHAN

  33. ANNIE

  34. ETHAN

  35. ANNIE

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Hubbard

  THE LAST SHOT

  Copyright © 2015 Sara Hubbard

  Edited by The Red Pen Coach

  Cover design by Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  All rights reserved.

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold, given away, copied, transmitted, stored in a retrieval system or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations contained in articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The following novel contains strong language and sexual situations. It is recommended for adult readers.

  First edition November 2015.

  ISBN eBook: 978-0992091279

  ISBN Print: 978-1517401504

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  Dedication

  For my husband.

  I love you more.

  1

  ANNIE

  “I hate when you frown,” a soft voice says as I leave one of my patient’s rooms. I turn my attention to the room across the hall and the tall drink of water sauntering toward me.

  Dr. Charlie Davidson belongs on the cover of Men’s Health magazine, I swear. Picture perfect. Longish blond hair and striking green eyes that cut right through you. Lean like a runner with enough definition to make men at the gym give him a sideways glance of envy.

  The problem with perfect, though, is that it’s just that...perfect. I find it hard to trust someone without flaws because it makes me feel like they’re hiding something. Though, after eight weeks of dating Charlie I’m beginning to think he’s exactly as advertised.

  He pumps some hand sanitizer out of the container on the wall and rubs his hands clean, flashing me a winning smile worthy of a starring role in a toothpaste commercial.

  “Rough day?” he asks. He takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between us while still leaving enough space to remain outside of my bubble. We may be dating, but at work, we’re both careful to remain professional. Not to mention public displays of affection—of any kind—make me uncomfortable.

  I dig my hands into my scrub pockets and sigh, then take one hand out to point a finger over my shoulder at the frail man in the room behind me. A few weeks ago, Charlie had the unfortunate task of telling Mr. Bentley that not only does he have cancer, but that it’s terminal. News like that always gets me to thinking. Here one minute and gone the next. You never know when your number will be called. And it's always the good ones who seem to get a shitty deal. Not sure I've met a patient sweeter than Mr. Bentley. Every time I enter his room, he flashes me a sincere smile—in spite of all he’s dealing with. I swallow the lump building in my throat and struggle with the ache in my stomach.

  “Just spoke with Mr. Bentley,” I say.

  “How is he?”

  “Good, considering.”

  Charlie gives me a sympathetic smile, but I know he’s not as affected by his patients as I am. He’s able to separate his life from his work. I can’t say I’ve learned that skill yet, but then, I only graduated from nursing last spring. I still have so much to learn. The nurses on the floor tell me I need to curb my emotions, to not let the job get to me. Charlie says it, too. But this is the only place I allow myself to be vulnerable. I’m not sure everyone I work with can say the same. Perhaps I’m just ass backward.

  “He decided he doesn’t want treatment.” I scratch an itch on my hand. The skin is rough and irritated from the constant abuse it takes from alcohol sanitizers and gloves.

  “That’s a mistake,” Charlie says.

  “Is it? He’s going to die, it’s just a case of when,” I say flatly. “And I can’t say I blame him for wanting to make the most out of the time he has left.”

  He gives me a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know. With treatment he might last a year, maybe two.”

  “It’s his choice, Charlie,” I say, refusing to let him sway me. “If Mr. Bentley wants to forgo treatment, then I will do everything I can to support him, even if it means having uncomfortable conversations with the patient’s family, my boyfriend or the rest of the medical team caring for him.”

  Charlie shakes his head, his amusement written on his smiling face. “That’s what I love about you,” Charlie says. “Ever the patient advocate.”

  “Will you do me a favor and talk to the son about his wishes so I don’t have to?”

  He lets out a quiet chuckle. “Coward.”

  “You’ve met his son, right?” Usually, I’m strong, but not when it comes to stuff like this. He’s right. I am a coward. But then, Mr. Bentley’s son is a master douche and he lives to make nurses’ lives difficult while telling us how to do our jobs. I can't believe how far the apple fell from the tree in his case. Plus, my shift is over soon and getting yelled at by a bald man with a porn ’stache will put me over the edge.

  Charlie touches my bare arm with his fingers, just a light touch that anyone on the outside might mistake for something casual, and it gives me comfort.

  “Come over tonight,” Charlie whispers, his voice a little husky and his eyes hooded.

  If I stay at his place tonight, I’ll never get any sleep and I have to work again tomorrow. “Maybe,” I say, refusing to commit.

  “So, that’s a no.”

  I smile up at him. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. You can make it up to me another night.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “You know I would.” Leaning in, he tells me he loves me before brushing by me and entering Mr. Bentley’s room.

  I. Love. You.

  Combined, those three words make me shiver. If I believed in love, I think I could love him easily. He’s a kind man who cares very much about his family, friends, and his patients. Plus, he's easy on the eyes, and as much as I don't like to admit it, it's a check in the right column. The girls on the floor call him Dr. Dreamy, named after a doctor on one of those prime-time television dramas. It still shocks the hell out of me that he could have his pick of any of the nurses on the floor—or in the hospital, for that matter—and he chose me.

  I’m still not sure why. A flaw, maybe? Perhaps he isn’t perfect after all.

  I check on my other patients, help one get back to bed from the bathroom and get ice for another who’s just had knee r
eplacement surgery. When they’re all settled, I trek to the nurse’s station, drop into one of the chairs, and pull my feet out of my shoes for a minute.

  “Long day?” Cathy, the charge nurse, asks. She puts a piece of paper in the fax machine and waits for it to slide through before placing it in the filing tray.

  I give her my best pathetic look, at which she only laughs before handing me a chart. “You'll get used to it.”

  I'm not so sure about that. This job isn't just emotionally demanding, it's physically too, especially considering the trend we now have in admitting much sicker and heavier patients.

  “Promise?” I mutter. But honestly, you can get used to anything if your heart is in it.

  “Your day is about to get longer,” Cathy says.

  Of course it is. I groan, mentally preparing myself for whatever task she’s about to throw at me.

  “New admission,” she says.

  I glance up at the clock. Six-twenty-five and I’m off at seven. I’ll never get out of here on time if I get an admission now. Sending a new patient up this close to shift turnover is just cruel.

  So, of course, I say yes.

  “What is it?” I ask, because we tend to ask what and not who when it comes to patients. It gives us an idea of what to prepare for the admission and what we can expect to do to care for and treat them.

  “Post-op nephrectomy,” she says.

  A fresh post-op? At this time? Really?

  “Don’t give me that face. He’s easy. No complications. I gave him to Kim, but her babysitter called and her son split his head open, so she had to go and meet them in Emerg.”

  “Oh, God. I hope her son’s okay.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” she says, holding the patient’s chart out to me. “The patient is already here and settled. Kim got his assessment done and his vitals. Just check on him and maybe see if he needs some pain meds.”

  Okay, not so bad. I can do that.

  She hands me the chart. Guess charting on my other patients will have to wait until later, but I don’t really mind picking up Kim’s patient. She’d do it for me, if I had to leave early. With the chart in my hand, I open it and glance through the major details. My breath catches at the name on the top of the chart: Emmanuel Michaels.

  There's a name I haven't heard in a while. I whisper my patient’s name as a lump builds in my throat and my palms begin to sweat. Manny. Ethan’s little brother. What are the chances?

  Ethan Michaels became my best friend when I moved to this town ten years ago. He became something more a few years ago, right before he received a contract to play professional hockey. He moved shortly after and we tried hard to make long distance work, but after a tough year, we talked less and less, until he started posing for photographs with models and actresses in tabloids. After that, I stopped answering the phone when he called until I finally got the nerve to break up with him. I refused to keep waiting for him to realize he deserved better than some small town girl with enough baggage to drop a plane. Better to do the leaving than have someone do it to you.

  Much better.

  I’ve thought about Ethan a lot since we broke up—that was close to three years ago, now—but I would be lying if I said he doesn’t still own a piece of my soul and probably always will.

  “You recognize the name?” Cathy asks.

  I give her a small nod.

  “He’s that hockey player’s brother, right? You a fan?” Cathy looks at me from over the rim of her tortoise-shelled glasses, her unruly gray and black hair a mass of frizz with corkscrew curls sticking up this way and that.

  “A fan?” I chuckle without humor. “No. Not a fan.” I don’t even like hockey, even though Ethan used to drag me to all of his hockey games and practices. I paid attention the best I could, but I never understood the game and usually just ended up reading a book in the stands until he was ready to leave.

  Sighing, I stand and hold the chart in tight against my chest like it’s a fragile package that might break if I don’t protect it. After a minute of breathing and mental preparation, I go to Manny’s room, both nervous and excited to see his face. I’ve known Manny since he was ten years old. Though I haven’t seen him in a while, it wasn’t because I was avoiding him. He got a job on the oil rigs a few years back, so he’s not around town much—from what I’ve heard. I’m ashamed to admit I’m glad of it. He used to look so much like his brother, and though I ended my relationship with Ethan, it doesn’t mean I don’t ache for him sometimes.

  I flip through Manny’s chart as I reach his room, getting a quick idea of why he’s here and the surgery he just had. I’m more than a little shocked to find out he lost his kidney after getting stabbed. I shudder at the image of someone slicing a knife through his flesh. Violence of any kind makes me beyond uncomfortable. Even angry voices and screaming make me retreat in my mind. I’ve just seen too much ugliness in my life.

  I knock on the door and push it open just enough to peek my head in. “Hello?”

  “Come in,” he says. His head is tilted to the left as he looks out the window.

  “You look awful,” I say, partly teasing, but also telling the truth. He didn’t just get stabbed, he took some punches too. He turns his head to face me and I see the recognition in his eyes as he processes who I am. I give him a slight wave, my heart rate picking up as I see just how much he still looks like his brother, with his wide, strong jaw, big, blue eyes and unruly, black, wavy hair.

  “Hey, stranger,” I say with a smile.

  He licks his swollen lips and tries to smile back, but he flinches as his face moves. “Annie?”

  “In the flesh,” I tease, trying to keep things light, though I still feel nervous. “But don’t worry, I’ll be nice.”

  “How nice?” he says, giving me a wink from the eye that isn’t swollen.

  “Still the flirt, I see.”

  “Come give me a hug.” He put his arms out, but I chuckle and sit on the edge of his bed, instead.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I tell him.

  “It’d be worth it.”

  “What’s this about a knife fight?” I say quietly.

  He sighs and shakes his head. “Nothing. It was stupid. Some asshole jumped me for dancing with his girl at a club. When he started losing, he decided to pull out a knife.”

  I shake my head at him and fold my arms across my chest. “You’re right, it was stupid.”

  “Don’t look at me like that. Mom used to look at me like that, too.”

  I take his hand in mine and we sit quietly. I loved his mother, Claire. There was a mother who cared about her children. When she died, my heart broke a little, not just for Manny and Ethan, but for me as well. She showed me what a real mother could be like. She did it by singing to Manny, and reading him stories, and by kissing his bruises and forcing Ethan into hugs when he pretended he was too big to accept them.

  Ethan was seventeen when she died and poor Manny was only twelve. Both of them were a mess for a while and I’d wondered if Ethan would ever pull himself out of the darkness he retreated into, but it did make Ethan focus that much harder on hockey. And I guess it served him well, because look at him now.

  “Where’s your dad?”

  He scoffs at me. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I frown at him. It saddens me that his dad remains as absent now as he was when the boys were growing up. He worked the rigs too, leaving his family on and off for about half the year. “Does Ethan know you’re in here?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “He’d want to know.”

  “What for? I’m fine.”

  “They removed one of your organs, Manny.”

  He shrugs. “Obviously I can live without it or they wouldn’t have taken it out.”

  I resist the urge to choke him. “You’re as frustrating as your brother.”

  “You would know.” He eyes me, probably wanting to see my reaction.

  I try not to look wounded, because in al
l honesty, Ethan is probably nothing like the boy I remember. How could he be? The boy I loved all my life would never have let me leave him. He would have come back for me. Would have fought for me. I know it’s awful to have broken up with him yet hoped for this, but I needed something back then...something to reassure me that he was in it for the long haul. Set something free and see if it comes back. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Anyway, he didn’t come back. He stayed gone.

  “You talk to him at all anymore?” Manny asks quietly.

  I look away, refusing to let him see the hurt I still carry.

  “No,” I say, perhaps a little too easily. “I haven’t talked to him in a long time. We grew apart, I guess.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it. From what I heard, you broke up with him on the phone and changed your number.”

  Okay...so I made it harder for him to come back to me. But I only changed my number after losing my phone. It just so happened to be a week after the breakup. He still knew where I lived. He could have reached me if he really wanted to.

  “I'm sorry, Manny. I didn’t mean for it to end like that.”

  “He was pretty broken up about it, you know. You guys had something special.”

  “He couldn’t have been that broken up. I’m pretty sure I saw him in the tabloids with his hands all over an actress a few weeks later.”

  “Are you for real?”

  I stare at him, confused.

  “He hasn’t had a girlfriend since you.”

  I flash him a look of severe disbelief. I don’t believe that for a second.

  “Believe it or not, it’s true. I’m sure he hasn’t been an angel. I mean, a guy’s got to have his dick sucked once in a while.”

  I roll my eyes and hate the thought that Manny puts into my head. It makes me want to smack him, which he picks up on by raising his hands up over his face.

  “You're such an ass sometimes.”

  “But seriously, Annie, all that bad boy stuff in the papers? That was him dealing with you rejecting him—or not dealing with it, however you want to look at it. You destroyed him, Annie. He ain’t been right since. Course, he’ll kill me for saying so.”