Chapter 37
thirty-seven
. . .
Bex
No.
No, no, no.
Nick is sprawled on the ice, and he’s not getting up.
Beside me, Ceci clutches my arm. “Breathe, B,” she whispers. Like she’s afraid to talk too loudly.
The entire arena has gone silent as the medical staff converge on Nick’s prone body. My heart leaps into my throat as they wrap him in a cervical collar and load him onto a stretcher.
Annaliese is on duty tonight. She’s surely making her way down from the team’s booth to the exam room. She’s in charge.
But I can’t just leave him there.
The book club has gathered for the game, and there are eight of us here in Ceci’s suite. We were supposed to grab a drink after the game so I could finally introduce them to Nick.
“Go,” Sadie says, nudging me. “Take care of your man.”
Jumping out of my seat, I fly across the suite, down the hallway, and to the staff-only elevator. I flash my employee badge at the sensor and jab at the button about seventeen thousand times, until the metal doors creak open. It takes about five hundred years to lurch downstairs.
When I get to the ground level, I sprint through the tunnels until I reach the exam room. The tunnel smells like rubber and melted ice, the roar of the crowd reduced to a dull, distant thrum. Annaliese—Dr. Palmer—has Nick on the table, the lights dimmed.
He’s already stripped off his jersey and pads. His bare chest is slick with sweat, and he’s clutching his head, his posture slumped. Defeated. He looks different like this. Smaller. Not weak—just human in a way nobody else never gets to see.
That’s when it lands.
Not like a lightning strike. More like a truth I’ve been circling for weeks finally becomes unavoidable. I don’t panic. I don’t try to talk myself out of it. I just know.
I love him.
I love him because the man who jokes through pain and shrugs off bruises is quiet as he battles through the injury. Because he’s scared, just enough to be honest about it, and still chooses to trust me with that fear.
“Dr. Whitney,” Annaliese says. “I could use a second opinion.”
She’s a neurologist where I’m a neuroscientist, and between the two of us, we balance each other out. We work together on diagnosis and treatment plans. We’re two sides of the same coin, and all we want is to take care of our athletes.
“I—”
She doesn’t know. Not about us. I’ve been putting off this conversation.
I don’t want to be in this room as his doctor. I want to be his girlfriend. I am his girlfriend. And his girlfriend doesn’t belong in this room.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I blurt.
“I know you’re not on duty, but I could use a second pair of eyes on these results.” She holds the tablet out to me. “He lost consciousness for about four and a half minutes. By the book, it’s grade one, but he’s having difficulty focusing, which could tip him into grade two territory.”
My stomach sinks. He’s had seven brain injuries in his past, and each one increases the chance of the severity of the next. A grade two concussion is dangerous.
I snap on a pair of nitrile gloves and look him over. His eyes are bloodshot, staring at the floor. I put a finger under his chin, tipping his head up, and he winces.
He focuses on me, and his brow furrows. “Bex?”
“It’s okay,” I murmur, moving my finger from side to side to test his pupillary reaction. “It’ll be okay.”
“I don’t feel good,” he mumbles.
“I know.” I card a hand through his hair, my fingertips treading over the back of his head and then lower to the base of his skull. “How’s your pain?”
“Bad.” He gulps in air, breathing hard. “It’s never been this bad.”
“Call Vanessa,” I tell Annaliese, not looking at her.
“We’re going to need a CT. We’ll have to rule out a bleed.
” I keep my voice professional, but inside something cracks open, spreading heat and terror in equal measure.
This is my job. I’m trained for this. I’ve watched multiple players ride a gurney out of this building.
None of them mattered like he does.
“On it.”
Since she’s already done the baseline testing, I don’t run through the questions again, even though I yearn to analyze his status firsthand. I start to pull away, but Nick catches my hand, pressing it to his stubble-covered cheek.
“I’m glad you’re here, Bex Marie,” he murmurs. His eyes fall closed, and I can’t resist cupping his cheek, running my thumb over the bridge of his nose.
“Can I talk to you?” Annaliese asks.
It’s not a question.
“We’ll be right back,” I tell him, before I force myself away. I follow her outside of the exam room, closing the door behind us with a quiet snick.
“What’s going on with you two?” she demands. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Do I need to talk to Coach and the GM?”
I blow out a breath. Thank goodness Vanessa talked some sense into me last week.
“We’re on file with HR. Management knows we’re together.”
Didn’t stop Jacky from giving me a minor interrogation. Coach Turner hasn’t acknowledged it, and as far as I know, nobody else on the team is aware. We’ll deal with that when we have to.
Her jaw drops. “You’re dating a player?”
“It’s not a fling. It’s the real thing.”
“If you’re together, you can’t be his doctor.” Her eyes pin me to the spot. “I can’t have you in that room.”
“I know. As soon as I walked in there, I knew.”
“Bex…”
“Please don’t keep me away.” My voice cracks. “I love him. And I—I have to tell him. I have to be there for him.”
She frowns. “You can’t treat him.”
“I don’t want to treat him. I just want to be there for him.”
She studies me for a long moment, hard eyes calculating.
“You can come with us to the ER as his support system, but you can’t be on his case. That means if I need a second opinion, I’ll be reaching out to an outside provider. And it means—”
“I know,” I whisper. She can’t give me any details about his prognosis.
Two EMTs race down the hallway, rolling a squeaky stretcher behind them.
“Right this way,” Annaliese says, beckoning them closer.
In short order, Nick is loaded onto the gurney, and we’re bundled in the back of the ambulance. His hand reaches for me, and I lace our fingers together, comforting him the only way I know how.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, B,” he murmurs. His eyes are closed, even with the dimmed lights. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “I’ll be here for you. Every step of the way.”
A small smile twitches on his lips. “I know you will.”
His fingers curl in the blanket, restless. “Everything feels… fuzzy.”
“I know. Try not to move your head.”
“Hard not to,” he says. “Feels like it’s full of cotton.”
My throat tightens. I’m in love with him. I love him so fucking much, and I’m left standing helplessly by his side. I hate that I can’t do anything to take away his pain. To smooth everything over.
At the hospital, the transfer is painless.
ER staff take over, voices calm, efficient.
In a private VIP room, he answers questions again, slower this time, brow furrowed in concentration.
I stand at the foot of the stretcher, arms folded tight to keep from reaching for him.
I’m his support system, not his doctor. Not anymore.
The CT room is bright and cold. They help him onto the narrow table, fitting his head into a molded cradle with foam blocks on either side, gentle but firm.
“Stay very still,” the tech says. “It’ll be quick.”
As the table slides forward, his eyes find mine one last time. “You’ll be right there?”
“Right here,” I promise, stepping to where he can still see me through the opening of the scanner.
The machine whirs to life, clicking as it rotates. Thirty seconds stretch into an eternity. I watch his chest rise and fall, counting the breaths without meaning to.
When it’s over, relief hits me so hard my knees weaken.
Back in the ER bay, we wait. Minutes tick by, each one loud in the silence. He rubs at his temple, jaw tight.
Finally, Annaliese returns. “CT’s clean. No bleed, no swelling.”
I exhale heavily. As much as I want to see the films myself, I know I have no right to ask. Later, if he wants me to review his case, we can talk about that. But for now, I don’t want to overstep. My main concern is him feeling better.
“But,” she continues, “that doesn’t mean he’s in the clear. He’s got a concussion. Symptoms lasting this long put him out until he’s fully recovered.”
Nick groans. “Knew there was a catch.”
“I’ve got to get back to the arena, do some paperwork,” she says. “You’re good to get him home?”
Briskly, I nod. “I’ve got him from here.”
She softens. “I’m glad he has you. Glad he has some support.”
“Me too,” I whisper.
A nurse comes by to discharge him, and I fill out the paperwork to the best of my ability. I don’t know his street address—it’s plugged into my car’s GPS—or his full date of birth—just his birthday, not birth year—or his social security number. I list myself and Elsy as his emergency contacts, and—
Fuck. Elsy. She’s at home, watching the game. No doubt she saw what happened.
Pulling out my phone, I find three missed calls from her. I fire off a quick text to our best friend, letting her know he’ll be okay and that I’m taking care of him. She replies with a heart immediately.
“Let’s get you home.” We drove to the arena together, and his car is still there. I hail a rideshare in the app. “Car is seventeen minutes out.”
He looks at me, eyes clear despite the pain. “You okay?”
My laugh is weak. Tense. “You’re the one on the gurney.” Because if I don’t deflect, if I let myself think about everything that’s happened tonight, I will have a panic attack. Because if I don’t keep putting one foot in front of the other, I will break down.
And he needs me to be strong. At least for right now. Later, once we’re home safe and he’s tucked into bed, I can have my meltdown. I can take the time I need to process this.
“Still.” His voice drops. “I hate seeing you worried.”
My heart stutters, and I reach out, finally, resting my hand over his. The warmth of his skin in the chilly ER bay helps center me. Reminds me he’s alive, that his heart is beating, that blood is coursing through his veins.
He’s not dead. He’ll recover and come back from this.
He has to.
“I’m not worried,” I lie.
He squeezes my fingers, trusting me completely. “Stay with me,” he murmurs.
“I’m not going anywhere.”