Priceless(3)
“I’m sure it was just some sort of oversight or mix-up,” Destiny said. “The important thing is that you’re going now. I’ll say a prayer for the young boy. You can tell me all about your visit on Sunday. Perhaps there’s more we could be doing for him.”
Mack leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You ought to be the one going over there. A dose of your good cheer could improve anyone’s spirits.”
She regarded him with a surprised sparkle in her eyes. “What a lovely thing to say, Mack. That must explain why you’re such a hit with the ladies.”
Mack could have told her it wasn’t his sweet-talk that won the hearts of the women he dated, but there were some things a man simply didn’t say to his aunt. If she wanted to believe he owed his social life to being a nice guy, he was more than willing to let her. It might keep a few tart-tongued lectures at bay.
“It’s a game, for heaven’s sake,” pediatric oncologist Beth Browning declared, earning a thoroughly disgusted look from her male colleagues at Children’s Cancer Hospital. “A game played by grown men, who ought to be using their brains instead of their brawn—assuming of course that their brains haven’t been scrambled.”
“We’re talking about professional football,” radiologist Jason Morgan protested, as if she’d uttered blasphemy. “It’s about winning and losing. It’s a metaphor for good triumphing over evil.”
“I don’t hear the surgeons saying that when they’re patching up some kid’s broken bones after a Saturday game,” Beth said.
“Football injuries are a rite of passage,” Hal Watkins, the orthopedic physician, insisted.
“And a boon to your practice,” she noted.
“Hey,” he protested. “That’s not fair. Nobody wants to see a kid get hurt.”
“Then keep ’em off the field,” Beth suggested.
Jason looked shocked. “Then who’d grow up to play professional sports?”
“Oh, please, why does anyone have to do that?” Beth retorted, warming to the topic. She’d read about Mack Carlton and his rise from star quarterback to team owner. The man had a law degree, for goodness’ sakes. What a waste! Not that she was a huge admirer of lawyers, given the way their greediness had led to hikes in malpractice insurance.
“Because it’s football, for crying out loud,” Hal replied, as if the game were as essential for survival as air.
“Come on, guys. It’s a game. Nothing more, nothing less.” She turned to appeal to Peyton Lang, the hematologist, who’d been silent until now. “What do you think?”
He held up his hands. “You’re not drawing me into this one. I’m ambivalent. I don’t care that much about football, but I don’t have a problem if anyone else happens to find it entertaining.”
“Don’t you think it’s absurd that so much time, money and energy is being wasted in pursuit of some stupid title?” Beth countered.
“The winner of the Super Bowl rules!” Jason insisted.
“Rules what?” Beth asked.
“The world.”
“I wasn’t aware they played football in most of the rest of the world. Let’s face it, in this town it’s about some rich guy who has enough money to buy the best players so he’ll have something to get excited about on Sunday afternoons,” she said scathingly. “If Mack Carlton had a life, if he had a family, if he had anything important to do, he wouldn’t be wasting his money on a football team.”
Rather than the indignant protests she’d expected, Beth was stunned when every man around her in the hospital cafeteria fell silent. Guilty looks were exchanged, the kind that said humiliation was just around the corner.
“You sure you don’t want to reconsider that remark?” Jason asked, giving her an odd, almost pleading look.
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because I’m pretty sure you mentioned when we started this discussion that you’ve been trying to get Mack Carlton in here to visit with Tony Vitale,” Jason said. “The kid’s crazy about him. You thought meeting Mack might lift his spirits, since the chemo hasn’t been going that well.”
Her gaze narrowed. “So? This community-minded paragon of football virtue hasn’t bothered to respond to even one of my calls.”
Jason cleared his throat and gestured behind her.
Oh, hell, she thought as she slowly turned and stared up at the tall, broad-shouldered man in the custom-tailored suit who was regarding her with a solemn, steady gaze. He had a faint scar under one eye, but that did nothing to mar his good looks. In fact, it merely added character to a perfectly sculpted face and drew attention to eyes so dark, so enigmatic, that she trembled under the impact. Everything about his appearance spoke of money, taste and arrogance, except maybe the hairstyle, which had a Harrison Ford kind of spikiness to it.