Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Of course. Take this in case you need it,” Melissa says, pity in her gaze as she tucks the remote control gently into my good hand. “I’m so sorry, Aaron.”
I force a smile. “Don’t be sorry. I’m going to be fine. A fucked-up shoulder and a few scratches aren’t going to keep me down.”
“That’s the spirit,” she says, but the doom in her gaze as she starts toward the door gives her away.
She doesn’t think there’s any reason to hope. She thinks I’m down for the count, but she’s wrong. I’m going to follow the doctor’s orders, push through physical therapy like a boss, and be back in the game in four to six weeks. I may be an older player, but I’ve always healed faster than other athletes. It’s one of my secret weapons, along with my next-level stick work.
I was born to play hockey. It’s my purpose, my focus, and the reason I kept pushing for a spot on a professional team long after most men my age would have given up. I’m not a quitter. I’m a master at finding a reason to believe and this time isn’t going to be any different.
Despite the pain in my shoulder—a gnawing ache that grows increasingly intolerable with every second I’m conscious—by the time Melissa returns with a pale man whose name tag reads Dr. Ferdinand, I’ve half-convinced myself I’ll be back in the game in four weeks instead of six.
My faith is buoyed by the doc’s description of how neatly the surgeon sewed up the cut at my neck and the likelihood that I won’t even end up with much of a scar.
But then he starts talking about a Grade II or III shoulder separation, inflammation, and a tear in my rotator cuff. By the time he adds, “We’ll need more scans in a few days, once the swelling has gone down, to rule out the need for surgical intervention. Best-case scenario, you’re going to be off the ice for six weeks. If surgery is needed, you’re looking at twelve weeks with added time in rehab to regain your, strength,” I’m feeling sick again.
Really, really sick…
I barely have time to groan that I’m going to vomit before I’m retching into a black trash can Melissa has seemingly pulled from thin air to stick under my face. I gasp and heave, the discomfort of being sick completely overshadowed by the agony that the violent contractions send stabbing through my shoulder and neck.
By the time I’m done, I’m whimpering like a puppy who lost its mom and tears are flowing down my cheeks.
“He needs something for the pain and anti-nausea meds,” Melissa says, whisking the trash can away and returning with a tissue she uses to wipe my mouth. “I was like this when I had my tonsils out in high school. The pain meds made me sick to my stomach, but the nurse got me something to make it better. Can we get something like that for him? Fast?”
“I’ll call the pain management team,” the doctor says. “And an orderly to clean up the mess. Good work with the trash can. You’re as fast on your feet as your boyfriend.” He shoots a sympathetic smile my way. “Hang in there. We’ll make sure you’re comfortable enough to get some rest tonight and talk more tomorrow.”
He disappears and I swallow, wincing again as pain from my fresh suture combines with the fire burning in my shoulder. But then Melissa lays a cool rag on my forehead and proceeds to dab at the rest of my face with a second rag.
I squint at her through the fog of pain. “I think you missed your calling. You would have made one hell of a nurse.”
“No way,” she says, gently wiping the tears from my cheeks. “I’m about to lose my lunch any second. I’m just holding on until the pain people get here to take over. I get sick every time Chase gets sick. My will is strong, but my stomach is… Oh God…”
She cuts off and dashes for the bathroom on the other side of the bed. The sound of her heaving fills the room, getting louder and more violent until Gram finally stirs on the cot.
“What’s happening?” she asks, groggily swinging her legs off the mattress. “Is everyone okay?”
“No,” I say, fighting another wave of nausea. “Not okay. Nothing is okay.”
And it isn’t.
But a tiny part of me is still weirdly…happy.
Happy that Melissa is here caring if I live or die, mopping up my face, and sympathy vomiting in the bathroom. Maybe she isn’t as immune to the connection between us as I’ve thought. Maybe she might even consent to date me while I’m stuck in Bad Dog, healing up.
I’m going to need something to keep my mind off the fact that I might not make it back to the game this season.