Well, who could've guessed that the whole nurse-changing-a-patient thing would become national news? Apparently, she wasn't a nurse at this hospital—or a nurse at all, for that matter. She was a reporter who had snuck in, and she was a really good one. She managed to obtain one of the nurse uniforms and slip through VVIP security. Turns out, she bribed one of the nurses on the station to let her in while Nurse Sam was on his 15-minute break.
Too bad for her—she could've waited a few more hours, and she would've heard Will holding a press conference about my condition. What a shame. She was a pretty one, too.
"Now, Mr. Blythe, what did I say about laying low?" Will began, clearly displeased with the whole event from yesterday. It happened right after he left, too.
"Hey… I didn't know either, okay? She said she was just going to help me change…" I defended myself.
"No. You should've known she wasn't your nurse. Why didn't you call anyone? You're lucky your wife immediately noticed something was off." Will rubbed his head in frustration. Why was everyone so afraid of the press finding out I was in the hospital?
"Come on, the news about me getting injured and not being able to play was bound to come out. You already held a conference yesterday anyway. Why are you so stressed about it?"
Will sighed before looking at my wife, who was sitting quietly on the other side of the hospital bed.
"Mr. Blythe, they're not after the news about your injuries… They're after the rumor that you're married and have been fooling around."
I never really disclosed my marriage status to the public. I guess everyone just assumed I was a playboy.
"Oh, come on. No one really knows who my wife is, so there's nothing to worry about. It's just a rumor."
Will pulled out his tablet and shoved it in my face, showing an article:
'Did Jordan Blythe Kill His Mistress???'
The article included a photo of me opening my car door for the woman from the party and another photo of the same car completely destroyed. That's about $50,000 down the drain. Well, at least they didn't get that woman's face.
"This is serious, Mr. Blythe. People are already judging you for being a cheater… They're not going to like you more if they learn your reckless behavior cost you your career and someone's life."
My jaw clenched as I read the comments section of the article:
'I knew he was an asshole… but a cheater too?'
'Poor girl… She probably got coaxed by the man.'
'At least I don't have to see him in future matches.'
'Hope he dies.'
God, people really hate me, huh?
"This isn't a request, Mr. Blythe. This is a warning. Lay low and focus on your recovery. Don't fool around. Cut off contact with your previous lovers… You need to stay out of the public eye."
I felt like a child being scolded—and in front of that woman, too, who was just staring out the window. Will let out a long sigh before wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"Mrs. Blythe, please continue to look after Mr. Blythe… I'll leave him to you. Please call me if something happens again."
With that, the room fell into silence. There was nothing else—the machines had already been removed. I could hear her breathing from where she sat.
"Are you going to say something?" I asked, breaking the silence.
She was quiet for a few seconds, as if she was pondering something else.
"About what?" she said softly, her voice tired as she looked at me.
"The mistress? The cheating? Or are you just going to play the fool?"
She just hummed and closed her eyes. "I already knew about that… Lucy came to the house often."