Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Bex
present day
I can be professional. Right? I have to.
“Okay, so here’s how this is going to go,” I finally say into the stilted silence. “I’ll do your exam today, you’ll go on your way, and my partner will handle your mid-season exam before the All Stars break. Don’t bash your brains in and I won’t have to deal with you again.”
His bark of laughter is bitter. “It’s not like I want a head injury. It’s hockey. It happens.”
His cavalier attitude toward head trauma boils my blood. Concussions are no joke, and I’ve spent my career trying to help protect the sensitive, squishy brain matter that makes us who we are. I have a vested interest in the subject.
Ignoring him, I stand from behind my desk and pull a new patient workup form out of the pile on my desk.
I grab a clipboard and hand it to him, taking care not to touch him.
I wish I could have Dr. Annaliese Palmer, the neurologist I partner with, take over his case, but her day is packed with back-to-back consultations, too.
Between the two of us, we’ll process through everyone.
It’s an exhausting day, but it’s necessary.
“Let’s get this over with. Fill this out, and then we’ll catalog your deficits.”
Of which I’m sure there are many. Honesty. Kindness. Decency. All things he lacks.
Or maybe I’m projecting. Looking back, I can admit I wasn’t at my best that day—or anytime I’ve seen him since. Something about him pisses me off, and I refuse to let myself think too deeply about why that is.
Nick—Mitchell—takes the clipboard and sits in the chair beside my desk. I don’t want him here, in my space. I have to think of him like I do all the other boneheaded hockey players I deal with, so competitive they’ll put themselves at risk every single day for a chance at the Cup.
The asshole hums to himself as he scribbles on the form, and I do my best to pretend he isn’t there. I’m so fucking aware of him, his big body, the scent of his sweat.
As a former athlete and now working with them in all shapes and sizes, I’m no stranger to the stench of sweat.
But somehow, he doesn’t smell bad. It reminds me of that afternoon in his hotel room, the scent of sex filling the air.
Resting my chin on his sweat-slicked skin, listening to his heartbeat.
At long last, Nick looks up from the clipboard, his plush bottom lip caught between his teeth. I remember the feel of those lips against mine, drowning in his kisses. Never wanting to come up for air.
No. It didn’t mean anything. So what if he’s seen me naked? So what if he’s seen my soul stripped bare? It’s in the past. That’s where it has to stay.
As much as I don’t want to, I take the forms from him and glance over them.
His handwriting is neat for a man. Especially for a hockey player.
Hell, half the time they can barely write their X’s and O’s.
His letters are half printed and half cursive, but as I read through his responses, I’m focused on the important thing: his history of head trauma.
Four concussions while playing in the league. One in the AHL. Two growing up.
Fuck, he’s had seven brain injuries. And he’s still playing, putting him at risk for more. My single concussion in college was bad enough; I can’t imagine going through that seven times.
With a quick shake of my head, I refocus on his history. That’s why I’m here. I clear my throat and rise from behind my desk, gesturing to the exam table at the other end of the room.
“Let’s go through the baseline testing.”
Somehow, I manage to get through the thirty-minute exam.
Having spent the last few years knee-deep in this research, and now in my second season with the team, I could administer the tests in my sleep, but I make sure I’m thorough, not overlooking a single question.
The last thing I want is my personal dislike of the patient to color his medical care. Or worse, skew the data.
I lose myself in the routine testing, cataloging his current status on the neuropsychological questionnaire.
Although I’m not a medical doctor, my doctoral degree studied the impact of concussions and traumatic brain injuries, and I’ve devoted the last eight years of my life to researching how to help athletes deal with the impacts—and hopefully, prevent them.
At long last, we’re done, and I strip off my gloves and sanitize my hands.
“I need your checklist.” My voice comes out cold and clinical, and I fight back my wince. I don’t want to be a dick, but I’m ready to be done with the worst mistake of my life.
But we’re not done, not by a long shot.
After I sign off for his exam completion, Nick hops off the table and strides confidently to the door. He pauses in the threshold, then looks back at me.
“See you around, Bex,” he says, before he disappears.
Ugh. I sag on the stool, my entire body crumpling. My stomach is a mess of butterflies, and my palms are slick with sweat. Even my jaw aches from clenching it for so long.
How am I supposed to deal with him? He signed a three-year contract. He’s not going away anytime soon, and I don’t want to give up the opportunity to work with this team.
I blow out a breath, then dust off my hands and pick myself up. I just have to deal with this. After all, I’ve overcome worse things than the biggest mistake of my life coming back to bite me in the ass.
Right?
Luckily, goaltender Jake Lewis knocks on my door, interrupting my pity party.
“You ready for me?” he asks, giving me a goofy grin. We’re friends outside of this room, so it’s easy to pull a smile onto my face and reset.
“For you? Of course. Let’s get started.”