1. Jamie #2
That is worse than arguing. Because it tells her everything. This isn't new. This isn't one bad hit. This is a body that has been making deals with pain for months and finally ran out of things to trade.
"Define good," she says.
"Still conscious."
"For now."
"That's comforting."
"I'm not here to comfort you." She checks something near my left side, gentle but firm. "I'm here to get you off this ice without making this worse."
I want to answer.
I want to say something sharp enough to make Liam laugh and Coach stop looking like that. I want to see Ethan breathe easier.
But the next breath scrapes wrong inside my chest.
The arena grows louder again for a second. Not cheering. Murmuring.
I become aware of the cameras first. One over the glass. One near the bench.
And one camera is on the scoreboard, catching everything for the thousands of people holding their breath above us and in their living rooms. I hate that more than the pain.
The pain is mine. The rest of this belongs to everyone.
My teammates move into a tight half circle, protective, concerned.
Coach hovers with his jaw locked. Mark's hands are ready and useless. The officials wait.
Seventeen thousand people are watching the captain of the Frostholm Blizzards become a problem other people have to solve.
I've spent my whole career being the guy who gets up.
The guy who taps the rookie's shin pads and tells him to take the next shift.
The guy who turns toward the room after a bad loss and says the things nobody else can say yet.
The guy who carries it.
Now two medics and a trainer are deciding how to lift me onto a gurney.
My throat tightens. I tell myself it's the ribs.
Annette leans closer. "Captain Walker."
"Jamie."
The correction slips out before I can stop it.
Her eyes soften for half a second. Only half.
"Jamie, listen to me. I suspect a clavicle fracture along with multiple rib fractures. Your breathing concerns me. If one of those ribs has caused a pneumothorax, standing up is not brave. It's dangerous."
That shuts down every argument I still have lined up. I know enough about injuries to know the word.
Pneumothorax.
Collapsed lung.
Not good.
Not skate-to-the-bench-and-take-an-X-ray-later good.
I look at Mark, who gives the smallest nod. Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just honest.
I close my eyes for one second. The ice is cold beneath me. My hand is still clenched around nothing because my stick is gone.
When I open my eyes again, Annette is watching me like she already knows the exact moment I stop fighting.
"Fine."
"That isn't the word I'd use."
"Gurney."
"Smart choice."
"Don't sound so pleased."
"I enjoy rare moments of patient cooperation."
Annoying woman. This time Liam does laugh. Small. Relieved. Good. If Liam can laugh, the team can breathe.
Sam and Mark move into position. Annette gives the count. They're careful, I suppose. But pain still turns the edges of the world bright and thin.
By the time they strap me in, sweat has broken across my forehead.
My lungs feel too small. My shoulder feels too big.
I turn my head before they start moving.
Ethan stands near the boards with both hands pressed to the top of his helmet.
He's crying. Trying not to. Failing.
The sight hits harder than the collision. I can't reach him. I can't get up. I can't pull him aside and tell him one ugly bounce doesn't define a career.
So, I do the only thing I can.
I find his eyes. I give him one tiny nod. “Play the next one.” His face crumples once before he drags it back together.
Good kid. He'll learn.
The gurney starts moving.
The crowd rises.
At first, I think they're cheering.
Then I realize they're standing.
Stick taps begin near the Blizzards bench.
One by one, they spread across the ice.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The sound follows me all the way to the tunnel.
I stare at the rafters and pretend it doesn't matter.
The second we pass beneath the arena and the lights dim, the sound changes.
No crowd.
No broadcast.
No anthem music.
Just wheels rattling over concrete and the squeak of Sam's shoes beside me.
Annette walks at my left shoulder. "Still with me?"
"Unfortunately."
"Breathing?"
"Also, unfortunately."
"Pain from one to ten?"
"Depends on who's asking."
"The person who’s deciding what happens next."
"Six."
She doesn't even blink.
"Try again."
I stare at the ceiling pipes sliding overhead.
"Eight."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome for my honesty."
"Eventually..." Sam snorts.
Annette checks the pulse ox clipped to my finger, then listens to my chest. Her face doesn't change, but her silence does.
That is the first thing about her that makes me nervous.
She doesn't perform concern. She acts. "Oxygen," she tells Sam and a mask settles over my nose and mouth.
I hate it immediately.
"Leave it," she says before I can lift my hand, which she immediately sees and responds.
I leave it. Again. Annoying woman.
A few more turns and cold air hits my face as the loading doors open to the ambulance bay. For a moment I can smell that the night outside smells like snow, exhaust, and wet pavement.
Annette climbs in after me. Sam follows.
The doors shut. The arena disappears. The ambulance starts moving.
Everything inside is too bright. Too close. Too quiet.
For the first time since I hit the ice, there is nothing else to watch.
No Ethan.
No bench.
No scoreboard.
There's only the cardiac monitor beeping beside me and Annette's calm hands checking what still works and what doesn't.
I turn my head toward her. "Who won?"
She looks up. For one second, she looks like she thinks the pain medication got to me before the IV took it in.
Then she understands. A small smile touches her mouth.
"You."
I manage the tiniest shake of my head. "The game."
Her smile fades into something softer. "I don't know yet."
I close my eyes. Of course she doesn't know. Why would she?
Normal people don't get strapped into ambulances and worry about an empty-net faceoff.
"Find out please."
"My priority is your breathing."
"Multitask."
"You're bossy."
"Captain."
"Patient."
The word lands between us.
I don't like it. Not because she's wrong. Because she isn't.
Annette turns and speaks into her radio, her voice smooth and clipped.
"Riverton ED, this is arena medical transport with Jamie Walker, male, twenty-nine, professional hockey player.
High-energy collision. Suspected displaced left clavicle fracture, probable multiple rib fractures, decreased breath sounds on the left.
Concern for small pneumothorax. Vitals stable but guarded. Oxygen applied. ETA six minutes."
Six minutes.
That is nothing. That is forever.
The ambulance bumps over a rough patch of road and pain tears through me so fast my right hand grips the rail before I can stop it.
Annette notices. "Almost there."
I breathe through the mask. In. Out. Not deep. Not enough. But something.
The doors open too soon and not soon enough. Cold air rushes in again as hospital lights replace arena lights.
A sign slides above me as they wheel me through the entrance. Riverton Regional Medical Center EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT.
I stare at the letters until they blur.
The next hour breaks into pieces.
X-ray. CT. More hands. More questions.
Annette's voice cuts through it when everything else starts to smear.
A surgeon with tired eyes and a serious mouth stands at the end of my bed.
"Displaced clavicle fracture," he says. "Three cracked ribs. Small pneumothorax. We're taking you to surgery tonight."
Surgery.
Tonight.
The words should be the loudest things in the room.
They aren't.
All I can think is...Who's taking care of the team tomorrow?
The ceiling tiles blur above me. Somewhere beside the bed, Annette says something to the surgeon.
I don't catch the words, I only hear her voice. Calm. Certain. Close.
Jamie Walker has spent his entire career protecting everyone else.
Tonight...there isn't a single thing he could protect.