My Life in Shambles

“I think it’s been going fast enough lately, thank you,” I tell him, slowing at the main road. I look left, I look right, and then look left and right again as I keep forgetting what side of the road is what.

Holding my breath, I turn onto the road and Padraig goes, “Wrong side, wrong side,” and I quickly veer into the other lane. Thank god there are no cars around.

“This is going to be a long drive,” he remarks with a sigh.

“Hey, I can drive around Manhattan, okay? This is a piece of cake. As long as there are no roundabouts.”

Fifty million roundabouts and several close calls later, we arrive in Dublin. I park us at the hotel’s valet, way fancier than the one that my sisters and I stayed at, and check into the room.

It’s gorgeous and sprawling, with a view of the park across the street. I feel like I’ve been swept away into the Victorian era. I told Padraig that I would have loved to stay at his house in the city, but he was insistent that we treat this like a mini vacation and booked the hotel instead.

The bed is king-size and extra inviting at the moment. Even though I’m tired from the drive, the fact is, Padraig and I haven’t really been alone together since the night at Alistair’s pub. He snuck into my room one night and went down on me, which I am totally not complaining about, but that’s been about it, and the thing with Padraig is, once you get some, you want more.

A lot more.

Now that he’s standing in the room and eyeing the bed too, looking as devilishly sexy as always, I’m having a hard time keeping my clothes on.

“When is the appointment?” I ask, starting to unbutton my coat.

“In fifteen minutes.”

Ah shit. I guess that’s what I get for driving so damn slow. Luckily we’re taking a taxi because I’d take forever to get there.

The sex will have to wait.

I button my coat back up.

“I love seeing ye so angry and horny,” he says to me as I head to the door. “Best combination, methinks.”

I give him a cheeky smile, and he pats me on the ass as we head out into the hall. We hold hands without thought of it until the moment we step outside of the hotel and BLAM.

I’m blinded.

Flashbulbs are going off in our faces and I’m blinking, trying to see past them.

I don’t know how it’s possible but there are at least five photographers on the steps of the hotel, taking photos of us.

“Padraig!” one of the photographers yells. “Who is she?”

“Padraig! Over here. Give us a smile. Tell us your name, girl.”

I open my mouth to say something but Padraig leans in and whispers harshly, “Don’t say anything.”

So I just smile as he leads me down the steps to the waiting car, and even though I should be super annoyed at these pictures and invasiveness, a tiny thrill runs through my head:

Maybe my mom will see this and be proud of me.

How stupid is that?

Even so, I smile at the cameras and suck in my stomach, ever so grateful that I’m wearing a coat, and stick out my chin so I don’t look like I have five of them. I even do a little “royal wave” as I get in the back seat of the car, the hotel staff holding the door open for me.

This must be how Sandra feels.

I can see how she thrives on it.

“Wow,” I say to Padraig after the driver confirms the hospital address with him. “That was crazy! That doesn’t always happen, does it?” I think back to New Years when I didn’t see a single paparazzi around us.

“No, it doesn’t,” he says. “Unless I’m with a lady.”

My stomach burns at the thought of the other ladies, though I know in my heart they were never a serious thing.

“How did they know?”

“Oh, I’m sure someone at the hotel tipped them off. Said I’ve been spotted with a woman. Then they swarm over like locusts.”

“Do you get them at your house?” I ask.

“I did the day after the injury. They practically camped outside wanting to get a soundbite. It’s one reason why I wanted to stay in the hotel. I hate having them close to my house, to my private life, and the like.”

I pause. “You didn’t want me to speak to them.”

“I don’t want them to know your name,” he says, and he gives my hand a squeeze. “Not because I’m ashamed of ye, but…” He trails off and eyes the driver, who is obviously listening.

And I know what he’s saying. If they found out I was Valerie Stephens and did a quick search, well that makes this whole fake engagement a lot more complicated. It’s hard enough keeping it straight when we’re with his family, but if the whole world (or at least Ireland) is watching?

We get to the hospital in record time, even though the taxi driver seemed to want to keep us forever, and again I’m reminded that Padraig’s life outside Shambles is completely different. Here, in Dublin, I really feel his star power, I see the way people look at him. Not the way they look at family or a neighbor, but with lust.

Even as we are escorted into the doctor’s office by the receptionist, she’s looking me over. I know that the last thing Padraig wants is news to come out of his diagnosis since that will end his career before he can wrap up the odds and ends, and I know that the staff here wouldn’t rat on a patient. But she definitely is surprised to see me with him, like we don’t belong together.

It’s just because of his reputation, I remind myself. It’s nothing to do with you. Stop thinking like your mother.

Padraig, meanwhile, is nervous. He’s tapping his fingers against his knee, fidgeting in his seat as we wait. I hold on to his hand, just to let him know he’s not alone in this and that I’m right here beside him, and he squeezes it like a lifeline.

The doctor steps in before I lose all circulation in my fingers.

“Hello, Padraig,” he says, and then looks at me in surprise as he closes the door behind him. “And hello to you, miss.”

Padraig clears his throat. “I hope you don’t mind, but this is my fiancé, Valerie.”

“Fiancé?” he says, brows raised. “I’m sorry, I had no idea you were engaged.” He sits down at his desk and looks at my hand that’s still ringless. The truth is, his father hasn’t actually given him the ring yet. His grandmother wants it to be done ceremoniously and in front of the family, so she’s holding an engagement party for us at the end of the week. I’m really not sure how I feel about all of this, but that’s what’s happening.

“She’s getting my mother’s ring,” Padraig explains to him. “Keep it in the family.”

“Ah, that’s very lovely,” the doctor says. He picks up his file and puts on his down-to-business face. “So, do you want to start by telling me how it’s been going for you? Since you called in, I’m going to assume symptoms have been increasing.”

Padraig goes over everything since the last time he saw him, including a lot of things I don’t know about, like pain in his legs at night for which he takes his father’s painkillers for, and occasional blurry vision.

“These are all very common symptoms,” the doctor says after he’s done. “Optic neuritis is the inflammation of the optic nerve. It may get worse as time goes on or better but since it can temporarily blind you or cause your vision to get fuzzy, it’s one of the main reasons why we’re going to have to take your driver’s license away.”

Padraig seizes up like he’s just been shocked. “Are ye serious?”

The doctor peers at him. “Don’t tell me you drove here.”

“I did,” I inform him. “He hasn’t driven since that last episode.”

“Well, sorry Padraig, but that’s the way it’s going to have to be. One of the hardest things for many patients is to learn how to rely on other people. You’re lucky you have a good support system.”

“But if I can’t drive…” he says, utterly fixated on it. I guess I can’t blame him. “That means everything. That takes away my freedom.”

The doctor gives him a placating smile. “It’s going to be a whole new world for you. It’s going to be hard. And, it’s possible that this is going to get worse.”

“So...” Padraig says, swallowing thickly. “Then if I can’t drive, then the game…”

“There will be no game for you. Not anymore. With vision problems and your balance issues, there’s no way you could do it.”

I’ve talked about this with Padraig a bit this last week. About his future in the game. I know that being diagnosed with MS means the end of his career, but I could tell a part of him was holding out hope for a miracle.

“What about every now and then?” Padraig asks eagerly, full of so much hope that it breaks my fucking heart. “What if on days I feel fine, because some days I do feel fine, what if I play then?”

“That would be up to your team to decide.” He pauses. “But I would advise against it. You need to be in optimal shape to play the game the way you do, and while easy consistent exercise is important in the treatment of MS, strenuous exercise will cause your body to heat up, and when you heat up, symptoms can get worse. At some point, you might need a wheelchair.”

While I had been doing my research—and knowing my aunt uses a walker on rough days—I knew that his mobility as he knows it would only slow down as he gets older. But Padraig hasn’t looked into his disease at all. Probably because he didn’t want to know the truth about what would happen to him.

But now he’s hearing it all and fighting against it.

“A fucking wheelchair?” he spits out, violently running his hand through his hair and tugging on it. “I don’t think so. That’s not going to be me. I’m only twenty-nine years old!”

“And it might not be you,” the doctor says patiently. “It might just be a cane on occasions. It might be a scooter or a rollator. A lot of patients never need any mobility aids, even two decades after their diagnosis. But in your case, you’re progressing faster, aggressively I would say, than I thought you would, and looking at those MRI scans, I’m starting to think the scarring is more substantial. From what we’ve talked about, too, I’m beginning to think you’ve had symptoms showing up for years, you just never got a diagnosis.”