Chapter 18
NICKY
Inever thought I would get tired of sleeping.
Over the last near-decade of my life I have grown used to living with a certain level of exhaustion. Always craving the opportunity for rest, but never having it because of practices, jobs, a baby…
Now, I’ve spent a week in the hospital and fall asleep when I come back from physical therapy. The doctor says it’s completely normal for my system to be overloaded by little things, and giving my body rest is the best thing I can do. I’m just tired of sleeping.
Sleeping means dreaming. Fragments of my life. Fractures of that night. Futures I can see but can’t touch.
“Good morning, Nicky,” Dr. Knowles calls from the door as she knocks softly on the frame.
Her mask covers the smile crinkling the corners of her eyes.
She carries a tablet and waits until I give a nod of greeting before she fully comes through the door.
“Tired of the bed? That’s a good sign,” she comments, gesturing to the rumpled sheets of the hospital bed I vacated as soon as I awoke in a sweat a little while ago.
I’m seated in one of the bedside chairs, all stiff vinyl and unyielding wood, facing the window to look out on the gray sky.
I get to my feet and move toward the bed, but Dr. Knowles waves me off.
“We can talk here, if that’s all right with you.
” I drop back into the chair, a hiss of air escaping out the sides of the padded seat.
A protest from the piece of furniture due to years of use, no doubt.
Dr. Knowles sets her tablet on a discarded rolling tray nearby and pulls her stethoscope from around her neck.
With practiced motions, she inserts the pieces in her ears and lifts the round bell.
I sit still, following her directions to breathe normally as she moves the bell around my chest, listening closely for a few minutes.
Finally satisfied, she affixes her stethoscope over her shoulders and makes a note in the digital chart on the tablet.
Then she drags the matching chair to sit across from me and pulls her mask from her face.
The smile I see isn’t her friendly greeting, but one of wonder and humor.
“For the rest of my career, I don’t think I’ll ever have another patient like you. ”
“Thank you?” I reply, tilting my head in confusion. My voice is still scratchy from the intubation tube and lack of use. Dr. Knowles laughs, a tinny, light sound at odds with the more severe pulled-back bun and buttoned-up shirt under her white coat.
“I’ve learned from the nurses you appreciate a certain level of honesty, so I’ll level with you.
” Dr. Knowles angles her head to match mine.
“By all medical measures, your experience tips you into the ‘miracle’ category. Commotio cordis is almost always fatal. Even with intervention, it’s not an injury we see many people come back from. ”
Her words cause an ache to spread through my chest. Echoes of my injury, the more-than-a-mere-brush with death. The sobering reality has haunted me, like a looming specter, every minute since waking up in this hospital.
“All of your tests are coming back normal. There’s no evidence of cognitive disruptions in the MRI.
Your electrocardiogram is normal. Pulmonary functions are what we would expect to see in a young man with your physical health.
” She ticks each point off on her fingers, warmth infusing each test I’ve passed successfully.
It doesn’t fully soothe the unease coursing through me.
“I’m not saying you could go out and play a game tomorrow, but aside from building your stamina up through physical and occupational therapy and a low-dose aspirin regimen for a while, your physical recovery should be almost one hundred percent. ”
“My physical recovery?”
Dr. Knowles pulls a small, white card from the front pocket of her coat. She toys with it before holding it out between us in offering.
“It’s not uncommon for patients who have survived a severe cardiac incident to experience post-traumatic stress disorder.
” Her voice has slipped into the detached, clinical tone I’ve often heard during my time here.
It’s not unkind, but just like with my coaches on the ice, I can hear how much I need to pay attention to what she says.
I glance down at the professionally designed business card.
Adam Knowles, LPC-S, CCTP. “My brother is a therapist who specializes in trauma. He has a history of working with athletes, and he’s willing to take your call whenever you’re ready to talk to him. If you’re willing to talk to him.”
I consider what she’s not saying, and I’m grateful she can read more than just facts and figures on a medical chart.
Maybe the nurses have been keeping a closer eye on me than I thought.
How many of them have noticed my discomfort with sleeping, despite the exhaustion that still lingers through every action of my days here?
“Thank you,” I manage, my thoughts continuing to wander. “I’ll definitely consider it.”
Dr. Knowles presses her lips together and nods. She rises from her chair and returns to the discarded tablet, swiping and scrolling. She puts her face mask back in place, and she taps a few more times.
“Okay,” she begins. “Time to get you discharged. All aftercare instructions will be available in your online chart. We’ll have them printed for you to take with you.
Will you have someone to stay with you for the first few days and be able to check in with you until all follow-up appointments are completed?
I can provide the information for a very reputable in-home care service. ”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I have someone.” The unease that had colored my thoughts moments before disappears.
“Bea, right? British brunette with a quiet yet commanding attitude and fiercely protective streak?” Dr. Knowles asks, and my lips flicker with a smile.
It’s not the most complete description of Beatrice Farrow, but that doesn’t make it inaccurate.
“You know, the second day you were sedated, she checked the IDs of every staff member who came into your room? Scared some of my nurses with that intensity.”
The surprise I feel at learning that Bea spent an entire day by my side must show. Dr. Knowles’ light laugh is muffled as it tumbles from her.
“She made up for it the next day, when a fully catered lunch arrived for the floor staff.” She shrugs her shoulders, seemingly brushing aside the entire thing. “Included a handwritten thank you note, addressed to each of your care team. That’s an impressive woman. You’ll be in good hands.”
“Violet says I get to be the flower girl, if you say it’s okay, Daddy. I can wear a princess dress and throw the flowers!”
I’m wedged into the backseat of Bea’s car, taking up nearly the entire bench seat except for where Natalia’s booster rests.
My little girl is filling me in on every detail of her life from the time I saw her yesterday until now, her tiny hand gripping mine in her lap.
She latched on when she came with Bea to get me from the hospital and has only let go long enough for me to slide into the vehicle.
It’s the only sign I have from her that, despite the cheerful, animated way she speaks, underneath, Nat is having big feelings.
Feelings she might not be able to name, and as I try to listen attentively, worry pulls at my gut.
“You will be a beautiful flower girl, little love. Let’s hope Vi and Crosby can settle on a date,” Bea interjects from the driver’s seat. Her eyes flick to the rearview mirror, glancing quickly at Nat and then landing on mine. She returns them to the road, and I smile at my daughter.
“You’ll be wonderful, milaya.”
Natalia launches into a story of how she beat every single one of my teammates at Candyland the night before they left for their road series.
I close my eyes, relishing in the sounds of childish boasting, squeezing her hand with pride.
The team is scheduled to arrive home later tonight, but I have hundreds of text messages from them to get through now that I have my phone again.
It sat nearly untouched on my bedside at the hospital.
The Rubber Puckies chat alone accounted for nearly three hundred messages, and I’ve barely been able to make it through half of them.
Guilt, gratitude, and a few other emotions swirl in my gut every time I open the group chat.
The car lapses into a natural silence, or maybe I drift off without meaning to, because the next thing I know, the engine cuts and Natalia is bouncing in her booster seat.
“We’re home, Daddy!” Bea gets out and rounds the car, opening Nat’s door and helping her unbuckle with ease. “We have a surprise for you!”
“Little love, don’t ruin it!” Bea gently chides, prompting Natalia to make a zipping motion over her lips, but she half-tumbles, half-climbs out of the car with her excitement.
Bea deftly keeps her from faceplanting, guiding my giddy little girl toward the front porch and coming around the car to my door.
I pop it open, swinging a leg out just as Bea reaches me.
“Here, let me help?” She offers her arms as buffers to keep me from taking my own tumble.
Her eyes flash with worry, but her brow furrows with concentration, even as I know she won’t be much help if I unexpectedly fall.
She’s a foot shorter and almost one hundred pounds lighter.
I’ll crush her. As if she can read my thoughts, she lets out a puff of indignation and stomps her heel.
“There are some patches of ice I haven’t been able to clear; I just want to make sure you don’t slip. ”
“You’ve been clearing the walkway? Shovel and salt?” I exit the car, firmly on two feet, and close the door behind me. Bea still hovers, arms loose and raised slightly, but the concern has been wiped from her face at my teasing.
“I’ve been supervising,” she huffs. I like seeing her feathers slightly ruffled like this.
Every time she’s been at the hospital, she’s completely serious and focused on either Natalia or me.
But I’ve noticed the dark circles under her eyes that mar her usually peachy complexion.
The thin line of her lips that only twitches in the corners instead of turning up in a real smile.
The way her fingers flew over the screen of her phone after the care team gave an update.
“I think you’ve done a lot more than supervise lately,” I say gently.
Learning that Bea was watching over Natalia with Ms. Margaret eased every worry I woke up with.
Well, most of them. She took on every task, no matter how big or small, and I’ve vowed to make sure she knows just how grateful I am.
A beautiful blush creeps over the apples of Bea’s cheeks, and she offers a hand to me. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says as my fingers link with hers, and we turn toward the house.
On the porch, I can hear shuffling inside, and I slow my steps to look down at Bea with an eyebrow raised. There’s Natalia’s distinct giggle, peeling high and clear before a deep voice shushes her, and the house goes quiet.
“I couldn’t tell her no when she asked. Your daughter has spent the last two days planning this, so please try not to hate it.”
It’s the only warning and explanation I get before Bea reaches the front door and pushes it open, calling for Natalia.
My daughter announces she’s in the living room.
When I round the wall to the space, Natalia is in Cal’s arms with a big smile on her face and surrounded by the rest of my closest friends.
I freeze, shocked. They all look a little worse for wear—or flat-out exhausted—but they are here.
“Surprise, Daddy!” she cheers. Cal bounces her to match her excitement. “Papa Cal said we’re not allowed to yell because we can’t make your heart jumpy.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Obie deadpans from where he stands by the arm of the couch, but he gives me a warm smile.
Seatednext to him is Gus, who is throwing daggers at Obie for the light jab. Obie just shoves at his shoulder, and Gus turns to give me his toothy grin, incisor missing for the night.
Also on the couch is Crosby, with a teary-eyed Violet tucked into his side. The pair smiles and waves from their seats, and I ache to hold Bea the same way. I tug at our joined hands until she wraps an arm around my waist, and I can drop mine around her shoulders.
Leo leans against the side of the couch, giving me a warm smile and a wave. Even as the newest guy to The Midnight, he’s here. Supporting me and my daughter.
The final member of the group is Charlie, who stands closest to me.
While normally quiet and observant, Charlie’s usually guarded face is worn.
He looks five years older than he is, aged by shadows under his eyes and lines furrowed deep in his forehead.
The corners of his lips are turned down, the frown deeply upsetting as I see him try to tick it into some resemblance of a smile.
My best friend is trying to hide how concerned he is for my benefit.
It won’t fix things, but I don’t hesitate to step forward and give Charlie the strongest hug I’m capable of.
“Just glad you’re okay,” he whispers, then pulls back, the tension finally leaving his face and shoulders. I clasp the side of his neck, squeezing for a moment.
“I will be,” I tell him. Charlie nods and moves toward Natalia, who is wiggling out of Cal’s hold. I slide back to Bea’s side, believing what I said. I look around at my people—my family—and know I really will be okay.
“Welcome home, Nicky,” Bea says. She looks up at me, a storm of emotions playing in her beautiful whiskey eyes, and a tentative smile spreading across her face.