Concussion Protocol

1. Shane

CHAPTER 1

SHANE

“Oh, good—Shane!”

It’s all I can do to suppress a loud groan as I bare my teeth in the closest impression of a smile that I can muster, and turn to face Regina. Her bright white teeth are gleaming, her own fake smile on display as she bats her false eyelashes at me.

“Remember how much you love me, and that I’m your favorite?”

I blink back at her in disbelief. Surely, she can’t expect me to do her any more favors tonight. My third double shift in a row is rolling into a triple, and I’ve barely even sat down. I’m beat. I just discharged my last patient and I’m desperate to go home, take a hot shower, and sleep for the next eighteen hours.

“Nope! Away with you, demon. The energy drink you bribed me with to stay and discharge ‘one more patient’ wore off several hours ago. Crash is imminent . I’m clocking out before I end up working through my only day off this week.”

Her smile twists into a grimace, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m going to push through and help her with whatever it is that she needs. Regina isn’t just my shift manager, she’s my closest friend and the only other person I know that works as hard as I do. If she’s asking, especially knowing how long I’ve been here, it’s because she doesn’t have any other options.

“Curtain three just projectile vomited all over my shoes, and we’re short staffed until shift change. I’ve got everyone covered except Mr. Wilton in curtain six. He’s just about ready for discharge, just needs some help to get dressed. Nice guy, low maintenance. He got some pain meds and something for his nerves before CT, so he’s a bit loopy. By the time you’re done helping him get dressed, I’ll be changed and can take over. I promise.”

I look from her pleading glare down her body where she’s gesturing. There are some suspicious splatters on her black scrubs and across the tops of her white sneakers. The smell, which is something you get used to working in a place like this, is obviously coming from her. And now that I’m looking closely, the distress of a busier than usual Saturday night in the ER has my typically infallible charge nurse looking frazzled.

With a deep sigh, I nod and spin on my heel towards curtain six.

“You’re my favorite!” Regina calls out after me.

“Knock, knock,” I say out loud, pausing a moment before I open the curtain and greet the patient. “I’m Shane, I’m going to be helping you?—”

I barely peek around the edge of the curtain and nearly choke. I’m met with an unobstructed view of his ass as he climbs off the bed. His very round, muscular, completely bare ass.

Averting my eyes as quickly as I can unglue them from the beacon in front of me, I stammer my apologies and pull back, but the poor guy trips and nearly faceplants. Lurching forward, I manage to catch him before he hits the ground, but his IV tube gets tangled and yanked out of his arm.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry," he mumbles, directly on the spot beneath my ear that makes gooseflesh erupt across my skin.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

Directing him to hold on to my shoulders, I steady him with one arm around his waist while extricating him from the IV tubing. He’s still reeling a bit. I guide him to sit down on the edge of the bed.

Slipping on a pair of gloves, I use some gauze and saline to clean up the drops of blood that are smeared down his arm from where the IV got pulled out. While I’m cleaning him up, I look him over to check for any other injuries. But also, just to look at him. Not that I perv on my patients, I don’t. I’m a professional. But he looks familiar, and I can’t put my finger on where I know him from. I'm barely a head taller than him while he's sitting, but it's enough that he's looking up at me. The vulnerability in his expression is at odds with his large size.

"You're pretty," he slurs.

I snort. "The medications are making you a bit loopy. You shouldn't try to stand again without help, okay, sir?"

"Jon," he corrects.

"Jon," I nod, accepting how he'd prefer to be addressed. Then I pause. Wait a second… "Jon Wilton?" Realization hits me like a truck. I know exactly where I know him from.

"That's me."

"You play for the Quayville Hornets."

The Quayville Hornets is our town's rec rugby league, which has amassed a following lately thanks to thirsty social media. I'm unfortunately quite familiar with the team, outside of the notoriety they've gained with their TikTok page. My douchebag narcissist of a cheating ex-boyfriend plays on the same team.

I'm surprised it took me this long to realize where I know Jon from. I used to go to all the games and spent enough time hanging out with the team. I suppose being confronted with his bare ass and potential injury was a fair distraction, though.

Jon’s eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles. "Wait. I know you. You're Eric's?—"

“Ex!” I'm quick to cut him off. " Ex -boyfriend."

I take a breath. It’s not this guy’s fault Eric Stiles is a giant douche.

"I'm Shane," I say more calmly. I'm sure he didn't hear me introduce myself when I walked in on him a few minutes ago.

"Pretty Shane," Jon coos, and I have to chuckle. This poor guy is out of it.And it’s not endearing at all. Not even a little.

Ignoring his drug-induced banter—I know better than to take anything he says seriously right now—I finish cleaning him up and bandage his arm. He was due to have his IV removed for discharge anyway.

Jon lets me escort him to the bathroom and I stand outside the door, leaving it cracked open so I can hear him if he needs assistance. Back in his curtained-off room, I explain to him that I'll need to help him get dressed because he’s too woozy to bend down on his own. His lips roll in, and his brow furrows like he might be uncomfortable.

“Do you have a friend or family member with you that you’d prefer to help? I can supervise instead. Or, if you sit tight for a minute, I can get someone else in here with us,” I offer, assuming that he’s uncomfortable with a male nurse dressing him.

It happens all the time. Women often feel more comfortable with a female presence, which is understandable. But it’s the men that are the ones that tend to complain the most, as if having another man assist them threatens their fragile concepts of masculinity. It can be exhausting, but I’m not really offended. I’m more concerned with my patient’s comfort than anything else.

And yeah, I've had to dress and undress attractive men before, but I don’t allow things like physical attraction to affect me. When I’m in work mode, that part of my brain checks out. I have never looked at an attractive patient twice, checked them out, or thought about them in that way while they were in my care. I'm a professional.

Even when said patients are far more attractive and endearing than they have any right to be, have perfect muscular asses, thick thighs, and shy smiles that are enough to make me want to blush.

Jon shakes off my offer, but his rigid posture and the tense set of his jaw betray his discomfort. I do my best to protect his modesty and help him feel more comfortable with the situation, but the moment I have to take a knee in front of him to help guide his feet into a pair of boxer briefs, I have an inkling of what his problem actually is.

I'd assumed that he might be uncomfortable because he knows I'm gay—obviously, since he knows I was dating one of his teammates. But that doesn't seem to be the issue after all. Pulling his underwear up until he can reach to finish pulling them on, I turn my head and avert my eyes while he pulls them up the rest of the way. The tight briefs do very little to hide his erection, and the longer I'm on my knees for him, helping him into a pair of loose athletic shorts, the more apparent the problem becomes. I swallow back my surprise and the tingling awareness of him watching me dress him.

Thank goodness he had a change of clothes in his bag and not just the uniform he'd been wearing when he arrived. I'm not sure either of us would have survived a jockstrap or the tiny shorts rugby players typically wear.

I’ll admit, this is definitely a first for me. But I'm still able to keep myself detached from the issue. Erections happen. It's an involuntary physical response that likely has nothing to do with me. I ignore it the same as I always do.

But then I make the mistake of looking up at him from my knees, and I'm confronted with not only the very obvious bulge hovering over me, but also a change in his expression that threatens to make my body match his reaction. His eyes darken and zero in on me. His lids are hooded, lips parted in such a way that you'd think I'd touched him and not merely pulled his pants up to his thighs without ever making contact with his skin.

I'm a professional. I'm a professional.

Clearing my throat, I stand and gesture for him to turn so I can reach to untie the hospital gown. The tight knot takes me a moment to untangle. A spark of static electricity zings over me when I reach for the fabric to pull it down his arms. I swallow and push my awareness of the heat in his glare to the very back of my mind. I hand him his t-shirt and help guide it over his head, but then let him pull it down on his own, covering what looks like miles of bare, tan, toned skin and more abs than I can count when clearly trying to avert my eyes.

Why is it so hot in here? I should check with maintenance. It's usually freezing in here.

After guiding Jon to sit again, I step back to put space between us.

“You’re all set. We’re just waiting on your discharge paperwork, and to make sure you have a ride home.”

Closing the curtain behind me, I back right into Regina. She’s got a chart with discharge papers in her hand and a knowing grin on her face.

“What is that look for?” I ask, tipping my chin up and meeting her amused gaze with a blank expression.

Regina knows my weakness for rugby players. Hell, she had to listen to me bitch about all my problems with Eric for over six months before I caught him cheating. There were a lot of red flags leading up to that realization, but he was just so hot.

“ MmmHmm .”

“Don’t MmmHmm me!” I rake a hand through my messy hair, wanting nothing more than a shower to wash away the last eighteen hours. Maybe a cold shower. “I’m done here. I’m going home.”

“I need you to finish discharging Mr. Wilton first, then I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

“Give me someone else. What else you got?”

Regina hands me the chart she’s holding under Jon’s discharge papers. I look at it and groan. Right-sided abdominal pain, fever, and vomiting. Ugh. This patient is probably going to need a CT and, if it's appendicitis, potentially surgery. And it’s a kid, which means I’ll get attached and not want to pass them off to another nurse once they’ve gotten comfortable with me.

Which means I would be stuck here for a few more hours. I’m so exhausted that I’m near tears at the prospect, but it's better than compromising my professionalism, so I reluctantly take the chart.

Regina's amused expression softens into one that looks troubled. She takes the chart back and passes it to one of the nurses that just clocked in. Then she turns back to me.

"What's going on with you?"

After steering her over to the corner of the nurses' desk and looking around to make sure we can't be overheard, I take a deep breath and tell her the truth. Most of it. I’m not going to tell her that I saw his boner and it was trying to speak to mine. That’s their business and it would be rude to gossip.

"The patient you gave me to discharge? I know him. He's on Eric's rugby team."

" Ohhh ," she says understandingly, but then cocks her chin. "Is he being a problem? Because it's unlike you to not be able to handle your own with a jerk. Also, he seemed really sweet."

"He is sweet. That's part of the problem. There's… I don't know, some tension in there that I don't know what to do with."

Regina pumps her sculpted eyebrows. "Tension, you say?"

"Regina!" I whisper-yell, admonishing her. Rolling my eyes at the way she giggles at me, I gesture for her to hand me the discharge papers in her hands. I can handle this. I’m a professional. "It’s probably all in my head. I’m exhausted.”

"And here I thought you might be a robot," she deadpans. I glare at her. Her eyebrows touch her hairline. "I've never seen you like this, Shane. Maybe you should get his number.”

"He’s a patient!” I hiss. She’s just teasing me, I know. She’s good at her job and would never condone crossing a line like this.

“He’s not your patient, he’s mine. And only for the next five minutes or so.”

My scowl deepens. She’s purposely trying to be a bad influence!

“Fine. I’ll go through the paperwork with him. But I need you to get his friend from the lobby to drive him home. His name is Brad." I nod, familiar with the name and the guy it belongs to. He's a nice enough guy, but honestly, it could be any of them for all I care. As long as it isn’t Eric.

Brad isn't in the lobby, nor is he outside the entrance to the ER.

Jon is arguing with Regina about getting rolled out in a wheelchair when I walk back to his bed. When he sees me, his eyes widen a little, and he sits down in the chair with his bag in his lap. Regina’s lips quirk.

"It seems Brad might have stepped out," I say. "Any idea where he might have gone?"

"Um…he left,” Jon says warily. “Was he supposed to stay?”

“You came in with a head injury. You should avoid driving for at least twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

“I thought the CT scan was negative?”

Regina holds up the paperwork. “This is all information I was waiting to go over with a caretaker present.”

Jon snorts. “I don’t know that Brad is really the caretaking type.”

“Is there anyone you can call for a ride?” Regina asks.

Jon purses his lips, still looking pretty out of it. “I’ll just call an Uber.” He starts patting himself, looking for his phone.

Technically, as long as he has a driver and we give him clear instructions for aftercare, we could let him go. The ER is too busy tonight to let him sleep it off, plus he’s clearly ready to get out of here. And if we sit him in the lobby to wait it out, he’ll probably just leave. I can’t exactly stay behind to supervise him, and we’re shorthanded as it is.

“Do you have a roommate or someone at home to watch over you for the next twenty-four hours?”

He nods slowly, and Regina looks at me.

“I can wait with you until your ride gets here,” I offer, because I can’t help myself. This is how I end up at the end of a double shift, taking on more patients. I feel responsible for anyone that walks into this ER. And it’s even worse with Jon, since I sort-of know him.

“ Orrr ,” Regina says, dragging out the word and sounding like she’s about to make a ridiculous suggestion that I’ll no doubt get roped into doing. “Since you’re clocking out anyway, maybe you can drop him off on your way home? I checked the address and I’m pretty sure it’s on your way.”

My eyes bulge so hard I'm surprised one doesn't pop out and hit her in the forehead. "What the fuck?!" I mouth to her over Jon's shoulder.

She blinks back innocently. “It’s not like you’re strangers, after all.”

Jon looks back at me with an expression of uncertainty.

"You don’t have to do that. I wouldn’t want to put you out. I’m fine with an Uber.”

With a steeling breath, I smile politely at Jon and shake my head. "It's fine, Jon. I'm happy to drop you off on my way home."

Honestly, if I didn’t find Jon so attractive, I would have suggested it myself. Like she said, it’s not like we’re strangers. And I'll be damned if Regina is going to make me look like an asshole.

Regina follows me into the small locker room, where I clock out and pull on a jacket. I pointedly ignore her knowing grin until I'm about to walk through the door.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, Regina, but I'm?—"

"A professional. I know. But I also know you wouldn't do anything to compromise that man or your reputation. If you two happen to chat and get to know each other better, and maybe make some plans to get together on your day off… Well, there's no rule that says you can't get to know someone."

The ride to Jon's house is awkward. He's probably incredibly uncomfortable, considering his knees are practically at his ears with the way his large body is folded into my tiny car. The thick tension is the only thing that can compete with how much space he takes up, physically and mentally.

At first, neither of us talk, and my mind keeps going back to the way he looked at me while I was helping him dress. It's the way any man wants to be looked at when he's on his knees for someone, especially someone as goddamned beautiful as Jon Wilton. But that's just my exhaustion speaking, I’m sure of it. I shake my head and try to think of a way to break the tension. It's too cold and rainy outside to crack open a window.

Just as I'm reaching for the dial to turn the radio on, Jon blurts,"Eric is a douchebag."

An obnoxiously loud guffaw explodes from me before I can control myself.

"I'm acutely aware, thanks," I say dryly.

"I always wondered what you saw in him."

Rolling my eyes, I glance at the GPS display on my phone and then focus on the road again.

"Yeah, well, I have a weakness for assholes with thick thighs and thicker brains."

Jon laughs, and I can't help but smile. I wasn't expecting this line of conversation, that's for sure.

“I have the same problem with blondes with big tits.”

I choke on some of my own spit, both amused and the tiniest bit dismayed by his comment, since I have neither of those qualities.

So—he’s straight. That’s a good thing. It proves that the moment I thought we shared was nothing but my own imagination. I’m exhausted, that’s all this is. And he’s loopy from the medications he was given to calm his nerves for the CT he had done. For his head injury.

The joke manages to lighten the mood between us, and the rest of the drive goes by smoothly. When we arrive at his apartment complex, I suck air through my teeth.

"Please tell me you live on the ground floor?" I ask, looking at the steep stairs that weave between the three-story buildings.

"Afraid not," he chuckles, but waves me off. "I can manage, though. Thanks for the ride."

“Can you get your roommate out here to help you? I don’t think it’s safe for you to walk up those stairs alone. They might be slippery and you’re still unsteady on your feet.”

“I’m all good. Feeling more clear-headed by the minute. Thanks for the ride, Shane.” He gives me a small, almost shy smile. “It was nice catching up. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

Before he can open the door, I pull away from the front of the building and into a parking spot.

"There's no way I'm going to let you walk up those stairs on your own," I say before getting out and waiting for him on the other side of the car. I snatch the small duffle bag from him before he can protest and start towards the stairs.

"I've managed with worse injuries," he insists gruffly. But by the time we’re halfway up the first flight of stairs, he’s swaying.

Pulling his arm over my shoulders, I pat his stupidly hard stomach and keep us moving. "Sure you have, big guy. You're big and tough and strong, I know."

He grumbles all the way up the three flights of very steep, very wet stairs. By the time we get to his apartment, I'm a little out of breath and he looks pale. Even though he was muttering about being able to take care of himself the whole way up, he doesn't protest at all when I take his keys from him and open the door while he leans against the wall. Pulling his arm around my shoulders again, I help him inside.

His apartment is surprisingly clean, and no one else is home. I get the impression he isn't here very often.I also get the impression that this is a one-bedroom apartment.

Leading him over to one of the barstools, I pull it out and instruct him to sit down.

“So…roommate?”

He looks down at his lap. “I, uh, might have lied about having a roommate.”

“Girlfriend?”

His brow furrows.

“No roommate, so I’m assuming there’s a girlfriend that stays over? Is she going to be here soon?”

“Uh, no. There’s no girlfriend.”

Realization hits me as I flit around his kitchen, looking through his cabinets. I find a glass and fill it with water and hand it to him.

“So, either a friend is on their way here, or you lied to us about having someone to watch over you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Jon. Head injuries are no joke. Even if the CT didn’t show any major swelling or bleeding, you could still have a concussion or damage that could show up after the injury. It’s important that you follow concussion protocol.”

Jon rubs a hand over his forehead, wincing. I dig through his cabinets and drawers some more until I find a bottle of over-the-counter pain medicine.

“I’ll get you settled and stay a little while. Mind if I crash on your couch?”

He blinks at me for a few moments. “Sure. But you can sleep in my bed.”

“Jeez. How easy do you think I am? You could at least offer to take me out first.”

The expression on his face is too much. It’s impossible to keep a straight face. “I’m fucking with you, Jon. I’m fine on the couch, I promise.”

“Uh…okay. But I, uh, I don’t want to take that,” he says, staring at the pills I’m holding out for him.

"Your head clearly hurts, and it’ll help you sleep.” I say, gesturing to the way he’s still massaging his temples. “Walking up all those stairs probably didn’t help. Seriously, who the hell builds stairs that steep?”

He chuckles, then swallows harshly and gives me a pitiful look."If I take that, I'll do something stupid or embarrassing, like get a boner again."

I snort a laugh. "It’s just acetaminophen. It won’t make you loopy. But also, you don’t need to worry about that. It doesn't mean anything and happens more often than you think. Just a normal bodily reaction."

Jon shakes his head. "That's not normal for me."

My lips twist into a wry smile. "I promise I didn't think anything of it. Your straight card is still intact."

His eyes fall to his lap again, and I almost feel like I might have offended him. Instead of talking about it anymore, because the truth is I thought a lot of things about it, I nudge the pills toward him. He stands and reaches for it, but then reels and pitches forward.

I manage to get between him and the corner of the granite island before he can hit his head. I'll have a bruise to show for my efforts, but that's better than him needing stitches on top of everything else.

"Shit! Are you okay?"

"All good. Just got a little dizzy." His face goes pale again, and he groans. "Oh, no."

Oh, no indeed. I know that look. Since I don't know where anything is in this damn place, I have to settle for aiming him at the kitchen sink. He doesn't get much up, but retches for long enough that I know there’s no way I’m leaving him.

Jon sputters some apologies, but doesn't complain when I lead him to the bathroom to help him get himself cleaned up. The room is stifling and cramped with the two of us filling up the small space. His chiseled chest heaves with heavy breaths, and I watch his nipples perk up in real time. I swear the heat radiating off his body is seeping into my bones and making me feel weak.

Keeping my face blank and my eyes studiously averted away from any part of his body, I help him out of his shirt and shorts, leaving him in his underwear. Part of me thinks I should stay while he brushes his teeth and uses the toilet, but I give him some privacy out of self-preservation. I leave the door open, but step away to refill his water glass and retrieve the pain pills.

His room is messier than the rest of the apartment, and it's clear this is where he spends most of his time when he's home. The large bed is rumpled, but the sheets seem clean. I arrange the covers, and when he’s done in the bathroom, gesture for him to climb in. I hand him the pills and the water, which he swallows down gratefully before lying down on the soft pillows. Neither of us makes eye contact, mostly because I’m doing everything I can not to look at him at all. It’s too easy to notice his muscular frame and all the skin on display. Instead, I cover him up to his chin with the comforter and set a trash can next to the bed, just in case. Then I tell him I’ll be just outside in the living room if he needs anything before I practically fly out of the room.

There is something very, very wrong with me to be thinking about a patient this way. A patient that is clearly not at his best or in his right mind. Even though I’ve refused to look at him or imagine all the delicious scenarios that want to play out in my head, the tension between us feels like a tangible thing. It crackles like static and fills the room with a heaviness I’ve never experienced before.

This is ridiculous. I’m exhausted and imagining things, surely. But since when am I like this? Has it been so long since I’ve gotten laid that I’d stoop to this level of pathetic?

I head back into the kitchen to clean up. I fish out some rubber gloves and bleach spray from under the sink and get to scrubbing, which calms my frantic brain some.

I send Regina a text and let her know what’s going on. She has the audacity to send me a laughing emoji in response to my plight.

My energy is waning by the time I sneak back in the room to check on Jon. He looks peaceful, and I can't help but smile down at his gorgeous face. He seems like a genuinely nice guy. It's too bad I couldn't have met him in different circumstances. Although, to be fair, I probably wouldn't have given him a chance. My experience with Eric was bad enough that I've sworn off athletes, and the fact that he's on the same team as my ex would have been a hard no.

And there’s the whole he’s straight thing, too. I suppose that should be taken into consideration. Everything about this is a red flag that I will be staying far, far away from.

"You're still here?" Jon's voice is groggy and confused.

"Uh, yeah. You shouldn't be left alone the first night after a head injury."

"The doctor said I probably don't have a concussion."

"Yeah, but she also said to watch for any headaches, dizziness, or nausea. And her discharge instructions recommended being supervised if you have any symptoms."

"I'm fine, pretty Shane."

I huff a laugh. Still loopy. He’s half asleep, his eyes losing focus as he drifts off again.

“I’m just borrowing a pillow,” I whisper, reaching across him to grab a pillow from the other side of the bed.

A strong arm latches around me and pulls me down on top of him.

“Jon!”

“You should sleep in the bed. I’ll take the couch.”

Despite the words he mumbles, he doesn’t make an attempt to move. Instead, he rolls himself onto his side and pulls me against him.

I end up with a half-asleep giant of a man laying half on top of me. In his sleepy, drugged state, I don't think he realizes what he's doing. Before I can even attempt to push him off me, he’s snoring softly. The tickle of his breath, the warmth of his heavy body, and the softness of the mattress below me all converge on me at once. I'm so fucking exhausted. I don’t have the energy to expend to get him off. I'll just rest here long enough for him to shift off me, and then I'll move.