25. Kallis
Kallis
“Itold you I’m okay. It’s been three weeks,” Mathan bites out.
“It was a heavy impact,” I tell him as I gently massage my way from his right shoulder to his biceps with my thumb through his tight, blue base layer, searching for any anomalies that may have resulted from the injury that first connected us.
“You don’t know what kind of lasting damage it could have caused. ”
We’re at the back of the players’ area with three rows between us and the board where the team sat, the coaches and managers to my left, and the crowd directly behind Mathan, watching both us and the game. I made Mathan sit so I could stand and examine him.
I love how my fingers sink into his arm. It feels like he’s absorbing me, and I want to climb on top of him to see if he’s as comfortable as he says he is.
“If I’m strong enough to hold my mates, then that’s all that matters,” he says. I ignore the heat that flutters through me at his steady gaze, focusing instead on my job.
It’s odd seeing Mathan look frustrated. His shoulders are slumped, his face hard, and his words clipped as I rotate his arm.
I don’t feel we need to talk, preferring to concentrate on treating him, but it seems the longer I stay quiet, the more restless he grows.
As I lean in to inspect his biceps, he sighs heavily.
“I’m not good at giving motivational speeches,” I say to break the silence. “But I suspect you’re blaming yourself for your performance.”
“Aye, very astute. So, you’re saying you thought I was crap out there as well? I let five pucks through, and we’re still in the second period.”
I turn my head, and I’m sure the fact that our faces are inches apart doesn’t escape him either. The smartest decision is to straighten the moment Mathan moves closer.
“The main thing I saw was that your right arm dragged when you reacted to a sudden shot from the Huntsmen’s left forward.”
“That’s just a polite way of saying I can’t block for shit, and that’s why Coach dragged me off.”
“He’s thinking strategically. We can’t all be one hundred percent every day.”
“I’m the last line of defense. I should be three times more focused than everyone else. Once the Huntsmen get past the forwards and our defenders, all that’s left is me.”
“There’s a reason they call it a team sport.
You are not responsible for the outcome of the game.
” And I don’t feel like it’s my responsibility to coach him through it when I just want to know if his biceps are still tender.
“Can we just agree that I’m the one who decides what kind of treatment you need?
If I tell you I want to examine you, I expect you to sit there and take it. ”
His mouth clamps shut, his back straightens as his scent thickens the air.
Unlike the usual light wafts of wildflowers that complement his gentle personality, it layers around me with a chorus of different tones. Each one calls to me, like it’s asking me to unfurl with it and spread my honey over him so we can fuse and bond.
“I don’t understand why your scent has changed,” I murmur as I move to his other arm.
And I’m not falling for it. Artie’s little surprise was bad enough. If I give in here, in front of so many people, how would I live it down?
I’m definitely giving him a more thorough check than I would any other player, but the oat bars Artie gave me set off my omega senses, and I’ve been starved since.
“Kallis, if you can’t figure out how you’re turning me on, then we’ve got a lot to talk about.” The slightest purr in his voice is enough to stir me, and I release his arm, just to be safe.
I meet his gaze, his dejected look replaced with desire. I want to ask him to explain further, but he suddenly jerks, slamming his hand against his thigh. He kicks out, narrowly missing me. His seat rocks, and I flinch as his scent is instantly drenched in panic.
“Shit!” he gasps, rushing to his feet, attention snapping to the rink. “You need to get on the ice,” he chokes, the color draining from his skin. “Artie’s hurt.”
A long whistle sounds from the rink, and I’m already moving. If Mathan is acting that way, then it has to be serious.
My heart plummets as people swarm around the net. Heart racing, throat tight, all I see is Artie and a dash of red on the ice.
First-aid box under one arm, I take the player’s route, past the busy gate, vaulting over the boards.
My shoes have special grips on them, so the second my feet touch ice, I launch myself forward.
The flashes of white ice, the beaming lights, people shouting, and Artie’s yells mix with the resounding boom of my heart as twenty thousand pairs of eyes watch us.
I knock people away, swallowing the nausea that rises at unfamiliar touch as I land on my knees and skid in beside him.
Two medics are already with Artie. One puts pressure on his leg while the other makes sure Artie stays lying down.
“Hey, that was pretty cool. You’re getting me worked up,” Artie says before his face crumples, and he groans.
“Quiet,” I growl, instead of releasing the high whimper fighting to be freed. People go still around us, and my temperature rises with shock at my reaction. But there’s no time to care about my scent escaping.
“Did you come to rescue me?” Artie croaks, twisting his head, his cheek pressed against the ice, but I can’t afford to give him attention.
“Tell me what happened,” I snap at the medics. My team is used to my demeanor and takes it in stride. I need to apologize later, but the medic is having trouble stemming the bleeding through Artie’s kit, and I want to scream at the sight of him.
“A Huntsman slipped on the ice and flew forward, skates first. Artie blocked using his knees, and the blade cut under his leg guards.” A medic says as he helps me turn Artie onto his back.
Logically, I know that the chances of a player having an instant fatality are rare. But experience has taught me that statistics don’t matter. I can barely feel my own chest as fear explodes through me.
There’s a high rattle behind me as two other medics arrive with a yellow plastic stretcher.
My usual response to high-stress situations is to focus on the facts. But I’m struggling to keep calm when I can’t assess his wound.
“Help me cut him out.” I’m amazed my shaking hands can unlock my first-aid box. But I throw them a pair of scissors before tearing open two packs of gauze.
The medic needs to release the wound to cut away his clothes, and the risk of bleeding out increases. If either major veins or arteries are hit, we could lose him in minutes.
We’re fast, working in a chain, the third ripping away his padding the moment his pant leg is cut away. Fear claws at my chest at the speed at which the red stain spreads out.
The gauze is on his leg, full pressure on the wound, and he’s on the stretcher without another word.
The same hypersensitive, over-stimulating chaos of the ER is reflected here, along with the sense of camaraderie of my team pushing for the same goal of saving a life. But why does the patient have to be Artie?
I falter as I stand, clutching my first-aid box to my side to try to stop myself from showing how panicked I am. I want to whine, keen, my omega side fighting to show my distress. But this is work. I can’t express my vulnerability when others are watching.
The goalie’s padding is supposed to prevent this kind of injury, but Mathan has already proved that it’s not infallible.
“Hey, Bee, you have to hold my hand, okay?” Artie says, reaching out to me from the stretcher.
His movements are sluggish, and I won’t see how much blood he’s lost until we can remove his uniform. My rushing thoughts bounce between where each object is in my first-aid box and how fast I can reach them the moment I can get to him.
“Silence. I don’t want to hear anything from you until you’re off the ice.” Because if I reach his wound and discover it’s critical, I don’t know if I can contain myself.
“You love me that much, huh?” he hums. I grit my jaw to prevent myself from snarling at him. How can he make jokes in this situation?
“Take him away,” I order the medics. My sentences stay short so I don’t choke on my panic.
The four medics, two on each side, hoist him up on the long plastic stretcher. It’s faster for them to carry him off the ice than drag him and leave a bloody trail. But something tells me Artie would like how shocking the photos would be.
Orso is there in the crowd around Artie, and I want to punish myself for the desire to reach for him. It’s simply my omega side responding to the situation, and not that I want to connect to him. I don’t need his comfort; I need to see Artie’s wound.
That’s what I tell myself. I can’t get lost in my imagination, no matter how much my thoughts spin off with fear that Artie will bleed out.
The only other time I’ve felt so out of control was when Aspen’s daughter sliced her hand when I was babysitting her. I began spiraling when I thought she was in danger, even though it was a simple stitch to fix.
Because it’s so much harder to treat people when I care about them.
I need to keep moving, or the full-body shakes will begin. Artie thrusts a thumb in the air as they carry him off, and the crowd cheers as he shows them he’s okay, but that’s beside the point.
The maintenance staff is there instantly with a small Zamboni to clear up the blood, and I’m sickened by how easily they can wipe Artie away.
I’m right beside him as the stretcher comes off the ice. And the second the whistle blows behind us and they continue the game, my focus floods back because I can finally do my job.
My mind is blank as they lay him on the floor, and I work fast. Faster than the other medics can keep up with. I bark orders at them to help examine the wound. We need to stop the bleeding, but my chest is too tight, and my eyes sting.
I nearly snarl when I see it and the drying blood on his skin. Nausea sweeps through me, but I can’t stop. I’m aware that I’ve embarrassed myself with this reaction, but there isn’t time for emotions.
I want to cry out when I realize it hasn’t hit anything major. It’s only a number of superficial veins that can be stopped with enough pressure.
“Get him in the chair,” I growl.
“You’re so sexy, Bee,” Artie groans, and it takes everything in me not to shout at him. I need to treat him like a patient. He is just an injured person, nothing more. I’m only panicked because there’s a cameraman over my shoulder and the announcer’s voice is shaking my concentration.
“Don’t say a word.”
“Anything for you,” he groans.
Two medics run their hands over him to carefully find the best way to lift him into the chair where Mathan was previously seated, and a possessiveness tears through me that leaves me breathless. It’s so extreme that another growl rips from me.
“Step back,” I release the snarl at them, because no one else is allowed to touch him when he’s injured.
They look shocked, and it’s exactly how I feel. I can’t for a second let anyone else near Artie except Orso or Mathan. I have to keep him safe. He’s mine to protect.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pressing a hand to my forehead. “My omega… I just… please lift him so we can examine him closer.”
I’m too jumbled to control my omega side. My instincts are rising, and I’m going to explode if I don’t control myself. And the pleasure in Artie’s scent isn’t helping.
I force my breathing to slow to stop my panic, and I can feel myself shutting down as I clutch my first-aid box.
The facts. I just have to focus on the facts and not the need to scent mark him and kiss him and reassure him that his omega is here.
I find alphas who claim omegas as their possessions distasteful, but this force of emotion beating at me helps me understand Artie’s reasoning when we first talked. The desire to fight anyone who goes near him is uncomfortably natural.
Artie tips his head back, his smile wide as I push into his space. I want to bite him to show him that he needs to take this seriously. I want to tie him up so he can’t get hurt. My omega side is yelling at me to bond with him to make sure I don’t lose him.
“You look so pretty when you’re angry,” Artie hums as I bite my lip.
It’s not anger that’s fueling me; it’s the fierce need to protect my mate.