20. Caroline
20
CAROLINE
S tupid, stupid man. Scratch that… Stupid woman. The icy fear spreading through my veins is precisely the reason why I need to maintain a professional distance from the players. I’m their doctor, and I’m obviously too attached to this particular player.
I couldn’t stop the terrified scream that emerged from deep in my throat when I saw Brock crash down on the ice after suffering a significant blow to the head.
The rink becomes eerily quiet when the other players realize that a man is down. As soon as they stop skating, the sound of Brock’s helmet spinning around on the ice echoes throughout the arena.
Finally managing to regain a tiny bit of sense, I scramble down the stairs and onto the ice to assess his injuries. Blood is gushing from a deep wound on his forehead, and he has been knocked out cold.
Forcing myself to be his doctor, rather than his lover, I take firm command of the situation. My years of medical training override my emotions as I bark out orders to the gaping players.
My commanding tone does the trick, and the men I point to all scurry to follow my instructions. Six players lift Brock’s unconscious body and quickly carry him to the edge of the skating rink.
Once he’s laid out across a padded bench, I get to work checking his vitals. The hovering men aren’t doing anything to help my already frazzled nerves, so I say, “All of you, get out.”
When they remain frozen, staring at each other and seeming uncertain what to do, I yell, “Now!”
The team coach’s whistle pierces the air just before he says, “You heard the doctor. We’ll finish up today’s practice in the weight room.”
As the players turn away to comply with his demand, I decide that I’ll have to remember to thank the gruff man later for backing me up and ending their practice on the ice early. It’s much easier to properly tend to Brock without a bunch of looky-loos. I know it’s not an ordinary thing for the coach to go easy on them, so I truly appreciate his support.
The player I sent to get Shayna must have quickly removed his skates and sprinted through the hallways because my reliable nurse is already here with my medical bag in tow. Although the woman offers to clean and dress his wound, I shake my head vehemently and get to work. Brock is too important for me to simply stand back and let someone else care for him.
The efficient woman hands me medical supplies, without me having to ask for them. We work together so seamlessly, it’s almost as if she can read my mind and predict what I’m going to want next.
Brock’s eyelids flutter open. Relief surges through my veins to see him awake, but I do wish he’d stayed out for a few more minutes, so he could completely avoid the pain of me cleaning and stitching his head gash.
His eyes sparkle with recognition as he gazes up at me. His voice is edged with grogginess when he asks, “What’s up, Doc?”
I can’t stop the smile that arises at the silly question reminiscent of Bugs Bunny, but I turn serious when I answer, “Not you. You have another serious injury to your head.”
He runs his tongue along the front of his teeth before saying in a mocking tone, “Aww––no trips to the dentist today. I almost have my ‘Buy 10 teeth, get 1 free’ punch card complete.”
Shayna and I share an exasperated look before I say, “I guess you’ll have to wait a while longer to get that freebie dental implant.”
To anyone else, it would probably seem strange to be joking about losing teeth. But to an ice hockey medical professional, it’s simply part of the job. We have the team’s preferred DDS on speed dial, and she always manages to work the players into her schedule on extremely short notice.
Brock hisses when I stick the needle through his skin to make the next stitch. Hating it that I’m the one hurting him, I offer, “We have the bleeding under control, so I can give you something for the pain and wait for it to take effect before I finish stitching you up.”
“Nah, go ahead and finish, Doc. My noggin is surprisingly tough.” He gives me a lopsided smile, even though he must be in a tremendous amount of pain.
I do my best not to be completely charmed by his sweet, brave demeanor by focusing on making even, small stitches in order to minimize the visible scarring on his forehead.
The man doesn’t even flinch as I continue stitching him up.
Deciding distraction is key, I say, “You know you’re much braver than several of your teammates. Some of them are big babies about needles.”
His gaze darts to mine, making it obvious that I’ve gotten his attention with this tidbit of gossip. His eyes are alight with pleasure when he asks, “Who? Please tell me Stoner is one of the weenies.”
I can’t help but laugh at his exuberance. Shaking my head, I say, “Only you could be so delighted by someone else’s fears when I’m poking a needle through your skin.”
“Aww, don’t kid yourself. Any of the guys would be thrilled to hear that I cried like a baby while you stitched me back together.”
“But I would never tell them that,” I remind him in a firm tone.
“And that’s part of what makes you such an amazing doctor. And human.”
The last two words are murmured so quietly, I lock gazes with him to assess if I actually heard them or simply imagined them. From the addictive way he is gazing up at me like I am his favorite person in the world, it’s fairly obvious that he actually said the words.
Forcing myself to focus on the task at hand, I tie off the last of his sutures, snip the surgical thread and say, “You’re a pretty amazing human yourself.”
I intend for the tweak of his nose to be a playful gesture to indicate that I am done stitching him up, but I fear that it comes off as flirtatious.
Needing to shift the tone of our interaction out of this dangerous territory, I stand to leave the arena with Shayna and tell him in a no-nonsense tone. “It’s time for you to go see a neurologist. We’ll get you scheduled with one right away. I’m sure they’ll want to do a CT scan and possibly an MRI to assess how badly you’ve harmed your brain this time around.”
“Will you come with me?” The uncharacteristic, terrified look in his eyes lets me know that he believes this injury to be worse than all of his previous ones. We can only hope the damage isn’t permanent.
My job is to refer him to a specialist. There is no reason for me to go with him to the appointment. Our offices can communicate via phone or email to share any relevant information and treatment plans with each other.
I open my mouth to give him the standard party line about professional distance, but the unmistakable, vulnerable fear in his gaze as he looks up at me has me responding, “Of course, I’ll go with you.”