Chapter 21
Mia
A Grumpy but Sweet Patient
Otto has a concussion. They confirmed it in the ER, and he’s been put on strict bed rest for the next twenty-four hours. “The doctor said no screen time, Otto. You need to stay off your computer and your phone,” I reiterate as I drive the patient home.
He grunts.
Glancing over at him, my heart squeezes. With his eyes closed and his head resting back against the headrest he looks so vulnerable. “I’m recruiting Joey to be your nurse. He’ll enforce the rules,” I state firmly.
“I’d rather have you as my nurse,” he grumbles. “Joey will be a tyrant.”
“How do you know I won’t be a tyrant?”
He releases a long, put-out sigh. “You’re prettier than Joey.”
I bark out a laugh. This version of Otto is rather endearing, but I like his spunky version more. “Nice try, Stagmeier! Compliments will not sway my decision.”
He grunts.
I pull up beside his rental house, text Joey, and he meets me at the curb.
“Coach says you’re off the ice until you clear the concussion protocol,” Joey says as he helps Otto from my car.
“So, all I’m allowed to do is rest?” Otto gripes. “That’s boring!” His outburst is easy to ignore. The way he’s leaning on Joey, it looks like a strong wind could blow him over.
I trail behind the pair clutching the bottle of Tylenol the doctor prescribed and a ream of printed instructions the ER provided detailing what a concussion patient can and cannot do. All bets are off as to whether Otto will follow any of them.
Joey and Otto slowly and painfully climb the front porch stairs, the patient groaning several times as they proceed into the house. The door creaks loudly as I close it behind me. Should I suggest a little WD-40 perhaps?
Otto plops onto the living room sofa as if his legs can’t carry him any further. Joey and I exchange concerned looks.
“Here’s Otto’s pain medication,” I say crisply while handing the bottle to Joey. “Make sure he takes those at only the prescribed intervals.” Joey nods. I turn to the patient and cautiously sit down on the couch, so as not to jostle him. My intention is to go over the concussion routine for the next few days. Pointing to the instructions in my hand, I begin reading them aloud. “During the first two days after a concussion, follow these steps to ensure you have a safe recovery— Eeek!”
Otto leans over, snuggles against me, and starts kissing my neck. Sloppy, wet kisses that tickle and cause goosebumps to break out along my arms and neck.
“Otto! You need to focus on the instructions!” I squeak, trying to dodge his wandering mouth.
“But you smell so good.” He continues to run his lips towards my jaw, leaving kisses in his path.
My heart flutters, basking in his attention for a few seconds before coming to my senses. I reluctantly pull back from his caresses and hold the instructions up in front of his nose. “We are going to review this list,” I say in a schoolteacher sounding voice.
He blinks at the list. “Why are the words swimming on the page?” he asks, his head bobbing as he reads.
“Goodness! You aren’t supposed to read. Close your eyes,” I command.
Otto snorts. “How am I supposed to follow the instructions if I can’t read them?”
Joey shakes his head and chuckles, then leaves the room. Obviously, he’s not going to be any help in getting the patient to listen.
Shifting on the couch, I gently push Otto back against the seat back, fluff one of the throw pillows and position it behind his head. “I’ll review the list; all you need to do is listen.”
He nods and closes his eyes as I tick off the list: “Rest. Avoid caffeine. Sleep at least eight to ten hours in a twenty-four-hour period—"
“No coffee? That’s a non-starter,” he grouses.
I puff out a pent-up frustrated breath. “Otto, you’ve got to follow these directions if you’re going to get better.”
“Okay, okay” he mumbles.
Note to self: make sure Joey hides the coffee and any other source of caffeine.
I clear my throat, “Let’s continue.” My eyes scan the paper, finding where I left off. “Have someone monitor your symptoms—I’ve already asked Joey to check-in on you to ensure you’re not getting worse.”
Silence. What? No pushback? I shrug and plow on. “Avoid screen time on a computer, TV, smartphone, or tablet. Take a break from mentally demanding activities such as work, school, computer use, or reading. Avoid sports or demanding physical activities.”
“About those,” Otto says. “That basically means I can’t do anything I usually do.”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m going to be bored stiff.”
“It’s only for a few days,” I scan the document further, “After two days, it says if your symptoms do not return or worsen, you may start to add more activity. You will likely be able to return to work or school within a week of your concussion.”
His eyes slit open. “But what about all the tasks we need to get done before the fundraiser? There’s only two and a half weeks to go.”
Panic had already set in when I read those instructions. Being one person down on a two-person team is going to be a big blow. I try to hide my concern and confidently reply, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll cover everything until you’re feeling better.”
He reaches out, grabs my hand, and squeezes it. “This sucks, Mia.”
I bite my lower lip and nod. “It’s only a week! I’m sure everything will be fine.”
Otto’s eyes probe mine and I know that he senses my panic and the fact that I’m overwhelmed.
“Write down any tasks I can do on a piece of paper. That way, I won’t have to break the ‘no screen time’ rule.”
“What do you feel up to doing?”
“Probably nothing today. But hopefully tomorrow I can make phone calls and stuff like that.”
Bing! Dean Smith asked us to contact all the upper echelon university faculty who haven’t purchased a ticket yet. I’ve been procrastinating because I hate doing stuff like that.
“We still need to call all the faculty who haven’t purchased tickets. If you feel up to it, I’ll print off the list for you.”
He smiles. “I can do that.”
“Only if you feel up to doing it. Got it?”
“Yes, Mom,” he says with a smirk.
I roll my eyes, then stand.
“By the way, where’s Pete?” I ask, referring to his alleged pet goldfish. I’m suspicious since Floyd conveniently flew the coop before I could meet him. I suspect Pete is also an imaginary pet.
Otto points to the back of the room where there’s an aquarium sitting on a small table. I march across the room and peek inside the tank. “Which one is Pete?” I ask, while staring at a couple of fish swimming in the pristine turquoise water. The aquarium is nicely outfitted with a pirate ship and some coral, which the fish are darting in and out of.
“The gold one,” Otto says.
I snort. “Of course he’s gold! But there are two of them.”
“The female is Joey’s goldfish, Bambi,” Otto says.
My brows slam together. Who names a goldfish Bambi?
“The male one is mine. Thus, the name Pete.”
Even with a head injury, Otto is still his sarcastic, teasing self. “Fine! I’m not going to ask how to identify their gender,” I say, striding back over to the sofa.
He chuckles until I collect my purse to leave. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks in a heartbroken tone as he looks at me with sad puppy dog eyes.
“Yes, I’ll stop by with that list to call.”
“And you’ll bring me lunch?” he asks, his expression perking up.
“Sure, I can do that.” I know he loves burgers, so I can grab some at a drive-thru.
“And you’ll fluff my pillows and give me a back rub?”
I put my hands on my hips and huff, “Don’t push it, Stagmeier!”
He chuckles, obviously satisfied with getting the response he wanted.
“See you later. Please follow the concussion protocol instructions,” I say, pointing to the ream of paper I placed on the coffee table.
“A kiss would make me feel better,” Otto says.
I lean over and give him a quick peck on the cheek opposite to the injured side of his face. He must be pretty wiped out. I expect him to try to pull me onto his lap, but he just smiles and closes his eyes. My hand itches to smooth the lock of hair drooping onto his forehead back into place, but I resist. As I turn to leave, I hesitate for a moment to glance back over my shoulder at the hunky, sleeping hockey player who has captured my heart. Could I be in love with Otto Stagmeier?