Standard disclaimer applies.

Dedicated to all my awesome reviewers and to AgnesSophia (I'm sorry to hear about your grandfather. My condolences), please, continue being an awesome and brilliant reviewer. I love you all. Sorry for the long delay.


Heart of the Game
Part VIII


There are only a handful of people that in their life time are forced to experience a moment overwhelmed by so much feelings of worry and dread. The steps they're forced to take feeling as if they're dragging lead tied to their feet as they venture down the dreary and seemingly endless hallway. It was like time was standing still, and no matter how much they walked or ran, the desperation dripping out of every pore, it felt like they just could not reach their destination soon enough…or, they did not want to reach their destination at all.

Mrs. Bolton had decided that long ago her life had turned out completely opposite to the way she had expected it to when she was younger. She had dreams of becoming a teacher. She had visions of herself clad in a long, elegant white dress; its train flowing behind her as she walked down the aisle of the church, envious eyes cast on her and hearing the sniffles of joy from her mother. She had dreams of giving birth to a baby girl that she could pamper and spoil with everything cute, shiny and beautiful and hope that one day, once her daughter was married and had a family of her own, would come up to her and say; "Mom. I'm proud to be your daughter."

But it hadn't all worked out according to plan. Instead of becoming a teacher, she had married one and ended up being a simple housewife. Instead of getting married in her dream gown, in a spectacular ceremony at the family's church, witnessed by beloved friends and families, she had a thirty minute wedding in one of the many cathedrals littering the streets of Las Vegas, clad in a pair of jeans and a frilly white blouse. Instead of a daughter, she had a son. But if she were ever given the chance to go back and change something in the past, she would adamantly refuse. As far as it was concerned, things may have not worked out according to plan, but she did not regret a single moment of it.

But now, she was living every parent's nightmare; taking the dreaded steps down the dreary, white hospital corridors. It felt like an out-of-body experience, as if she were a spirit looking down at her body, watching her drag her own feet one after the other, hearing the rapid beating of her heart and the sounds as the tear drops splattered on the polished floors. This was something that you hear about in the news or watch on television. This wasn't supposed to happen to her family, to her son.

"--not regained consciousness."

Hearing the derailing of her morbid thoughts as the doctor's words broke through her subconscious, she looked up to meet his bespectacled gaze.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked, taking note of her dazed expression.

"Yes, I was just…thinking."

Accepting her answer, the doctor nodded briefly and motioned towards the inside of the room they were standing before. The glass door and the large glass windows allowing sight of the prone body and machineries that resided within. It was situated right in front of the nurses' station so to assure prompt action if there was a complication.

Taking a deep breath, Mrs. Bolton took those silent steps into the room; feeling her throat constricting as her lungs refused to pump oxygen. Her vision blurred with tears as she set her eyes on the unmoving body.

"Troy?" she chokes out his name, walked closer to the side of the bed, stopping just inches beside the metal railings. The beeping and hissing of the machines were deafened to her ears, her eyes unable to focus on anything else in sight as they continued to train on the peaceful expression Troy wore on his face. It looked like he was merely asleep, not going through a life threatening illness. His eyes were shut, the long dark lashes resting on his pale cheek. His hair was tousled and spread around his head like a dark halo.

Grasping the rail with her left hand, she reached over, a finger gently brushing the light brown strands from her sons' forehead; a thumb gently stroking his left eyebrow and she bent down closer to his face, fingers running through his hair.

"Troy, sweetheart…mommy's here," she whispered into his ear, eyes moving downwards to study the rest of him; watching as his chest rose as fell with every hiss of the ventilator, to his arms spread out at his side. Leaning her forehead against his temple she placed light, feathered kisses on his cheek, then over his brow and his forehead before touching her forehead to his, fingers of her left hand intertwining with his limp ones as she whispered quiet, reassuring words to his comatose form.

Jack Bolton stood by the sliding door leading into his sons' ICU ward; unable to take the additional steps that would bring him into the room. It was as if some higher power had glued his feet to the floor as they had his eyes to the scene before him. He could not blink or tear his eyes away from the sight of his son looking so frail and helpless, and the mere thought that he could do nothing to ease his son's pain hurt him. He wanted to shout and scream to the heavens to ask them why this was happening to Troy.

Hiccoughing back a sob and covering his mouth with his hand, he continued to look at his wife's teary face as she spoke soothing words into Troy's ears, not knowing whether he would even hear them as he stayed trapped in his own mind.

On the inside, Jack was being eaten alive by the guilt. What if he'd never get to apologize to Troy for the events in the gym? Jack had never physically hit Troy; this was the first time he'd lost so much control over himself that he'd even went as far as to lay a hand on his own son. But…could it have been a bad omen? A sign? Jack had never been a religious or even a superstitious person. His belief lay in scientific proof and whatever that he could see with his own two eyes.

But what if there was something to it? His hitting Troy being the beginning. He had done something he had never done, said things he'd never before even considered uttering to his own flesh and blood; his thought bordering on the impossible because at one point during the confrontation with Troy, his mind had even touched over the subject of hate. He'd hated the way his son had acted towards him in front of the entire basketball club, in front of his colleagues. But to hate the notion, the manner in which Troy had acted, how genuine and honest the feelings seemed to be…would it mean that the hate could have been directed at the person itself? Had his subconscious thoughts lingered on the prospect of him hating Troy, his own son, no matter how fleeting the moment had been?

Unable to continue looking at his son, his mind in the current disarrayed condition it was, Jack turned on his heels, casting one final glance into the room at Troy before taking his leave. He could not be there and look on hopelessly. The shrill beeping of the heart monitor reverberated inside his skull and if he stayed there one moment longer, he'd go crazy.

So Jack Bolton, feared coach of the East High Wildcats, did the one thing that he'd promised himself he'd never do. The one rule his father had drilled into his head countless times, which he, himself, had in turn drilled into Troy's' head. For once, Jack found no strength to face the problem heads on or quench the fear that was clawing at him. For the first time in his life, Jack Bolton had broken his own rule and decided to run away, instead of facing up. At the moment, he could not face his wife or his son. He was afraid, and he just wanted to crawl into the proverbial closet and hide until it went away; like he'd been inclined to do so many times when he was a child. This time, without his father there to drag him out and order him to act more mature…like he used to do.

Unaware to her husbands' brief arrival and departure, Mrs. Bolton mind had not, for one second, concentrated on anything other than Troy. Her eyes could not focus on anything other than the face of her son. Her ears couldn't hear anything besides the sound of the machines wired to Troy's chest or the ventilator that was breathing for him.

How could this have happened? Her mind could not even begin to comprehend the reason why Troy would have done something like this. She thought she'd done her best in bringing him up; that it was not even possible for Troy to even consider taking drugs. He knew the consequences of it. They would spend an hour every week watching re-runs of Oprah on TV. It was somewhat of a routine for them, though he'd never mention it to anyone, like his singing ability. Whether it was due to his embarrassment at admitting his like for the talk show or the fact that he watched it with his mother, Mrs. Bolton didn't really know. But she felt an immense amount of joy and pride just thinking of the fact that she and Troy had a little secret they shared between the two of them; and unlike the many Nazi-like training sessions Troy used to hold with his father, she could simply deduct that the joy was felt on both their parts.

She choked back a sob, allowing the tears to stream freely down her face before dripping off her chin and splattering on Troy's cheek. She wiped the salty liquid from his face, but did nothing for the many sticky steaks over her own. "Troy…baby," her voice shaking and hoarse because of the painful lump in her throat, she couldn't utter any other coherent words, merely calling his name and the many nicknames she'd used when he was still a baby as she cradled him in her arms during many sleepless nights.

As the beeps and hisses continued without pause inside one of the ICU wards, Mrs. Bolton kept the firm vigil by her son's bedside. Day knew no difference from night as far as she was concerned. Her attention continued to focus on her son and her hand never let go of his. As her hitched voice hummed the tune of his favourite lullaby in rhythm with the beeping of the heart monitor, her mind was long cast back into the distant past as she reminisced on Troy's childhood. In a sense, he was still a child, and she hoped that whatever memory she had of the time spent with him would not be the only ones she would ever have.

Her thoughts never once mulled over the whereabouts of her husband. Though she would never tell this to his face and couldn't help but feel a small amount of guilt at the the notion, somewhere in a small corner of her heart…she blamed this all on Jack.

To be continued…


I hope I got the Bolton!angst factor of this chapter up to the satisfactory levels. There's nothing I like more than a loved one!angst when it comes to stories, mainly mothers. What can I say, I'm in touch with my motherly side and have even mused a few times over the prospect of having a child out of wedlock. Sometimes I do best friends (as in writing, not 'doing' best friends)--which is most of the times 'boy' friends, but seeing as I can't really feel a shred of slashy goodness in HSM (that makes me think of S&M for some reason), I'll keep the story in the good ol' Gen. category. I don't really like writing hetero relationships for some reason (other than the fact that I'm somewhat of a heterophobe) so I'd tell you not to expect anyone being obviously paired up/in love/mushy-mushy/kissy-kissy and all that other trivial romance stuff.