3. Whoever his girlfriend is, I’ll take that name.
"Whoever his girlfriend is, I’ll take that name."
Dawn Russell
When I open my eyes, all I can think about is the pain. My vision is blurry, and I can’t even make out where I am. My body jostles with movement. Some kind of vehicle, maybe?
A figure appears above me, hazy at first, then slowly taking shape. He’s wearing a paramedic’s uniform, and I catch the flicker of light as he flashes a lamp in my eyes. I flinch, instinctively squeezing my e yes shut again, trying to block out the assault on my senses.
“Welcome back,” the man says, pocketing the handheld light.
“What happened?” I croak while trying to sit up, but my migraine forces me back down.
He places his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t try to sit. You sustained a cranial injury after an incident at the hockey arena. You might also have an eye injury. For now, just stay calm. We’ll be at the hospital soon.”
I try to make sense of his words, but I have no recollection of even being in a hockey arena.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter.
“What’s your name?”
I frown, drawing a blank. The skull-splitting headache strikes again, and I bring my hand to my temple. “Um.”
“It’s okay. Just relax. Don’t try to talk.”
We arrive at the hospital, and the paramedics roll my gurney toward what I’m guessing is an examination room.
The stark white corridors are crammed with people lying on stretchers, various cuts and bruises peeking from beneath hasty bandages.
Others look like they’re about to pass out, and I’m pretty sure a hospital staff member is mopping up vomit from the floor. It’s a warzone out here.
“Wow,” one of the paramedics breathes, clearly in shock. “It’s even worse than it was an hour ago.”
“I know,” the other one says. “Between the influenza outbreak and the accidents from the new ice-skating rink, it’s going to be a long night.”
Finally, the gurney comes to a stop. My rescuers talk with a woman—a nurse or a doctor—about my situation.
“We’re swamped,” she says, dropping her arms at her sides, looking left and right. “I don’t even know where to put her, to be honest.”
“Still, someone should really take a look at her,” replies the paramedic who was with me in the ambulance.
“She just took a pretty big blow to the head; she lost consciousness at the scene. Pupils are responsive, but she couldn’t tell me her name.
And the corner of the plexiglass hit her right eye. ”
“Okay,” the woman says, adjusting her white coat. She beckons someone to join her, and the gurney starts rolling again.
“What’s going on?” I mumble, but no one can hear me over the clamor of bustling staff and the moaning of patients.
Finally, I’m rolled into a room, and they transfer me from the gurney to a bed. The woman flashes her light in my eyes. “I’m Dr. Silva. What’s your name?”
I close my eyes, searching for th e answer, but the pounding in my head is taking over. “Um. I don’t—my head hurts.”
“Okay.” She nods. “You probably have a concussion. Any other source of pain?”
“Yes, my right eye. I don’t know, something’s wrong. My vision is all blurry, and it hurts.”
“I’ll have a look without the light,” she says before asking someone to turn the lights off in the room. “Try to open them again.”
She leans forward with a large magnifying lens, and I do my best to keep my right eye open.
“Might be a scratched cornea,” she says.
Great. I don’t even know what that means.
“It’s hard to know for certain. I’ll have to take you to ophthalmology for a diagnosis. In the meantime, we’ll give you something for the pain. Do you remember what happened?”
I purse my lips, racking my brain. “I don’t recall. I guess I took some kind of blow to the head at an arena? That’s what the paramedic said, but I don’t remember being there.”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?”
I draw a blank, my migraine inten sifying. Groaning, I rub my forehead. Dang, it hurts. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything.”
“That’s okay,” she says, her voice soothing. “Claire, here, is going to take you to radiology for some exams. After that, an ophthalmologist will look at your eye, okay?”
I force a nod.
“All right. We’ll talk right afterward.”
I want to pepper her with questions, ask her why I don’t remember anything, but I’m already being whisked out of the room on the rolling bed.
After doing a CT and an MRI scan, the ophthalmologist confirms I do have a scratched cornea.
He puts some drops in my eye, then tapes a pirate-looking patch over it to prevent the eyelid from moving over the damaged area.
Then, he sends me back to Dr. Silva with a prescription, telling me to check back with him in a few days.
“All right,” she says, marching into the room. “I’m still waiting on your results, but it shouldn’t be long. How’s your pain level?”
“Better.” I nod. “Thanks.”
“Can I ask you a few questions? ” She sits on the side of my bed.
I clear my throat. “Um, sure.”
“Okay. Do you know what your name is? Or your last name, maybe?”
Panic rushes through me again as I draw a blank. Why don’t I know the answer to this simple question? Everyone knows their own name.
“It’s okay,” she says with a comforting smile. “Don’t panic. Do you know where you are right now?”
“A hospital,” I say, relieved to know at least that.
“Good. Do you know which city you’re in?”
I look around for clues, anything, because I have absolutely no idea.
“You’re in Brooklyn, New York,” she says softly. “Do you live in Brooklyn?”
“Uh.” I frown again, scouring my brain to find an answer to this basic question, but it’s no use. “I’m not sure.”
“That’s okay,” she says, her voice still soothing. “Do you know what day it is, or even just the month?”
“December,” I say, my eyes drawn to the Christmas lights in the corridor.
She follows my gaze, and I know she caught me cheating. “That’s right. Do you know who the president of the United States is?”
I shake my head, tears welling in my eyes.
I know—out of all of the questions she’s asked me, it’s the one about the president that brings on the tears.
I don’t feel like the kind of person who would follow politics, but I also know that you can’t spend one day in this country without seeing the president’s face on social media, TV, or the newspaper.
Yet, I have absolutely no idea. Maybe a woman finally made it to office? What year is it? Am I in the future?
I saw no indication of that during my trip to radiology. Not one robot in sight, and the ambulance I arrived in was definitely not flying.
“Try not to worry,” Dr. Silva says with a warm smile. “I’ll let you get some rest while I go check on your results. I’ll be right back.”
I nod, trying to keep my composure. But when you find yourself in a hospital with zero memories, it’s hard to stay calm.
After a while, Dr. Silva returns holding a stack of medical images. “I got your results back, and you do have a mild concussion. Nothing major. However, there is a lesion on your hippocampus and medial temporal lobe. I believe that’s the cause of your memory loss.”
I swallow hard. “Okay. Can you remove it? The lesion?”
“It’s not as easy as that, I ’m afraid,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “There is no known treatment or surgery for amnesia.”
Someone knocks on the door, and two police officers enter the room.
My saliva catches in my throat, and I cough. “What’s going on?”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Silva says. “These gentlemen are going to take your fingerprints and ask you some questions. Hopefully, we’ll be able to identify you. Before they take over, I’m going to give you five words, and I want you to remember them, okay?”
I nod.
“Plane, bird, red, book, car.”
I repeat the words, and she smiles.
“Great. Remember them, okay? I’ll ask you again later.” She turns to the officers in the doorway. “Gentlemen, she’s all yours.”
And as the cops start questioning me, I continue to repeat those five words in my head.
I’ve been alone in this room for a while now, and I’m starting to wonder what they’re planning to do with me.
What if my fingerprints are the exact mat ch of some deranged serial killer?
Will they throw me in jail? What if I am a serial killer?
The thought triggers an amused smile. I may not know who I am, but I know I’m not a murderer. At least, I’m pretty sure.
The handle on the door finally jiggles, and I sit up, hopeful for some good news.
I try to ignore the nagging voice in my head telling me things are only going to get worse from here on out.
I wonder if she’s always been there, or if she made her way in thanks to that lesion on my hippopotamus or whatever it’s called. Oh, maybe I’m a zookeeper?
But when the door swings open, it’s not the cops or Dr. Silva who enters the room.
In walks a tall, strong-looking guy with dark hair, brown eyes, and a beard.
Our eyes lock—well, my only eye and both of his—and I’m caught off guard.
This guy’s hotness meter is through the roof, with broad shoulders, a jawline that could cut glass, and the kind of rugged handsomeness that belongs on a magazine cover.
I might only have one working eye right now, but it doesn’t take two eyes to know this is a fine man.
“Hi,” he says, shuffling toward me. He offers me a small smile, and something tugs at my heart. Who is this guy? Wait, are he and I together? Whoever his girlfriend is, I’ll take that name.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he says, his eyes overflowing with concern. “How are you feeling? What’s wrong with your eye? I tried to talk to a doctor, but it’s mayhem out there.” He nods toward the door. “People are throwing up in the hall, kids screaming.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve seen anyone. I can hear them running around.”
Before he can respond, a commotion erupts outside my room—shouting, the squeak of shoes against tile, and then, the unmistakable sound of someone barreling through the door.
A man stumbles in, disheveled and wild-eyed. He’s wearing a ratty coat two sizes too big. He reeks of alcohol and something sour, and his eyes are bloodshot. “They took my shoes,” he mumbles, his gaze darting around the room like he’s seeing things that aren’t there. “I need my shoes back.”
My pulse kicks into high gear.
The handsome bearded man reacts instantly, stepping between us like a human shield. “Hey, man. Wrong room,” he says, his voice firm but calm.
The intruder doesn’t seem to he ar him. His gaze lands on my hospital bed, and his brow furrows. “Give me back my shoes,” he grits out, louder now.
“They’re not here,” Hottie says, but the intruder clearly doesn’t believe him. He lurches toward the foot of the bed and, to my horror, starts lifting the blanket to check for his shoes.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Hottie’s voice is no longer calm—it’s commanding. He grips the intruder’s arm, straddling the fine line between firm and aggressive, and starts steering him toward the door.
The man struggles half-heartedly. “But my shoes—”
“They’re not here. Time to go.”
A flicker of something dangerous flashes in the intruder’s eyes, but Hottie doesn’t back down. With a final push, he shepherds him out the door and into the madness of the hallway.
Swiveling on his heel, Hottie turns back to me, his expression softening. “You okay?”
The door handle clicks again, and the hot guy immediately goes back into Protector Mode, but this time it’s Dr. Silva.
“Oh, you have a visitor,” she exclaims, her pupils dilating. “Wait, aren’t you Caleb Hawthorne from the New York Raptors? The NHL team?”
“I am,” he says, shaking her hand. “Just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“Hold on. Do you know each other?” she asks, and I swear I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as I wait for his answer.
“No,” he says, and my heart falls. I close my eyes, two seconds away from passing out. Of course he doesn’t. There’s no way I hang out with hot guys like him, especially if he’s some famous athlete. “But I’m kind of responsible for her being here, so—”
“Wait a minute,” I cut in. “What do you mean responsible ?”
He frowns, glancing between me and Dr. Silva. “Um. You don’t remember what happened?”
“They just said I was at some kind of arena and got a blow to the head.” My eyes widen. “Did you assault me?”
“Whoa,” he says, taking a step back. “Absolutely not. What happened was completely involuntary. You were sitting right behind the glass. I got bodychecked and kind of landed on you, then your head hit the step. I’m really, really sorry.”
I narrow my eyes. If he’s so innocent, why is he still apologizing?
He shakes his head. “I’ll make it up to you.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “How? Are you going to give me your cornea?”
He blinks back. “Excuse me?”
“Scratched cornea,” I say, gesturing to the bandage.
He frowns. “I don’t think that’s a thing, but we’ll figure something out. Jenna, our PR manager, already said you were getting lifetime tickets to our games, so that’s a start.”
“Great.” I snort.
He scratches his head, looking away. “You were at a hockey game, so we assumed you were a fan. But of course, we’ll be covering all your medical expenses too.”
I frown at his statement. I definitely don’t think I was a hockey fan. Nothing about him, an ice rink, or the name “Raptors” rings any bell. The weirdness of this entire situation deepens, and I scratch my arm in an attempt to soothe myself. “Um, sure. Thanks.”
Then, his eyes settle back on me. “What’s your name, by the way?”