Page 54 of Backup Plan

“Yes, but I woke up with a fever of 101.6.”

“Symptoms just started this morning, then?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll treat it. Stay home, hydrate, and text me if your fever spikes or you develop any concerning symptoms. I’ll call in a prescription to your pharmacy on file. Does that work?”

“It does. Thanks.”

“I see in your file that you’re supposed to report next Monday, but that’s only if you’re fever-free for twenty-four hours. If you’re still symptomatic, you won’t be clear to travel.”

“Of course. I’ll let Coach know,” I say.

“You rest, Liam. If I have your permission, I can let him know.”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

“Get well. We’ll see you here, healthy, next week,” he says, and he cuts the call.

I toss my phone on the counter and take some ibuprofen since now I’m freezing cold, and I wrap the blanket draped over one of the arms of the couch around my shoulders while I wait for a Keurig to brew. As it beeps that it’s ready, Penny saunters into the kitchen. She just rolled out of bed, and she wears flannel pajamas that I’ve only ever seen women wear on television shows. She’s pale but with red cheeks. She’s makeup-free with her hair matted down and part of it in a ponytail that the rest seems to have escaped from, and somehow, she’s still absolutely gorgeous.

“Oh, no,” she says, eyeing the blanket around my shoulders. “Not you, too.”

I nod. “Me, too. And good morning, gorgeous.”

She rolls her eyes. “I look like death personified. And good morning, handsome.”

“No, you don’t. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got run over with a truck carrying the flu virus.”

I twist my lips. “Same.”

She walks over and settles into my chest, and I wrap my arms—and the blanket—around her.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It’s not your fault, Pen.”

“Yes, it is. If I wasn’t here with my kids, you wouldn’t be sick.”

“Then let’s look at the bright side. We’re all stuck here together until we’re fever-free for twenty-four hours.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “How’d you know that?”

“I talked to my team doctor this morning. He said I should stay home until then, and he sent a prescription to my pharmacy.”

“Lucky. I have to wait for a virtual visit to get mine.” She rolls her eyes.

“Perks of being a pro football player.”

“That coffee stinks,” she says, making a face.

“I thought you liked coffee,” I protest.

“I love coffee. Actually, and I’ve never told anyone this in my entire life, I always dreamed of owning a little coffee shop near the beach. But then I got married and had kids and I don’t live by the beach.” She pulls a face. “But when my stomach hurts and my throat hurts and my head hurts, I don’t want to even smell it.”

“How about a joke about it?”