Chapter 6

When Jon woke the next morning, his first thought wasn’t of how he missed waking up curled into his sleeping wife, or of the hundred-and-one things he always seemed to need to do. His first waking thought today was of Jay, lying alone in a hospital bed, possibly still unconscious. It was barely six o’clock - Jon’s body was tuned to run on little more than minimum sleep, his brain never seeming to totally shut down, just slowing enough to let him rest before kicking back up to full speed after four or five hours of sleep. The only time Jon tended to sleep longer than that was on the rare occasions when he was sick - he’d been cursed with a body that just couldn’t sleep through a hangover, instead forcing him out of bed when all he wanted to do was die quietly in a corner.

He reached to the bedside table, picking up his cellphone, then hesitated as he realised he didn’t actually know the number for the hospital. A quick call to directory assistance solved that, and he scrawled it onto the pad on the bedside. Before he made the call, though, he slipped out of bed, heading into his bathroom as nature’s call became impossible to ignore. Scratching himself as he wandered naked back to the bedroom, he grinned at a memory of Dot laughing one morning as he did just that, teasing him that if only the fans could see him now, bleary-eyed from too much wine, morning breath and scratching his balls….. His grin widened as he remembered where things had gone after that, with him freshening away his morning breath with the taste of his wife, until she was crying out and clutching at his hair. Then his rebellious mind threw another memory at him, from long ago, of ramming himself into Billie as they both watched in her bathroom mirror, and he pinched the bridge of his nose hard as tension set in.

“Fuck.” He muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching for his phone.

Dialling the hospital, he managed to get put through to Jay’s ward, but had more difficulty convincing the nurse at the desk to give him any information. She insisted adamantly that she could only give patient information to family members, and Jon had to bite his tongue not to blurt out that he was family. That the patient was his son. Right now, he’d no clue if Billie had a husband and, if she did, whether the guy knew who Jay’s biological father was. Also, he didn’t want to take the chance of the nurse telling Jay - assuming he was awake - that his dad had called. If Billie hadn’t married, who knew what she’d told her son about his father.

Jon tried playing the rockstar-football-team-owner card, but still no dice, so he finally asked to speak with Jay’s doctor, dredging the guy’s name from his memory. That, the nurse agreed to, and after a short wait Jon found himself talking with the young doctor who’d been treating his son.

The doctor was willing enough to give Jon an update on the player’s condition, but there really wasn’t much to tell. All the tests were coming back fine. Other than the collarbone, there were no broken bones. No bleeds or clots. Just that Jay was still unconscious.

“You said it’s fairly common.” Jon tried not to sound as worried as he felt. “But just how common is it for a fit, healthy young guy to stay out of it this long?”

“Unfortunately, it’s still - even now - a pretty inexact science.” The doctor admitted. “Brain injuries like this are very unpredictable, and until he wakes up……well, we just can’t tell.”

“Brain injury?!” Jon repeated, panic shocking through him. Not even allowing himself to dwell on the import of what exactly they ‘couldn’t tell’ until Jay woke up.

“Aw, shit!” The doctor said, then caught himself. “Sorry, Mr Bon Jovi. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I only meant concussion. We’ve no reason to suspect anything more - ‘brain injury’ is just a general term.”

“Oh.” Jon’s heartrate slowed a little. “Okay. Well, I’ll maybe drop by and see him later - I need to be in Philly anyway.”

That was a lie. He’d no reason at all to be in Philadelphia. Except for seeing his son.

“I’ll let the nurses know.” The doctor said. “I gather you had a bit of a run-in with Diane - she didn’t sound too happy when she transferred you to me.”

“Uh, no. She said she couldn’t - wouldn’t - give patient information to anyone but family. She’s stubborn.”

“That she is. But I guess, if you think about it, it’s a good thing. I mean, if it were one of your own children, you wouldn’t want her giving out information on the phone.”

The words ripped into Jon. The doctor couldn’t know just how accurate he was with that, and Jon pinched at his nose again, the tension returning.

“Yeah. Well, I’d appreciate if you could let them know. Richie Sambora may drop by, too. Jay’s our youngest player - the baby of the team - so I guess we feel kinda responsible for him.”

“Okay. I’ll spread the word to the nurses.” The doctor promised, impressed again by the star’s concern for his player.

Jon said goodbye, closing his phone and dropping it onto the mattress, dropping himself beside it, one arm covering his eyes as he tried to force relaxation onto himself. It didn’t work, and he got up with a groan, pulling on a pair of sweats before heading for the kitchen. Heading for coffee.

The coffee maker was programmed for his bodyclock, so the pot was full and waiting for him. Jon poured an outsized mug-full, taking a fresh pack of cigarettes from a cupboard and heading for the small terrace off the living room. Though he and Dot both smoked - she more than him - they did try to keep the second-hand smoke away from the kids as much as they could. Besides, Jon had too many memories of the nicotine-soaked smell of his childhood home, and he preferred to keep his house free of the smell as far as possible.

Lighting a cigarette, he sat in one of the cushioned chairs, watching idly as the smoke rose almost straight into the air, no breeze in the city yet this morning. He took another long drag, letting the smoke curl from his mouth as he reached for his coffee. Since his dad’s death from the ravages of lung cancer, Jon knew that Richie had a major problem with his continued enjoyment of smoking. He’d told Richie, deadly serious, that he didn’t need to smoke - he liked to smoke - and Richie had looked at him in disbelief. He’d reminded Jon that he’d said almost those exact words about his own drinking problem. His alcoholism, he’d actually said. Reminded Jon of how it had almost destroyed him - partly because he’d toughed it out for so long - the typical Jersey attitude of needing no help - until it affected him to the point where he couldn’t play one of their own songs. A song they’d written together for Slippery, and which he’d been playing without even thinking about it for better than twenty years. That had been the day Jon and the rest of them had sat him down, and he’d made the decision - because nobody else could make it for him - to get himself some help.

Now, though, Jon looked at the cigarette thoughtfully. Seeing his own son lying unconscious in a hospital bed through what could be termed just shitty luck - that kind of brought it home to Jon just how fragile a thing life could be.

Sure, Jay was attempting - pretty successfully - to make a living out of a contact sport, but Jon knew the odds of the tackle causing this kind of injury were fairly low. Just shitty luck.

He sighed and stubbed out the cigarette. Sure - shitty luck - but why keep lowering your own odds? He’d quite before - surely he could do it again? Jon chuckled to himself as he remembered the old joke - ‘sure I can quit - no problem - I’ve done it dozens of times’.