Free Score by Jessica Ashe Page B

more kids played soccer than any of the traditional US sports. That meant I could walk around hospital without being recognized until I walked into the children’s ward. At that point, I started attracting glances, and heard my name as sick children tried to walk around or at least sit up to catch a glance of one of the few Americans playing in the Premier League.
    “Hi, my name’s Jaxon Foster,” I said to the nurse in charge. “I phoned yesterday and said I would spend a few hours with the children this afternoon.”
    The nurse hadn’t recognized me immediately on-sight, but she recognized the name. “Of course, Mr. Foster. I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t tell any of the children you would be visiting in case you failed to show. You wouldn’t believe how often celebrities say they will pop in and never do.”
    “That’s unfortunate,” I said. And not at all surprising, unfortunately. Some of my teammates did exactly that. Back in England, the club provided regular opportunities for players to do their bit in the community, but most of them tried to get out of it. I included myself in that category. 
    I’d canceled three hospital visits arranged by the club’s community liaison officer until I finally went along to one after Daisy got on my case. She’d insisted it would be a good photo opportunity and improve my image, but after spending ten minutes talking to the children, I asked the journalists to leave and kept the entire thing a secret, much to Daisy’s frustration. Now I tried to visit children’s wards as often as possible, and always insured I did so in secret without any cameras around. Except for the cameras owned by the kids or their parents, anyway.
    My motives were partly selfish. There was nothing like seeing children struggling with cancer and disease to make you realize that you have an easy life in comparison. Before visiting these types of children’s wards, I’d assumed children would struggle to handle their illness, but they were almost always braver than adults. They were certainly braver than me. Most kids dealt with illness like it was just another challenge to be beaten; I found it inspiring.
    Some of the children were able to walk around, so I talked with them for half an hour, and made sure to sign autographs and smile for the photos. Not many of the parents knew who I was, but I heard children explaining my background to them. 
    I then moved on and went from bed to bed, speaking to the children who were unable to get up. Most of them had at least one exhausted-looking parent by their bedside, but a few were alone. I spent the most time with them. In the end, everyone got a photo if they wanted one, but that was all I could do for them and it drove me crazy. I had money, but that wouldn’t make a dent in the medical costs for a facility like this.
    One thing I never did was ask the children how they were. Whereas adults—especially in England—would pretend they were fine, children had a remarkable tendency to be honest. One child I asked in England had told me, without a second’s hesitation, that he was feeling sick because of the chemotherapy. My own illness had been unpleasant enough; I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for a child to have to go through cancer treatment.
    At three o’clock, Daisy burst into the room, having no doubt been looking for me for some time now. She stormed over and practically dragged me out of the ward.
    “Hurry up,” she said. “You’re going to miss your appointment.”
    “That would be a shame,” I replied sarcastically.
    “Don’t joke about it,” Daisy said. “This isn’t just any old meeting with your physio.”
    I sighed and followed Daisy to the Neuro-Oncology Ward. Might as well get this over with.

Jaxon was lying to me. Just when I’d almost begun to trust him again. When we talked over coffee it was like picking up where we’d left off four years ago, as if his kiss with Emilia never happened. It scared