Chapter 13
Triage & Tactics
Cam
My phone's buzzing like an angry hornet against the kitchen counter, and I already know this isn't going to be good news. The caller ID confirms my worst nightmare: Dad.
I answer on the fourth ring, trying to sound casual instead of like a guy who nearly torched his girlfriend's house yesterday. "Hey, Dad. What's—"
"You look tired." Luke's face fills my phone screen, his brow furrowed with that trademark Wilder family concern.
Great. Family video ambush. My favorite.
He has the same expression he wore when I got my first concussion in junior league—part love, part clinical assessment, all suffocating. It’s the reason why most people think he’s the older brother.
I'm sprawled on the couch at Sugar Mill Lofts, trying to look relaxed while my younger brother—the brilliant trauma surgeon—dissects me through FaceTime.
Behind him, I catch a glimpse of Dad's shoulder, which means I'm about to get tag-teamed by two of the most overprotective medical professionals on the planet.
"Ah. My own personal intervention, starring Dr. Doom and Dr. Dad."
"Cut the jokes, Cam. Are you tracking your symptoms?" Luke continues, his voice taking on that clinical edge that makes my teeth clench. "Limiting screen time? Any dizziness? Memory lapses?"
It's love, I know. But it feels like a performance review I'm failing.
"I'm fine—"
"Define fine." Dad's voice cuts in as he moves into frame, all stoic authority and steel-gray eyes. Dr. Erik Wilder doesn't do small talk, especially when his eldest son has been making headlines for all the wrong reasons. "Because setting kitchen fires doesn't sound fine to me."
I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated. "How on earth… never mind. It was an accident. I was cooking, got distracted—"
"Exactly." Luke leans forward, and I can practically see the gears turning in his surgeon brain. "Distraction, memory lapses, difficulty with routine tasks. These are all indicators that your PCS isn't improving the way we hoped."
I really thought I was getting better. The fog comes and goes, sure, but they’re less frequent.
In fact, I am great on most days. And I've been handling things.
Taking care of Tara. Being useful. But the fact that I nearly burned down her kitchen yesterday.
.. maybe that's a truer barometer of my PCS than my optimism.
"No dizziness this week," I report dutifully. "Sleep's been decent. Screen time's probably higher than you'd like, but I've been working."
"Working?" Luke's eyebrows shoot up. "Cameron, you're supposed to be resting, not—"
"Helping my girlfriend settle into town isn't exactly hard labor," I cut him off, but even as I say it, I can hear how defensive I sound.
Dad and Luke exchange one of those looks that says they've already had this conversation without me.
"Anyway, I really thought I was getting better," I mutter, more to myself than to them.
"But the reality check of needing to replace a stove suggests otherwise," Dad says, not unkindly but with the kind of brutal honesty that runs in our family. "We're concerned, son."
The word 'son' hits different when it comes from Dad. Not Cameron—which means I'm in trouble—but son, which means he's worried. Really worried.
"So yes, we're coming," Luke announces, like it's already decided.
My stomach plummets. "You don't need to—"
"You'll be fine when we determine you're fine," Dad interrupts with military precision. "Luke's already spoken to your neurologist in Denver. We want to see the environment, assess your daily routine, make sure you're getting proper care."
Luke nods. "We land at DIA at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. We'll drive straight to Cedar Falls."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, dread settling in my stomach. The full force of the Wilder clan is descending on Cedar Falls, and they're coming with stethoscopes and judgment.
"Bad news?"
Tara's voice cuts through my spiral. She's perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, wearing one of my t-shirts that falls to mid-thigh and makes me forget how to think coherently.
She was making coffee when my phone rang, but now she's watching me with that careful expression she gets when she's reading the room.
"My father and brother are flying in tomorrow," I tell her, scrubbing a hand over my face. "They think my PCS is worsening instead of getting better."
She slides off the counter, smoothing down the shirt. "Are you?"
I look at her—really look at her. The woman who's turned my world upside down in the best possible way. The woman who makes me want to be better, stronger, whole. The woman I'd fight dragons for, brain injury or no brain injury.
"I don’t know," I say finally. "With the fire… maybe."
She laughs—and the sound is like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Well," she says, moving closer with that fluid grace that always makes my breath stumble. "This should be interesting."
I catch her hand, pulling her between my knees. "Interesting is one word for it. Catastrophic might be another."
Her free hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over the stubble I forgot to shave this morning. "Hey. They love you. They're just... thorough."
"Thorough." I snort. "They're going to want to know everything. Where I've been staying, who I've been with, why I'm not under close medical supervision like a good little patient."
"And?"
"And explaining to a trauma surgeon and a military doctor why their concussed son is shacking up with a woman who has the mob after her is going to require all the charm I can muster."
Her expression shifts, a flicker of something I can't quite read. "You don't have to explain me to them."
"I want to." The words come out more intense than I intended, but they're true. "I want you to meet them. I want them to see what I see."
"Which is?"
"The woman I'm completely, irrationally, permanently gone for."
She bites her lip, that tell-tale sign that she's fighting a smile. "Even if she comes with baggage that includes designer scarves and threatening texts?"
"Especially then." I tug her closer until she's standing flush against my knees. "I want you there tomorrow. When I pick them up. I don't want to face them alone."
It's a massive ask, inviting her into the very heart of my family pressure. She doesn't hesitate.
"Okay," she says, her voice firm. "I'll be there."
In that moment, she's not someone I'm protecting. She's my partner. My ally. And the thought of facing my family with her by my side makes me feel stronger than I have in months.
"You sure? Luke's going to grill you like a hostile witness, and Dad's going to use his scary military voice."
"I've handled worse." Her smile turns wicked. "Besides, I have excellent references. Mrs. Henderson loves me."
I throw back my head and laugh, some of the tension finally easing from my shoulders. "Oh great, you're going to weaponize Mrs. Henderson against my family."
"If necessary." She's absolutely serious, and it's both terrifying and arousing. "What else should I know about them?"
"Dad's Danish-American, military background, a decorated trauma surgeon.
He doesn't do small talk, but he's fair.
Calls me Cameron." I think about how to describe the man who taught me to skate at four and perform emergency triage at fourteen.
"He's the reason I know how to stay calm under pressure. "
"And Luke?"
"Younger brother, also a trauma doctor at a Level I trauma center in Texas. He likes to act like the responsible one. Follows in Dad's footsteps. Brilliant, disciplined, everything I'm not." The old insecurity creeps in, the one I thought I'd outgrown. "The golden child of the family."
Tara's expression sharpens. "Everything you're not?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't." Her voice gets that edge it had when she was telling off the rude customer last week. "Explain it to me."
I start to deflect with humor, but something in her eyes stops me. She's not going to let me slide past this one.
"They save lives for a living," I say quietly. "I play a game. And lately, I can't even do that without my brain betraying me."
"Cam."
"I know, I know. Hockey matters, it brings joy to people, whatever. But when you're sitting across from two men who pull people back from the brink of death every day, scoring goals feels pretty trivial."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying me like she's reading the fine print I keep hidden. "What were you like as a kid?"
The subject change catches me off guard. "Smaller."
Her brows jump. "Smaller?"
"At ten, I was the half-Korean, half-sized runt on a rink full of kids built like linebackers. Parents and kids both thought they were hilarious. 'Soy sauce.' 'Too small to skate with the big boys.'"
I rub the back of my neck, surprised by how much it still stings. "It hurt.
So I learned two moves. One—make them laugh with me so they wouldn't laugh at me. Two—outwork everyone until nobody could say I didn't belong."
Her mouth presses into a thin line, like she wants to kiss the memory off my skin. "That's awful."
"It was gasoline." I shrug. "I cracked jokes so I didn’t crack skulls. Then I doubled down on the grind. If they wanted to slap a stereotype on me, fine—I’d use it as fuel.
Work harder. Hit sharper. Outlast the kids, beat the college boys, and win against half the pros.
Keep pushing even when a few pucks and elbows ring my bell. "
I try to cut it with a grin. “Guess I got good at more than blocking shots… now I’ve got PCS as a party favor.”
I meet Tara’s eyes, letting her see the part I usually keep buried. "So when my family goes full surgeon voice, it’s not just worry I hear. It’s a reminder I’ve still got something to prove. Like I’m back to being the kid fighting to earn my spot.”