Chapter 58
ELIJAH
The transplant unit room feels like it's shrinking around us—too small to contain everything hanging in the balance right now. I'm the only one allowed in here with Sam, while Zach and her mom wait somewhere down the hall, probably wearing down the floor tiles with their pacing. When they said only one person could be present for this part, there wasn't even a question.
It had to be me. It has to be me.
My leg bounces with nervous energy as I sit beside her, our bodies close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin, my hand wrapped around hers like it's the only anchor keeping either of us from drifting away.
Sam looks smaller against the sterile white sheets, though I'd never say that to her face. Her skin has taken on this translucent quality over the past few weeks, like tissue paper held up to light. I brush my thumb across her knuckles without even realizing I'm doing it.
The central line runs from her chest, prepped and ready, its presence both reassuring and terrifying. This thin tube is about to carry her second chance.
The nurse moves around us with quiet precision, her hands adjusting connections and checking monitors. There's something almost hypnotic about her movements—how she barely makes a sound despite all the equipment she's handling. I catch myself tracking her every move, searching her face for any hint of concern, any flicker that might tell me something the doctors haven't.
Dr. Wilcott stands at the foot of the bed, her clipboard tucked against her chest as she speaks in that measured voice doctors perfect—neither too grave nor too cheerful.
"The infusion will feel similar to a blood transfusion, Sam," she explains. "You might experience increased fatigue, possibly some flushing. Some patients report a strange taste in their mouth from the preservatives we use to store the cells."
Sam just nods, her face a mask of calm acceptance that makes my chest ache. The nurse continues where the doctor left off.
"We'll start slowly and monitor you closely throughout," she says, adjusting something on the IV stand. "If you feel anything unusual—chills, discomfort, shortness of breath—you need to tell us immediately. Don't try to tough it out."
Another nod from Sam. No questions. No visible fear. She turns her head slightly on the pillow, eyes finding mine, and gives my hand a small squeeze, like she's the one trying to keep me together.
"Alright," the nurse says gently, glancing between us before turning back to the IV line. "We're going to begin."
She lifts the bag of clear fluid—cells that came from someone I'll never meet, cells that carry all our hope now—and connects it to Sam's central line. I watch the liquid start its journey down the tube, ordinary-looking as water but carrying the weight of everything.
Sam doesn't react at first. She just lies there, fingers still intertwined with mine, her breathing slow and measured. Her eyes drift between my face and the ceiling tiles, like she's trying to stay present but her body is already surrendering to the exhaustion that's been building for weeks.
I don't move. I barely breathe.
I just watch—watch her, watch the line, watch the subtle rise and fall of her chest like if I look away for even a second, something might change. The constant beeping of monitors creates a rhythm I find myself counting to, matching my breathing to those electronic pulses as if they're now the metronome of our shared existence.
An hour passes, marked only by the slow descent of fluid in the bag and the occasional checking of vital signs. The infusion continues at its controlled pace, each drop carrying those foreign cells deeper into my wife's body. She's started drifting in and out of sleep, her exhaustion finally winning over her determination to stay awake.
I brush my thumb over her knuckles again, slower this time, more deliberate, and when her fingers shift faintly against mine, it hits me all over again how strong she is for even being here, for making it to this point when everything has tried to pull her under.
"I'm right here," I murmur quietly, not sure if she's awake enough to hear it, but needing to say it anyway. "I've got you, sweetheart. I love you so much."
Her lashes flutter slightly, not fully opening, just enough to tell me she heard something, felt something, and she gives the smallest squeeze in return before drifting again. It's barely there—this silent conversation between our hands—but in this moment, it feels like enough.
It has to be enough.
It's been six days since her stem cell transplant, and the hospital room has become our shared universe. The doctors and nurses have been moving in and out like clockwork, monitoring everything—watching for infections, waiting for signs her body is accepting the new cells, checking vitals so often I've memorized what normal looks like on every machine.
So far, nothing catastrophic has happened. But nothing definitively good either. Her immune system is basically nonexistent right now, which means even the smallest germ could hit her like a freight train. And last night, she spiked a fever that had me pacing the hallway at 3 AM while they added another medication to her IV.
"Maybe I shouldn't go..." I tell Sam, rubbing my thumb over her knuckle in slow circles.
She lets out a small laugh, but it's faint, barely there—a ghost of her usual sound. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't not go. You have a Frozen Four championship to win."
I groan, dropping my head forward until my forehead nearly touches our joined hands. "The team's strong. They don't need me there to win the trophy."
"Right, and I'm sure Coach Hopper will be totally cool with his captain ditching the biggest game of the year." She shifts slightly against the pillows, wincing with the effort, and my stomach clenches at the sight.
"I'm serious," I say, lifting my head to meet her eyes.
I push out my bottom lip in an exaggerated pout that makes her smile despite everything. "I'm not going. Three days is too long. What if something happens while I'm in Tampa doing hockey stuff that literally doesn't matter compared to you?"
Sam reaches up, her hand trembling slightly with the effort, and presses her palm against my cheek. Her skin feels cooler than it should, and I instinctively lean into her touch.
"This championship absolutely matters," she says, her voice soft but firm. "You've been working toward this for four years, Eli. This is your last Frozen Four. You're the captain and your team needs you there."
I turn my face slightly to press a kiss against her palm. "The team would understand. Coach would understand. Everyone would understand."
"I wouldn't understand," she counters, her thumb brushing against the stubble on my jaw. "I wouldn't forgive myself if you missed this because of me. This is part of your story too, and I refuse to be the reason there's a blank page where your championship win should be."
I sigh, reaching up to hold her hand against my face. "But what if—"
"What if nothing," she interrupts, a spark of her old fire returning to her eyes. "What if you go to Tampa, your team wins the championship, and you come back with a trophy?"
"What if something happens while I'm gone and I'm not here?" The words come out ragged, revealing the fear I've been trying to hide. "What if you need me and I'm three hundred miles away watching pucks hit the net? I don't think I could forgive myself."
Sam actually rolls her eyes, her lips curving into a smirk that looks almost normal, almost like before.
"Drama queen," she says, and the familiar tease in her voice makes my chest ache. "Nothing's going to happen. And if—by some remote chance—something does happen, Tampa is like an hour flight away. You'd be back before they could even page Dr. Wilcott."
"You don't know that for sure," I argue, but my resolve is already weakening under her determined gaze. "Your mom will call me if anything changes, right? Even if it's the middle of a period?"
"My mom will call you if I so much as sneeze. She's already got your number on speed dial, right after the hospital cafeteria and before her own sister." Sam tugs gently at my hand, pulling me closer until I have no choice but to perch on the edge of her bed. "I'm feeling fine. Mom's here. I've got nurses checking on me every hour."
I lean forward until our foreheads touch, closing my eyes and breathing her in. Even with the antiseptic hospital smell and the lingering scent of medication, she still smells like my Sam.
"I just..." I start, then swallow hard. "I've got this feeling. This stupid, anxious feeling that won't go away. Like I should be here."
Her fingers find their way to the back of my neck. "That feeling is called caring about someone. It doesn't mean you need to put your entire life on hold."
"You are my entire life," I whisper.
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes, her expression softening. "And you're mine. Which is exactly why you need to go win this championship and come back with stories about how you crushed the game or how Coach cried when they handed you the trophy."
I'm about to argue again when the door swings open and Zach walks in, his expression mirroring my own reluctance. He's already dressed for travel in jeans and a team hoodie.
"Car's downstairs," he says, leaning against the doorframe like he's in no hurry to leave either. "Flight's in two hours. We're meeting the rest of the guys at the terminal."
I nod but don't move from my spot beside Sam. "Give us a minute?"
Zach checks his watch. "Five minutes, then we really gotta jet. Coach texted that the team bus is already at the airport."
Sam gives him a small wave. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't miss the flight. I'm not dealing with Coach's wrath if his captain is AWOL."
Zach's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Wouldn't dream of it." He looks between us, hesitates like he wants to say more, then adds, "I'll see you soon, angel. I love you."
"I love you too, Zachy."
The door closes behind him, and I turn back to Sam, drinking in her face for the last time.
"I promise I'll call the second we land," I say. "And I'll text you constantly. I'll be so annoying that you'll have to turn your phone off just to get some sleep."
"I expect nothing less," she says, smiling.
"I love you, wife." I catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm.
"I love you too, husband."
Reluctantly, I stand, knowing that if I don't leave now, I never will. I lean down and press my lips to her forehead, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.
"Go," she laughs, pushing weakly at my chest. "Before Zach has to drag you out."
I straighten up but keep hold of her hand until the last possible moment, our fingers sliding apart only when the distance becomes too great. At the doorway, I turn back for one last look.
"Win the Frozen Four," she says, her voice stronger than it has been all day. "Bring home that trophy, Captain."
"For you," I tell her, my hand on the door handle.
"For us," she corrects me, and somehow that single word carries me across the threshold and into the hallway where Zach waits, ready to lead me away from the person I'm most afraid to leave behind.
*****
SAM
The screen flickers as Eli adjusts his phone, his hockey helmet tucked under one arm, shoulder pads making him look twice his normal size. Behind him, I catch glimpses of the arena corridor, the distant echo of voices bouncing off concrete walls. He should be in the locker room with his team right now, preparing for the biggest game of his college career.
Instead, he's squinting at me through his phone, brow furrowed with that worry I've grown too familiar with these past months.
"How are you feeling today, sweetheart?" he asks. His eyes search mine through the screen, looking for the truth I might not be telling.
I shift against the stack of hospital pillows, trying to find a comfortable position. "I'm fine," I tell him, forcing a small smile. But a sudden chill knifes through me, so sharp and cold it makes my shoulders tense involuntarily.
I press my free hand against my arm, rubbing at the eruption of goosebumps as if I could simply erase them. "Just tired. You know... same as always."
I swallow, my throat sandpaper-dry, and try to take a deep breath.
It doesn't fill my lungs properly, like I'm breathing through a straw, getting only half the air I need. The sensation makes my heart flutter with a flutter of panic I push down.
Eli says something, but the words seem to swim away from me, my focus slipping for just a moment.
"Wait—sorry," I murmur, blinking hard as a wave of dizziness passes through me. "What did you say?"
"I asked if your temperature's still going up and down?" His forehead creases deepen. "The nurse said yesterday it was spiking again."
"It's nothing to worry about," I say. "They are monitoring me very diligently. Every single vital sign, every hour, on the hour. The nurse checked on me twenty minutes ago and everything looked fine."
Another shiver runs through me, harder this time, but I keep my face neutral. He doesn't need this right now. Not before the Frozen Four championship.
"You're a terrible liar, you know that?" Eli says, but his voice is tender. "I can see you shaking."
"It's cold in here," I protest weakly.
"Sam." The way he says my name—part exasperation, part devotion—makes my chest tighten.
"I'm okay. Really." I try to sit up straighter, but my body feels heavier than it did moments ago, weights tied to my limbs. My heart beats too rapidly for someone just lying in bed. "You need to focus on the game. This is what you've worked for all season."
He sighs, his breath fogging the camera for a split second. "I miss you so much it hurts. I should be there with you, not here."
"Don't you dare say that," I tell him, surprising myself with the strength in my voice. "You're exactly where you need to be."
Eli stares at me through the screen, his eyes softening. "You know none of this matters without you, right? The game, the trophy—it's all just... stuff."
"It's not just stuff. It's your dream." I manage to smile despite the wave of nausea that's building. "And I need my husband to bring home that frozen four trophy, so don't mess this up."
That pulls a laugh from him, a sound that brightens the sterile hospital room even through the tinny phone speaker. "When this is all over," he says, voice dropping lower, more intimate, "when you're better, I'm taking you back to that cabin in Duluth."
"Mm, tempting." I sigh, remembering our first night there.
"We'll lock ourselves in for like a week. No interruptions. Just you and me."
"And what would we do there all alone?" I ask, trying to match his playfulness despite the pressure building in my chest.
He flashes that devastating smile, "I have a few ideas. Most involve very little clothing and that bear rug by the fireplace."
"Promises, promises," I whisper.
For a moment I forget about the chill still licking at my skin, about the shallow breaths, about my heart doing its strange, fast drumming. For a moment there is only him, grinning at me through a phone screen, talking about a cabin in Duluth like it's a prayer he's been saving up.
Then my heart lurches—too fast, stuttering—and I press my palm flat to my chest, quietly, below the frame of the camera.
I breathe through it.
"Hey." His voice changes. "You sure you're okay?"
I hesitate for just a beat too long. "Yeah," I say. "I'm okay."
Eli groans, glancing off to the side as someone calls his name. "One minute—"
"Go," I tell him, fingertips pressing against the cold glass where his face hovers.
"Sam—"
"Eli. Go win your game." I hold his gaze through the screen. "I'll be here when you're done."
"I can't wait to come home to you," he says, voice rough with everything unsaid.
"I can't wait for you to." I touch the hollow of my throat where his lips always find me first.
"I love you so much."
"And I love you." I tell him.
His voice drops to a whisper. "You're my whole world, Sam. You know that, right?"
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Now go win that trophy, Captain."
The look he gives me—fierce, determined, loving—burns into my memory as he ends the call.
The screen goes dark and I sit with it for a moment—just a moment—his name still glowing in the small print at the top of the display before that too disappears. I exhale slowly. Turn the phone face-down against the blanket. The room is very quiet.
I'm glad we got to talk. I'm glad I got to see his face.
He'll do well tonight. I know he will. I smile to myself, picturing him lifting that trophy overhead, his teammates piling on him in celebration. He deserves it after everything he's sacrificed.
I close my eyes but something feels different—a heaviness settling deeper into my bones, a strange tingling at my fingertips.
At first, it's subtle. My heartbeat quickens, thumping hard enough that I can feel it in my throat. A damp, cold sweat breaks across my forehead. I reach up to wipe it away, surprised at how much effort that simple movement requires.
Then it happens.
A wave of pain crashes through me so suddenly, so violently, that for a moment I can't even breathe. It's like someone has poured acid into my veins, burning from the inside out. My blood feels simultaneously ice-cold and boiling hot, rushing too fast and too slow all at once.
My vision blurs at the edges, dark spots dancing like insects across the ceiling tiles.
I try to reach for the call button, the red plastic pendant dangling from its cord beside the bed, but my arm feels weighted down, disconnected from my brain's commands.
This isn't like the other bad days. This is different. Worse. Much worse.
My chest heaves as I struggle for air, each breath shallower than the last. It feels like drowning on dry land, my lungs refusing to expand properly no matter how desperately I try to pull in oxygen.
"Please," I gasp, fingers stretching toward the call button. It's only inches away, but it might as well be miles. "Please."
The pain is immense, a full-body compression, like my organs are being systematically introduced to gravity for the first time.
My heart hammers frantically, like it's trying to escape my chest. Too fast. Much too fast. I can feel my pulse in my ears, in my fingertips, behind my eyes—each beat irregular and panicked.
With one monumental effort, I lunge for the call button, but my coordination fails me. My hand sweeps past it, knocking it off entirely. It dangles now from its cord, swinging gently back and forth beyond my reach, a pendulum counting down seconds I might not have.
"Help," I try again, but my voice is fading, throat constricting.
I try again but my throat won't cooperate.
Please. Please. Someone.
My body shakes, uncontrollable now, and my breaths come faster, shorter.
"Eli..."
I try to focus, to ground myself, but everything feels like it's slipping—my thoughts, my body, the room around me. Just a few minutes ago we were talking about the future, about after all of this, about things we were going to do when I got better.
When I got better.
A sob catches in my chest, raw and sudden, because something deep inside me knows.
I'm not going to be there.
I'm not going to see any of it.
"Eli..." I whisper again, tears spilling down my temples, my voice trembling as my chest tightens painfully. "I'm sorry..."
My heart stutters again, my breathing turning shallow, strained, like every inhale is a fight I'm losing. The world dims further, sound dulling, everything pulling away from me like I'm already halfway gone.
And then I hear the door.
The soft, pneumatic sigh of it opening. Footsteps, quick and certain, crossing the floor.
"Sam?!"
Mom!
Her voice sharp and fractured with panic. I try to turn my head but my body refuses. I try to reach out my hand, just that, just one hand toward her, and I think my fingers move but I cannot be certain.
"Help!" Her voice tears open. "Please—someone help her—help!"
"I—" My lips move, but no sound comes out.
Her voice rises, frantic, calling for help, and I hear it—shouting, footsteps, something falling—but it's all fading, slipping further and further away.
And the only thing left in my head is Eli. My husband.
He's going to win tonight and he's going to call me and the phone is going to ring and ring and ring.
God, he'll be so devastated to find out I'm gone...
Eli, I'm sorry... I'm sorry.
I hope he knows.
I hope he knows I didn't want to go like this.
I hope—
And then everything goes dark. Quiet.
And I let my eyes close. For the last time.