Chapter 20
Otto
Slapshot to the Face
My lungs heave as I dash into the Marriott and rush to the Grand Ballroom. When I enter, Mia and Miss Bettencourt are conversing beside a table with a pastel blue tablecloth that they’ve set up near the back.
“Sorry I’m late!” I say as I stride towards them, the two ladies swiveling to look at me.
“Oh my gosh! What happened!” Mia shrieks as she runs over. She bites her bottom lip and stares at my face.
“It looks worse than it is,” I assure her.
“It looks terrible, Otto!” Mia says in a shocked tone. Miss Bettencourt nods.
“Only fourteen stitches,” I quip, trying to make light of my injury.
Mia sucks in her breath and extends her hand, gently touching my cheek. “Stitches? Oh, my. What happened?”
“A rookie smashed a slapshot straight into my face. It hit right above my eyebrow, causing a rather large gash.” I omit the details that I dropped to the ground like a felled tree, there was an alarming puddle of blood on the ice, and Coach called the emergency paramedics.
She blinks furiously as if she’s holding back tears. “Your cheek is turning purple,” she observes, her fingers trail gently up my face. When she gets to the bandage that’s hiding the stitches, she stops. “Does it still hurt?”
“Not so much. They gave me some pretty strong pain killers.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish that I could stuff them back down my throat.
“They who? The training staff?” she asks.
“Um, not exactly.”
“Did you have to go to the hospital?” Her eyes grow larger in her pale face.
“No. Coach called the paramedics.”
She gasps. “Why did you bother to come to this meeting?!” She throws her arms around my waist and leans into my body as if her legs can no longer hold her up. “Your injury must be serious, Otto,” she mumbles into my chest.
Patting Mia on the back, I reply, “I’ve had far worse hockey injuries! This one isn’t as bad as it sounds, sweetie.” The endearment slips out. Mia feels so good in my arms and her overt concern over me loosens my lips. Could this woman be in love with me?
Glancing over Mia’s head, I see Miss Bettencourt staring at us. She gives me a thumbs up as if urging me to “Tell her how you feel.”
I gently tilt Mia’s head up with a finger under her chin. “Are you worried about me?” My heart beats like a drum in my chest at the prospect that Mia might care about me. A lot.
Mia nods and gives me a watery smile. “I am. I didn’t realize how I felt about you until right now.”
I laugh and tug her closer. “So, does that mean you’re happy I survived the slapshot?” I tease.
She swats me on my forearm. “Yes, you big idiot!” We stare at each other for several seconds as the temperature in the room seems to rise about ten degrees.
“Because you still need my help on the fundraiser?” I ask, wanting her to admit the real reason for her feelings.
“That and the fact that I’m falling for you,” she whispers.
My heartrate skyrockets further. “Really?” I say, while mentally fist pumping the air. She didn’t say the L-word, but I’ll take this as a good sign that she’s on her way to loving me.
“Do you feel the same way about me?” she asks, doubt lacing her tone.
I lean in and touch my lips to hers, then wince when my eyebrow connects with her head. Pulling back, I touch the bandage. “Ouch! Guess I better hold off showing you how I feel until this heals. How about I just tell you that I’m falling for you, too?” I back-off saying the L-word for fear of scaring her off.
A beaming smile fills Mia’s pretty face. “Okay, but I want a raincheck on the kiss.”
We gaze at each other with affection in our eyes, Mia still snuggled in my arms.
A throat clears behind us. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but did you want to finalize the table linens?” Miss Bettencourt asks. I had forgotten the woman was still standing there.
I feel Mia’s shoulders shake and a giggle slips out. She steps out of my embrace, her cheeks a bright shade of red. “Yes, let’s do that.”
“Lead the way,” I say with chagrin. What guy gets interrupted from a romantic scene with his sweetheart because he needs to select table linens? Me, I guess.
~*~
“I love all the tablecloth colors! They look so playful, which is exactly what we’re going for,” Mia exclaims about fifteen minutes later. Felice (she insisted I call her by her first name) and Mia arranged five tables in all the colors we selected to match the fundraiser’s theme colors.
You’d think I was an invalid with all the fussing Mia’s doing over me. She wouldn’t let me lift a finger in getting the tables set up. I admit, it’s kind of nice.
“What’s your opinion regarding the china and silverware?” Felice directs her question directly towards me.
“I’m not much of a fancy china guy, but what Mia selected looks elegant and not fussy. I like it!”
The two women laugh. “Those were Mia’s words, too. You two think alike!” Felice replies.
I hold my tongue. Mia and I have had our fair share of disagreements on this project. But we seem to agree on the big things, like theme and colors and apparently now also china and silverware.
“Is there anything else you need from me?” I ask. The pain meds must be wearing off because I feel my face starting to throb. The pain runs all the way from my forehead to my chin. I’m beginning to feel woozy and a little disoriented. It just hits me like a ton of bricks.
Mia stands in front of me, her eyes searching mine. “Are you feeling okay?”
Slumping down in a nearby chair, I hold my head in my hands. “No, not really.”
She bends over and peers at me with worried eyes. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I feel a little woozy and nauseous,” the nausea coming on just when I sat down.
“Oh, my goodness!” She holds up two fingers in front of my face. “How many fingers is this?”
“Two,” I say. “Why aren’t you holding them still?”
“My fingers aren’t moving,” she says. “Could you have a concussion? I’m taking you to the emergency room!”
Could I? Other players have had concussions, but I’ve never had one. Maybe it happened when the back of my head hit the ice?
“I’m fine,” I mumble. “I’ll just go home and rest.” I start to stand, but I lose my balance and sway.
Placing her hand firmly on my shoulder, she pushes me back down in the chair. “Otto Stagmeier, you are not driving!”
Wow! I knew Mia was a take-charge woman, but this is Amazon-level take-charge. I don’t dare move a muscle while Mia and Felice have a private conversation off to the left, which I hear only snippets of. “Worried about him...He looks pale as a ghost...We’re going to need help.”
A few minutes later, Felice scurries out of the room.
“She’s getting a wheelchair,” Mia says.
“I don’t need a wheelchair,” I mutter as I rise from the chair, then when my knees get weak, I slump back down immediately.
“You need a wheelchair,” Mia adds in a no-nonsense tone as she grabs her phone from her pocket. “Can someone get a concussion from a hockey puck to the head?” she says as she scrolls. She glances up at me. “Did the paramedics mention a possible concussion?”
Did they? Everything happened so quickly, and I knew I was running late for this meeting, so I didn’t pay much attention. Plus, I was feeling fine a few minutes ago. “I’m not sure.”
A burly man pushes a wheelchair into the room with Felice at his side. I’m feeling so weak, I don’t protest as the man assists me into the chair.
“I’ll get my car and pull around to the lobby,” Mia says as she dashes out of the room.
“Otto, I hope you’re feeling better soon,” Felice says as she walks beside the chair as the burly man pushes me out of the room.
“Me, too,” I mumble, still holding my throbbing, woozy head in my hands and praying I don’t puke on Miss Bettencourt’s fancy shoes.
The next few minutes are a blur when we reach the lobby and they assist me into Mia’s car. She speeds off, taking the prescribed turns, while the GPS lady on her phone provides directions.
“Are you doing okay over there?” Mia asks at some point. When I don’t respond, she reaches over and shakes my arm. “Otto! Talk to me.”
I groan. “I’m feeling really bad, Mia. I think I might throw up in your car.” That’s the ultimate way to disgrace yourself, by vomiting in someone else’s vehicle.
“Think calming thoughts. Breathe in. . . Breathe out. . . Breathe in. . . Breathe out. . .” she says in a soothing tone.
I listen to her lilting voice and follow her directions as it helps to distract my mind from thinking about a possible stomach upheaval.
“We’re here!” Mia shouts. The car screeches to a stop under an overhang with a bright Emergency sign. She sprints inside and reappears with a man dressed in blue scrubs pushing a wheelchair. The guy transfers me to the chair and wheels me inside the ER where I promptly bend over and empty the contents of my stomach. Mia took off to park her car so she didn’t see the humiliating event.
“Possible concussion. Room 6!” a nurse shouts after I vomit on the floor at her feet.
“Sorry,” I mutter, but the guy’s already rolling me into a curtained enclosure, just like the ones you see on TV. He helps me onto the bed and disappears.
The room whirls around me. I use Mia’s breathing technique to ward off another bout of nausea as I wait for the doctor.