Chapter 6
Chapter Six
BLUE
Consciousness returns in pieces.
First, sound muffled through walls, the distant roar of eighteen thousand people, the blare of faraway buzzers and music.
Then, the sensation of movement, wheels beneath me, smooth on slick concrete.
When I creak open my lids, the fluorescent lights overhead blur into white streaks, each one a tiny spike stabbing into my eyes.
I try to lift my head to see where I am.
Bad idea.
The horizon pitches and fresh pain throbs through my skull.
“Easy, man,” a soft male voice murmurs, close and low. “You took one hell of a hit. Take it easy until we see what the doc says.”
I let my skull settle back against the gurney, blinking up at Dean, who’s keeping pace beside me.
“Thanks for the escort,” I croak.
Dean’s blue eyes crinkle at the edges. “Of course. We injured old fogeys have to stick together. I’m benched until next week anyway. Happy to have something to do besides sit the bench and feel useless.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Just try to relax. We’ll be in medical soon.”
I try, but the padding beneath me is thin. I can feel every vertebra in my spine rattling, and my shoulder throbs where I hit the boards. But it’s my head that’s the real problem, a deep ache that pulses deeper when I risk a glance back to thank the guy pushing me up the ramp to the medical wing.
He keeps going all the way to the end, parking me in an exam room that smells like iodine. The walls are white, the cabinets white, everything so pristine it makes me wince.
Dean turns down the glare with the dimmer switch and thanks the medic before settling into a plastic chair in the corner, proving he’s a real one.
It’s his second year with the Voodoo, but I didn’t get a chance to know him well last year. He’s a family man and was understandably too busy with his wife and small children for socializing outside of practice.
Though I suppose he might have more time for that now, after the divorce…
He sighs, shaking his head. “What a dirty fucker that guy is.”
“Blaine?” I ask, my voice still rough. “Is that his name? The guy who hit me?”
“Blaze,” he corrects, rolling his eyes. “His real name is Ronny Blazer, but he thinks he’s cool enough to pull off a nickname like Blaze.”
“No one’s that cool,” I rasp. “Blaze is not cool.”
Dean’s lips twitch. “Right? What an idiot. But yeah, he lit you up. Dirty hit all the way. The ref kicked him out, but that doesn’t—”
“Hey there, Archer. I’m Dr. Lyle, good to meet you.
” The doc breezes into the room, pumping hand sanitizer from the dispenser on the wall before crossing to my side.
I’ve heard she’s a good egg, the new doc on call for injuries at the home games, but I’ve never needed her services before.
She’s a tiny thing, nearly as tiny as Bea, but blonde, with sharp green eyes that catalogue every inch of me in the time it takes to rub the liquid across her skin.
“Tell me what you’re feeling. Head pain? Eye pain? Nausea?”
I take inventory. “Head pain. Maybe seven out of ten. Eyes are okay as long as it’s not too bright. A little nausea when the gurney was moving, but better now. Shoulder and jaw hurt, too, but nothing serious, I don’t think.”
“Good. That sounds promising.” She pulls a penlight from her pocket. “Follow this with your eyes, for me? Try not to move your head, just eyes.”
I flinch as the light hits my retina, but the pain fades quickly, and I manage to follow the pen. My head isn’t happy about it, but I manage.
“Very good.” She clicks the pen off and tucks it away before taking my hands in her smaller ones. “Squeeze my hands? Try to keep the pressure even if you can.”
I grip her slim fingers and squeeze. The pressure must be fairly equal, because her nod is once again encouraging.
“Any numbness?” she asks, massaging my fingers from base to tip. Her touch is soothing, grounding, proving she’s got healer energy in addition to her years of schooling. “Tingling? Pins and needles?”
“No.”
“Vision changes? Seeing double?”
I blink again. “No. Like I said, bright light hurts a little, but when it’s dimmer, I feel fine.”
Her lips quirk. “I’m sure you don’t feel fine, but you’re a trooper.
And so far, things don’t look too bad. I’m going to order a CT scan to rule out a few things, but based on what I’m seeing, I’m guessing you’ve got a concussion.
Mild to moderate. We’ll know more after imaging.
I’ll see if the hospital has something available tonight. ”
Moderate. Fuck. That would mean weeks on the bench.
I don’t feel that bad…do I?
“The pain is easing some already,” I offer. “That wouldn’t be the case if it were moderate, would it?’
She quirks a brow that says she sees straight through my bargaining stage of grief. “We’ll see what the scan shows and go from there.” She moves to the cabinets, pulling out supplies. “In the meantime, I need blood work. Standard protocol.”
The needle is thin, the tourniquet tight. I watch the vials fill—one, two, three—deep red against clear plastic. I think that color red is good, but she doesn’t comment as she gathers the vials in a small pouch and scribbles my name on the front.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, okay? And hopefully I’ll have more info on the scan.” Dr. Lyle smiles as she aims a warning finger my way. “In the meantime, no standing, no walking, no interpretive dance. And if he vomits, sound the alarm immediately, okay, Dean?”
Dean gives her a sharp salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll watch him like a hawk.”
“Excellent.” She pauses at the door, her expression softening as she adds, “I’m glad to see you in such relatively good shape, Archer. That was a hell of a hit.” She wrinkles her nose. “Fuck that guy.”
Dean snorts, and I give an approving thumbs up.
“She’s a real one,” he says as her footsteps fade down the hall.
“And she’s got connections. She had me booked for an MRI on my shoulder the day I fucked it up before I left practice.
She’ll sweet-talk the hospital into giving you the star treatment.
You’ll be in and out in fifteen minutes and on your way home before they finish the press interviews. ”
I sigh. “That’s good.”
“It is good,” he insists. “And she’s right, you’re lucky. Blaze was out for blood.”
“I guess,” I say. “Though I have no idea why. I didn’t cross any lines.”
“You don’t have to with him. He’s petty as hell.” Dean pauses before adding,
“Being on my team was probably enough. We have history. Played on the same minor league team for a year and…” He exhales a soft laugh. “He actually dated Frederica before I did. They were together for almost a year.”
“Wow. Hard to imagine.” I didn’t know his ex-wife well, but she seemed like a classy woman.
Way too classy for a guy who named himself Blaze and feels good about that decision.
“Yeah. Hard for me too,” Dean agrees. “I actually hesitated to ask her out because of it.” He stretches his neck to one side, rubbing at the muscle at the base.
“I couldn’t believe she was that clueless about who Ronny was.
She said it was like a fog lifted after the breakup.
Suddenly, she woke up one morning, mortified that she hadn’t seen through him from the beginning. ”
Post-relationship clarity.
I know the feeling. But when my fog cleared, I was the one with “dumbass” scrawled across my forehead in big red letters.
I make a mental note to send Beatrice another text, communicating my awareness of what a dumbass I am, as Dean adds, “Not that it matters now.” He drags a hand through his sandy brown hair. “I wonder what she’s telling the new guy about me? What she’s ‘woken up’ to this time?”
“I’m sorry,” I say gently. “About you and Frederica.”
“Yeah. It sucks, but it’s mostly settled.
” The words are heavy. Final. “We got the judgment in July. Now I only see my kids on the weekends. I don’t know what I’m going to do now that the season’s started, when we have away games on a Saturday or Sunday.
” He sighs. “At first, my ex seemed willing to tweak the visitation schedule, but now, I’m not…
” He trails off with an embarrassed huff.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, Blue. I shouldn’t be talking about this shit.
Your head is about to explode. The last thing you need is more drama. ”
“It’s not drama.” I push gingerly into a seated position, waving Dean off when he insists that I should stay put until the doc gets back.
“I’m fine. Really. It feels good to sit up.
And like I said, it’s not drama, it’s your life.
It sounds like things have been hard. We can talk about it if you want.
I’ve got two ears and nothing to do for the next however many minutes. ”
He shakes his head with a more genuine laugh. “Stop it, man. You have a head injury. You don’t have to be a good friend right now.”
“I know. I want to be. It helps me feel better about all the times I’ve been a shitty one.”
His brows shoot up. “No way. I don’t believe it. You? You’re practically a saint. The whole team thinks so.”
I shrug. “I lost someone recently, too. I was a bad friend to her, and I don’t know if I’ll get a chance to make it right. It feels good to even the scales in other ways. Work on my karma.”
“Yeah, I feel that,” Dean agrees. The silence stretches for a moment before he adds, “That’s the hard part about getting older, isn’t it?
Realizing that one wrong step, one bad stroke of luck, and it just…
It can all go to shit. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers, the sound echoing off the bare walls.
“And you might not have the chance to fix it. It might be unfixable.”
I don’t reply. I don’t need to.
Dean and I are obviously on the same page.