Chapter Eleven May #2
“Yeah, probably, but I need to get you to a doctor first, and I need you to not throw up in your sleep.” Brady looked forlornly at his car. “I need to learn to punch with my left hand.”
“Why?”
“Why” turned out to be simple: Brady drove stick, and it was much harder to change gears with a busted hand covered in a bloody towel.
Nick watched in fascination as Brady managed to maneuver the car out of the parking lot and onto the road.
The time passed quickly, both because of the concussion stealing his concentration and because he enjoyed watching Brady expertly, if not easily, drive.
“Can you teach me to drive stick?”
“You’ve already asked me three times, dude,” Brady said. He’d pulled off the road and into a parking lot. “Still no.”
“Why not!?” Nick pouted.
Brady didn’t answer.
“We’re here. C’mon, lemme get you inside.”
There weren’t many people there, all of them quietly waiting their turn. Brady checked them in and did his best to fill out the paperwork for both of them with his left hand.
“You’re not left-handed, are you?” Nick asked as he peered over Brady’s shoulder. “Either that or your handwriting is awful.”
“I’m not left-handed. Thank you for noticing.”
“Then you should use your right hand. Right hand. Write hand.” He chuckled.
“I would, but it’d hurt too much and get blood everywhere.”
“What happened to your hand?” Nick asked. Brady’s hand was freshly wrapped in a red-stained towel (or had it already been?), and the fingers were swollen where they poked out.
“I punched someone,” Brady said evenly, as though he’d said it a hundred times, “because they gave you a concussion.”
“You hit someone ‘cause they hit me?”
Brady shrugged. “Yeah, kind of.”
“Did you hit ’em ’cause you think I’m cute?”
Brady’s eyes bulged and he stopped writing. “Wh-what?”
“Did you hit ’em ’cause you think I’m—?”
“No, no, I heard you. I just…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have a fucking concussion. You don’t know shit.”
“I’m not that concussed. Maybe. Hopefully. Just admit I’m cute.”
“You think you’re cute?” Brady countered.
Nick gave a huge full-body shrug, leaving his hands comically in the air.
“Dunno. That’s just what I’ve heard. I’m all right I guess.
You, though? You’re one pretty fucker, you know that?
Really fucking pretty.” Brady gaped at him.
“So damn pretty. Could stare at you all day. Even when you were mean to me, I thought you were the cutest boy I’d ever seen. ”
That seemed to snap Brady out of it. He looked like a kicked puppy and asked, “When was I mean to you?” like he didn’t actually want to know the answer.
Nick frowned. Wasn’t it obvious? “You were mean when we first met. I wasn’t hockey enough, and you were mean. Still liked you, though.”
Brady relaxed a little, but there was still tension in his shoulders that Nick wanted to reach out and rub away.
“This is probably unfair of me to ask but, uh…” Brady hesitated, worrying his bottom lip like the bastard didn’t know what that did to Nick. “Were you mad? After the tournament?”
“Why?” he asked dumbly. “Mad about what?”
“That we didn’t… that I…” Brady couldn’t force the words out, but his embarrassment sparked the hint of a memory: of a shared bedroom, a miserable night alone despite the company, and an awkwardness between them that’d taken a long time to settle.
“Oh, that.” Nick waved his hand dismissively. “Nah. I was like, sad. But why would I be mad? You don’t want me. You’re allowed that.”
Brady looked absolutely crestfallen, and Nick backtracked to try and figure out what he’d said to hurt him. He couldn’t remember a damn word of it, though, so he asked, “Shit, what’d I do wrong?”
Luck was on Brady’s side: the receptionist called them in to see the doctor, saving him from having to answer.
They were tended to by two different doctors, though in the same exam room.
Nick found this strange, but because he couldn’t answer a single one of their questions about his injury, he supposed it helped that Brady was there to help.
Nick stared into a flashlight, recited facts, and promised wholeheartedly that he felt mostly okay.
“What does ‘mostly okay’ mean?” the doctor asked patiently as she wrote on a clipboard. “Headache? Nausea? Dizziness? Ringing sound? Tired?”
Nick nodded. “Tired.”
“No throwing up, walks kinda funny, was falling asleep before, keeps asking the same questions,” Brady supplied. Nick leaned over to look around his doctor to where Brady’s hand was being wrapped in gauze. Brady waved at him with his good hand. Nick grinned and waved back.
“All of that’s to be expected, and no vomiting is a good sign.
He’ll need rest and should take time off work if possible.
Limited screen time, dim lights, lots of fluids, aspirin if he gets a headache.
No heavy physical activity until he’s seen his primary care physician and gotten the go-ahead from them.
If he gets worse, you take him to the ER immediately. ”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you staying with your boyfriend tonight?”
“He’s not my—” Nick started.
“I can if I have to,” Brady interrupted evenly, even if his cheeks did seem a little flushed. “Someone will be with him.”
“Good. Wake him up every few hours to make sure he’s okay and hasn’t vomited in his sleep. He hasn’t been complaining of nausea, though, so that’s not too likely. Let me find our printout on concussions for reference, and the printout for his visit…”
Nick wandered in and out of consciousness. His autopilot must’ve been getting better, because he hadn’t fallen or run into anything, and even when he lost track of how he’d gotten to a given moment in time, he could backtrack enough to see it was the logical outcome of the events leading up to it.
When he found himself back in the reception area, he didn’t question it.
“I should get you home.” Brady sounded particularly surly and tired. Nick worried what he’d said or done, and then scolded himself because he was supposed to not care.
Brady patted his pockets and dug around until he pulled out Nick’s phone.
“That’s my phone! Where’d you get that?”
“Your hockey bag. Over an hour ago.” He paused as he looked at the screen. “You added a passcode,” he said with surprised frustration.
Nick nodded.
Brady waited a moment before asking, “And what is it…?”
“Backstrom Carlson.”
“…what does that even mean?”
“Look it up.”
Brady looked like he wanted to punch the wall and bust up his other hand. “Backstrom’s number nineteen?” Brady asked. It clearly brought him real pain to admit he knew that. “What’s Carlson’s number?”
“Seventy-four. Like America.” He saw Brady’s confusion. “July 4th? Seven-four?”
“You know what, whatever.” Brady typed in the code, mouthing the numbers “nineteen” and “seventy-four” as he did so.
“Who should I contact to help take care of you? Family, friend, uh… significant other—?” He frowned at the screen.
“Oh, you already have a message from someone named Jenna May asking how you’re doing and if she should come over. ”
Nick nodded solemnly. “Tell her I need all the help.”
“Uhh, yeah sure.” Brady dutifully typed. He’d nearly pocketed the phone when it started ringing, and he winced when he saw who it was. “Hello?” he asked as he answered.
Jenna’s voice, wordless but full of concern, rang out of the phone.
“This is Brady. Jensen. From, uh… from Nicki’s—Nick’s hockey team.
He got a concussion and he’s kind of out of it, so I drove him to Urgent Care.
The doctor said he’s good to go, but he’ll need someone to make sure he wakes up every couple of hours, and he’s gotta stay home from work for a few days. ”
This time Jenna’s voice was sharp. Nick didn’t know what that meant, but his dull mind helpfully supplied him with the mental image of balloons popping unexpectedly.
“Yeah, I’ll drive him home. I got his hockey gear, but he’ll have to get his car from the rink. Not for a few days; he shouldn’t drive. He’ll also need to follow-up with his actual doctor. He should know all this, but like I said, he’s kinda out of it so I wouldn’t expect him to remember.”
“I’ll remember!” Nick whined. He blinked and reached out to gingerly touch Brady’s bandaged hand. “What hap—?”
Brady hissed and yanked his hand away. “Huh? No, no it’s— Look, I’ll get him there in about thirty, and I can help him inside if you want— You’ll meet us there?
Great. Yes, I’ll call if something else happens between here and there.
Yep, that’s fine. We’ll see you soon then.
Bye.” He turned off the phone and stuffed it back in his pocket.
“Your”—he hesitated briefly and licked his lips—“friend is kind of bossy.”
Nick nodded solemnly. “Jenna is my bossiest cousin. And my bossiest friend. And very bossy.”
A strange look came over Brady’s face then. “Look, Nick—”
“Nooo, don’t call me ‘Nick’ or Gail will yell at me again.”
“What—? You know what, no, I don’t want to know. Fine, Nicki, I know things are… weird… I guess… between us, and I’m sorry I did that. That’s on me, and I’m also sorry I’m too chicken shit to say that when you’re not concussed.”
Nick put a hand on Brady’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Yes,” he said.
Brady waited and waited, waited so long Nick forgot what they were talking about.
“ ‘Yes’ what?” Brady asked.
“Huh?”
“Yeah,” Brady said with a laugh that was a little too bitter for Nick’s liking. “This is clearly not the time for this conversation. Let’s get you home before your cousin accuses me of kidnapping you or something.”
Away from the florescent lights of the doctor’s office and without Brady pestering him to stay awake, Nick dozed off, drifting between images that never coalesced into real dreams. It was over too soon; one minute his mind was bouncing between hockey and accounting, and the next, Brady was gently shaking his shoulder.
“Hey,” he whispered to Nick. “We’re here. I don’t see your cousin. Want me to help you inside?”