Page 4 of Puck Your Charity

Elena wipes her eyes and pulls a plastic guest chair into the corner of the room. She sits down, content to stay and watch her son.

I stand near the foot of the bed and watch them interact. I feel wave of respect for them. They treat Sam like a regular kid. They bump shoulders with him, trash-talk the video game characters, and fill the sterile room with loud laughter.

The tension in my shoulders drops. I lean against the edge of the metal bed frame.

A strange heat washes over me. It starts at the base of my neck and rushes down my spine. It lacks the ache of a normal fever. It feels different. A layer of sweat breaks out across my forehead and the back of my neck.

I blink to clear my sudden blurry vision. My chest tightens. I struggle to pull air into my lungs as my pulse races and hammers against my ribs in a chaotic rhythm.

I grip the metal railing of the bed to steady myself.

The guys shift in their seats as a new race loads. Malcolm stretches his long legs. Lawrence chuckles and claps Finn on the back. The combined movement pushes a wave of air in my direction.

For the first time since they walked in, I notice their cologne.

I never realized guys wore stuff this potent. I catch a distinct pattern. All three of them share the same base scent of crisp citrus. It smells like a custom team blend. But each guy wears a unique twist. Malcolm smells like citrus and rich cedar. Lawrence smells like citrus and crushed black pepper. Finn smells like citrus and the ozone of a thunderstorm.

The combined scent hits my system like a drug. It wraps around me, sinks into my skin, and turns my knees to jelly. The three of them look mesmerizing. The way Malcolm's dark braid rests over his broad shoulder. The way Lawrence smiles. The deep rumble of Finn's laugh.

A desperate whine builds in the back of my throat. I swallow it down.What is wrong with me?

I must’ve caught the terrible flu that spreads through the nursing staff every winter. It has to be a virus. A sudden stomach bug that messes with my senses and makes me hypersensitive to smells.

The room spins. The potent citrus blend grows stronger. It messes with my head. It makes me want to crawl across the linoleum floor and curl up right in the middle of them. The ridiculous thought terrifies me.

Malcolm drops his controller. Lawrence turns his head. Finn pauses the game. All three pairs of eyes lock onto my face.

Finn tilts his head. "Hey, are you alright? You look flushed."

His deep voice vibrates through my bones. Lawrence stands up, his brow furrowed in concern. Malcolm watches me with dark, intense eyes.

Another wave of heat crashes over my skin. My legs tremble. I struggle to remain standing.

I take a clumsy step backward. "I'm fine."

Finn stands up next. The plastic chair screeches against the floor. He takes a half-step toward me.

Finn reaches a hand out. "You're shaking. Do you need to sit down?"

"No." I rush the word. My voice cracks. I take another step back and trip over the edge of the trash can. "I just need to go get some water. I'll be right back. Sam, play nice."

I turn and run out of the hospital room. I sprint down the hallway and ignore the stares from the nurses. I need to get away from that room and that potent cologne.

I push through the thick doors into the nearest staff restroom. I lock the door behind me. I grip the edges of the porcelain sink until my knuckles turn white.

I stare at my reflection. A deep crimson crawls up my neck to my cheeks. My chest heaves as I tremble from head to toe.

It’s just the flu.I’ll go home and sleep it off. I’ll ask to leave early so I don’t pass anything to my patients. I’ll have Claire come take over for me for Sam in case Elena needs to go back to work. With some sleep, I'll be fine by tomorrow.

Chapter 2

Stepping over the threshold of room 414, my sneakers squeak against the linoleum.

The sensory assault hits me like a brick wall.

The stench of antiseptic wipes and sterile rubbing alcohol coats the inside of my mouth. A machine next to the bed beeps in a steady, relentless rhythm. Clear plastic tubes run from a pump down to the fragile arm of the kid on the mattress, while a bag of yellow fluid hangs off a metal pole.

The air in the room feels wrong. It feels thick and tastes like death.