Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
cole
Raw panic surges through me as Maya’s small frame slams into the ice.
And when her head hits, memories of my brother’s fatal head injury momentarily paralyze me.
My heart beats in my ears, making the cacophony of shouts and laughter surrounding us fade into white noise.
I push through the gaggle of kids surrounding me and drop onto my knees next to Maya. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Can you hear me?” I rest my hand against her cheek, careful not to move her neck. She’s warm to the touch, a nice juxtaposition to the chill of the ice seeping through my pants. “My?”
A moment later, her dark blue eyes open and slowly blink into focus. Relief slams into me so fast my limbs go weak. A ball of stress still sits heavy on my chest, but seeing her eyes settles the worst of my nerves.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I say softly, trying to keep my panic at bay.
Her face twists in discomfort, her eyes a little unfocused.
I brush a soothing thumb against her cheek. “You got hit pretty hard. That’s got to hurt. You want to try to sit up so we can make sure you’re okay?”
She grimaces but allows me to tug her into a sitting position. When she’s upright, I gently probe the back of her head to ensure it’s not bleeding. She winces when I press on the spot that took the brunt of the fall and will no doubt turn into a goose egg.
“Let the record state,” she says, giving me a strained smile, “that my lack of coordination wasn’t the sole cause of this tumble.”
“I’ll note that,” I reassure her. “Let’s get you off the ice, yeah?”
It takes a controlled effort to not drag her out of here like a caveman.
If I wasn’t concerned about jostling her, I’d say fuck it and give in to the urge.
But with her best interest in mind, I take her hands and slowly lead her off the ice and onto a nearby bench.
Once I’m sure she can sit up without toppling over, I grab our things from where we stashed them in a locker.
Maya doesn’t complain when I undo her skates and slip her sneakers back on, but when I pick her up bridal style, her attitude makes a reappearance.
“Put me down,” she hisses, squirming in my arms. “I can walk, Cole.”
With a grunt, I pick up my pace and push through the doors of the building. “And I can carry you just as easily.”
“Cole—”
“Maya,” I snap. The instant the word is out of my mouth, I force myself to take a deep breath. “Just please let me take care of you, okay?”
Her pouty mouth drops open, but no words come out for the remainder of the walk to my car.
She does shoot me a questioning look as I buckle her into the passenger seat, though.
The moment my own ass is in the driver’s seat, I dial our team’s orthopedic surgeon.
He’s at every game, evaluating sprains, fractures, and mild concussions, and he’s the one I want to take a look at Maya.
Once the ringing sound of the phone echoes through the speakers, I reverse out of my parking spot and speed in the direction of his office.
“Hey, Nicholas.” Dr. Greenbaum greets me on the third ring. “How’s your shoulder treating you?”
“Fine, thanks,” I rush out, my heart still thudding against my sternum. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I took my girl skating, and a kid flew into her, knocked her out and—”
Maya squeaks and clutches my arm. “I promise I’m fine. I—”
“You were out cold for over three seconds,” I scold, my voice tight. “You need to see a doctor. It’s either him or the hospital. Choose.”
Her jaw drops open in response, her focus drifting over my face. Clearly catching on to how dead-ass serious I am, she simply leans back against the seat, making herself comfortable.
I should probably apologize for my brusque behavior, but I don’t have it in me. This isn’t something I’m willing to compromise on.
Dr. Greenbaum’s voice fills the awkward silence. “Any other symptoms besides brief loss of consciousness?”
“I’m a little dizzy and my head’s sore,” Maya admits with a frown. “But that’s it.”
Her calm demeanor does nothing to alleviate the panic that’s constricting my every breath. In fact, it only makes me press a little harder on the accelerator and grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turn white.
“Swing by my office,” he offers, his voice lacking the concern that’s overtaken me. “I’m sure you’re fine, but it can’t hurt to take a look.”
“Thanks,” I grit out. “We’ll see you in ten.” I hang up the phone and book it to his office in record time.
A nurse stationed at the reception desk immediately guides us into one of the brightly lit rooms with walls covered in diagrams of human anatomy, where she takes Maya’s vitals and asks her a few basic questions.
While I’m relieved that there’s no chance Maya could be pregnant—because, in my mind, that means she’s not sleeping with anyone else—I do briefly worry her embarrassment may cause her to faint.
“Nicholas.” Greenbaum’s deep baritone resonates off the walls of the small room as he steps inside. “I’m happy to see you, although I wish the circumstances were better.”
Hoisting myself out of the plastic chair that’s about two sizes too small for me, I shake his hand. “Hey, Doc. Thanks for squeezing us in on such short notice.”
“Always happy to help.” He turns to Maya with the same serene expression he wears when he’s assessing a player’s injury. “I’m Dr. Greenbaum,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Maya.” She swishes her legs back and forth off the end of the examination table, making the protective sheet over it crinkle. “Nice to meet you sounds kind of weird, given the situation.”
He chuckles and nods. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“A kid—about four-five, ninety pounds—railroaded her while we were stationary,” I explain, hands clenching into fists. “He wasn’t going full speed, but he lost control and slammed into her. She flew back about two feet and hit her head on the ice.”
Maya gapes at me with what I’ll take as a newfound understanding of just how observant I can be.
“And you were knocked unconscious?” Greenbaum directs the question at Maya, completely cutting me out of the conversation. It’s fair, considering I’m not the patient, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“For only a second or two.”
“Three seconds.” I narrow my eyes at her. “And you were dizzy and wobbly when you stood up.”
Doc hits me with a warning glance that stops me from adding further details, then turns back to Maya with a warm smile. “Let me wash my hands and we’ll take a look.”
While his back is turned and the water runs, Maya motions to him and mouths, “He looks like Santa Claus.”
I bite back a chuckle. With his protruding stomach, white beard, and perpetually flushed cheeks, the good ole doc does resemble Saint Nicholas.
“So what do you do for work, Maya?”
“I manage an independent bookstore,” she answers.
Greenbaum spins around with a paper towel still in hand. “Oh! I’m going on vacation with my wife next week and need a book to read on the beach. Any suggestions?”
Without hesitation, Maya deep dives into a list of books he should consider.
It’s awe-inspiring, how knowledgeable and insightful she is while describing books she loves.
It’s a refreshing change from the people I’m typically surrounded by.
People who are always focused on the score, the plays, the next game.
With books, there’s no winning or losing. There’s just pure enjoyment.
The two of them continue to talk books while he shines a light at her pupils to test their reactions.
I, on the other hand, sit in silence, my body strung tighter than a guitar string, as he assesses her memory, attention, and reasoning, as well as other cognitive skills.
“Seems to me you have a minor concussion,” he announces post-examination, “and a few bumps and bruises.”
“You’re sure?” I press. “You don’t want to do a CT scan?”
“I’m quite sure, Nicholas.” He waves me off and gives Maya a little spiel about taking it easy and avoiding physical exertion for the next few days.
She nods along before thanking him for his time, and when he disappears, she turns to me, her expression brighter than it’s been since she took that hit. “It’s weird hearing people call you Nicholas.”
I shrug at the observation. “I’m used to it after so many years.”
“Why’d you decide to go by Cole and not Nick? That’s the only nickname I’ve ever heard people use for Nicholas.”
“I lost a coin flip.”
Her legs stop swinging and she tilts her head. “You what?”
The memory makes me chuckle. “My brother and I did everything together growing up. Everyone knew us as a pair. Nicholas and Nathan. Nick and Nate. We even joked that when we made it pro, our tagline would be ‘Nicholas and Nathan: the Berrett Brothers.’”
“You knew you wanted to play professionally when you were that young?”
“Oh yeah,” I reply, my chest pinching. “We wanted to play professionally, and together, for the San Diego Devils.
But outside of hockey, we were super different.
I liked pancakes, he liked waffles. I liked thrillers, he liked action movies.
I liked my coffee black, he only drank tea. We were always opposites.
“But you were still best friends?”
I swallow to clear my dry throat. “Yup. But because we were so different in so many ways, we wanted our names to be less…” I press my lips together, searching for a word to explain what I mean.
“Matchy-matchy?”
I chuckle. That’s not the term I would have chosen, but…
“Exactly,” I concede. As if changing my nickname could somehow unravel the ties that connected Nate and me.
Not even six feet of dirt can sever the bond.
When he died, he took a piece of me with him.
It’s gotten easier to talk about with time, though.
“So we did a coin flip to see who had to change their nickname. I lost, so I chose to go by Cole.”