Chapter Thirteen
JACK
Five days after Mason's surgery, Dr. Juneau finally discharged him.
Although she'd already warned us repeatedly that the muscles surrounding his hip would continue healing long after the incision itself looked healthy, she seemed satisfied with every examination she performed that morning.
His concussion symptoms had resolved completely, the surgical wound looked exactly as she'd hoped, and the physical therapist declared he was walking well enough to continue rehabilitation outside the hospital.
The moment she handed Mason his discharge papers, the restlessness that had been building inside him since the second day after surgery disappeared beneath obvious relief.
Hospitals served a purpose but they weren't places anyone wanted to stay longer than absolutely necessary.
Watching the orderly wheel Mason through the hospital's main entrance felt strangely symbolic.
Less than a week earlier I'd followed the same path behind his stretcher, terrified I might never hear him laugh again.
Now the automatic doors opened onto bright autumn sunshine as the orderly stopped beside my car.
Mason stood carefully, thanked him, and eased himself into the passenger seat.
I climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, and glanced across at him.
He was going home.
The university had already approved temporary changes to our accommodation after Dad explained Mason couldn't realistically manage alone during the early stages of recovery without doing further damage.
My belongings had been transferred into his dorm room while we were still at the hospital, leaving only the small task of unpacking them once we arrived back on campus.
It felt strangely natural seeing my clothes hanging beside his and my medical textbooks sharing shelf space with hockey manuals and kinesiology texts.
Neither of us mentioned how significant the arrangement actually was.
We simply accepted it as another step that made perfect sense.
The following morning brought another farewell none of us particularly wanted.
Richard and Victoria had delayed returning to Florida for as long as their professional responsibilities allowed, but Richard had a corporate merger worth hundreds of millions of dollars waiting for his attention, while Victoria already had operating lists filled with patients whose surgeries had been scheduled months in advance.
Neither wanted to leave Spokane, yet both knew their son no longer needed frightened parents sitting beside a hospital bed throughout the night.
Mason was healing well, surrounded by people who cared deeply about him, and under the care of doctors they trusted completely.
Even so, saying goodbye wasn't easy.
Victoria held Mason carefully for several long moments before stepping back just far enough to study his face, reminding him for what felt like the tenth time that following instructions during recovery mattered far more than returning to hockey as quickly as possible.
Richard was little different. His advice carried fewer words, but the concern behind every one of them was unmistakable.
They'd spent almost a week watching their only child fight through surgery and recovery.
Leaving him behind, even knowing he was improving every day, went against every parental instinct they possessed.
Before climbing into the waiting town car, Richard turned his attention toward me.
The gratitude in his expression appeared long before I unlocked my phone.
I'll look after him. I promise.
He read the screen before resting one hand firmly against my shoulder.
"I know you will."
Victoria nodded in agreement.
"We couldn't leave him in better hands."
I swallowed against the unexpected emotion tightening my throat.
I'll video call every couple of days so you can see how he's doing yourselves.
The relief on both their faces answered before either of them spoke.
"We'd like that very much," Victoria admitted quietly.
Corey stood a few steps behind them, his backpack already slung over one shoulder.
Unlike Richard and Victoria, he wasn't returning to work.
Engineering lectures waited for him back in Florida, and after missing almost a week of classes, he couldn't reasonably stay any longer. He also had hockey to get back to.
The awkwardness that had surrounded us after Mason came out to him had disappeared completely during the days we'd spent together at the hospital, replaced once again by the easy friendship I'd always suspected existed beneath the shock and hurt.
Corey hugged Mason carefully, taking obvious care not to jar his healing hip.
"No more ending up in hospital."
Mason grinned.
"I'll do my best."
"See that you do."
He stepped back before turning to me.
"Look after him."
You don't have to tell me twice.
"No...I don't."
We stood together watching the town car with all three inside disappear beyond the line of trees bordering the campus road until it finally vanished from sight. Only then did Mason let out a long breath.
"I hate goodbyes."
I slipped my fingers through his and squeezed gently.
They're only a video call away.
"I know."
Life gradually settled into a routine neither of us had expected.
Every morning began with Mason's rehabilitation exercises before either of us headed to class.
Between lectures I still reported to the arena, checking the ice plant, preparing the Zamboni, and resurfacing the ice before afternoon practices exactly as I'd done since I was fifteen.
Dad had offered to find somebody else until life settled down, but the familiar routine gave me something solid to hold onto when everything else seemed to be changing.
By the time practice finished each evening, Mason and I would make another slow circuit of the campus because Dr. Juneau insisted gentle walking would rebuild both his strength and confidence.
He complained constantly that everybody treated him as though he might shatter without warning, yet the frustration never stopped him completing every exercise exactly as prescribed.
Beneath every complaint sat the same determination that made him such an exceptional hockey player.
If recovering demanded discipline, then discipline was exactly what he intended to give it.
The only disagreements between us had nothing to do with rehabilitation.
They happened whenever Mason decided feeling better automatically meant we could resume the physical side of our relationship.
More than once he pulled me down beside him on the bed after we'd finished studying, his kisses growing steadily more persuasive as his fingers wandered beneath my shirt.
Every instinct inside me wanted to forget the surgeon's instructions and simply lose myself in him, yet the image of Dr. Juneau explaining exactly what another injury could do to the repaired muscles around his hip remained impossible to ignore.
Each time I stopped us and each time he protested.
One evening, after I redirected another increasingly enthusiastic kiss into nothing more adventurous than holding him in my arms, he leaned back against the headboard with an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
"You know my hip isn't connected to my mouth."
I grinned.
I'm aware of that.
"So why do I get the feeling you've appointed yourself guardian of my virtue?"
I reached for his hand before answering.
Because I love you too much to risk hurting you.
The teasing disappeared from his face immediately.
For several quiet moments he simply watched me before intertwining his fingers with mine.
"I love you too."
He leaned forward and kissed me again, slower this time, every bit as meaningful as anything we'd shared before his injury. Sometimes loving someone meant knowing exactly where to stop.
Three weeks passed more quickly than either of us realized, bringing us back to Providence Sacred Heart for Mason's next review with Dr. Juneau.
After examining his hip, watching him walk, and assessing his strength, she finally cleared him to begin slow skating as part of his rehabilitation, making it abundantly clear that skating wasn't hockey and wouldn't become hockey for several more weeks.
While Mason followed the physical therapist toward the rehabilitation gym to discuss the next stage of his recovery, I found myself standing alone outside the elevator, staring at the illuminated numbers above the doors.
One floor higher, Dr. Nathaniel Kershaw was waiting. My appointment had arrived.
The elevator carried me one floor above the rehabilitation department before the doors opened onto the Otolaryngology Clinic.
Although I'd completed part of a clinical rotation there only months earlier, everything felt completely different now.
I'd walked those same corridors as a medical student eager to absorb knowledge from experienced surgeons. Today I wasn't there to learn.
I was there because I was a patient.
That single difference transformed everything.
Dr. Juneau, Caroline as she insisted I call her when we weren’t working, met me outside the reception area exactly as she'd promised.
She wasn't working that morning, nor did she have any professional reason to be there beyond supporting me as a friend.
She'd rearranged her schedule without hesitation when I finally confessed I was willing to hear what Dr. Kershaw had to say.
She understood this appointment had nothing to do with medicine. It had become personal.
"You don't have to do this if you've changed your mind," she said quietly as we waited for the receptionist to finish updating my file.
I'm frightened.
"I know."
I almost turned around twice before coming upstairs.
She nodded as though she'd expected exactly that answer.
"Being scared doesn't mean you're making the wrong decision."