Forever Pucked (14 page)

She snatches it from the end of the bed, hugging it to her chest. “I need to use the bathroom first!” She zips across the room and slams the door behind her. Which alerts me to the fact that I need to relieve myself. And getting there isn’t going to be easy with all the shit I’m hooked up to.

“Is she okay?” my dad asks.

“Yeah. I mean, it shook her up, but she’s managing okay.” At least I think she is.

“Are you okay?”

“I hurt, but that’s to be expected.” I’m downplaying it. I have to; otherwise my mom will freak out. “Did you come straight from the airport?”

My mother nods. “We would’ve been here sooner if we could have.” She adjusts my pillow and rearranges the sheets.

Her hair’s a mess. Her face is blotchy. I’m sure she’s been panicking since she saw me go down on the ice. They always watch my games, and it’s usually a pleasant evening in front of the TV. I’ve scared a lot of people.

“I’m going to be fine, Mom.”

She’s about to dispute that when Violet bursts out of the bathroom, no longer braless. “Okay, Daisy, let’s go get some snacks. Alex, you must be starving.”

I’m too hopped up on drugs to think about food, but Violet needs to take care of me, or stay busy, so I tell her whatever she gets me will be good. She links arms with my mom and pats her hand as they leave the room.

My dad waits until they’re gone before he starts with his questions. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

“Not yet, but I’m okay, Dad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Have you seen your face?”

“It can’t be too much worse than when Buck broke my nose,” I joke.

When he stands there, stoic, I know maybe it really is that bad.

“I need to take a leak.”

He taps the rail. “You want a bedpan or the bathroom?”

“I’m not pissing in a pan.”

“Bathroom it is.” He drops the rail that keeps me from falling off the bed—not that I could since I haven’t moved in hours—and uses the controls to get me into a mostly sitting position.

I groan as I ease my legs over the edge. I’ve got bruises all up my shins. There are other ones on my arms, so dark they’re almost black. Every damn muscle in my body aches. My head throbs, and my vision blurs.

“You want me to get a chair?”

“I can walk.”

“You sure about that, son?”

“I need to walk.”

My dad sighs. He’s used to my stubbornness. “Let’s give it a whirl, then.” He moves my IV stand over so I have something to hold.

I grab it and take a deep breath before I push up. It hurts like a motherfucker. There’s no limit to the discomfort: my legs, my shoulder, my face, my ribs. Pain radiates out until all I can do is breathe around the white spots in my vision and the sharp stabbing ache that makes it impossible to move.

“Alex?” My dad puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Give me a second.”

“I can get you a chair.”

“I’m just stiff. I’ve been lying down for hours.” I shuffle forward, and my stomach rolls. I’ve taken hits before. I’ve had some bruises and bumps, stitches, a couple of previous concussions—but they were nothing like this—and I’ve never broken anything, let alone multiple anythings.

I hold the IV tighter and take a few more cautious steps. Not having the use of one arm makes everything harder. My balance is off, and the aches are worse than I expected.

I grit my teeth and keep going. Ten feet seems like ten kilometers. My dad keeps his hand close to my elbow. Though if I drop, he’s not going to be able to do a damn thing to stop me. Sweat beads my forehead and drips down my back. A trip to the bathroom has never been this difficult. I finally make it to the toilet and drop onto the seat, breathing hard.

“I’ll give you some privacy and bring a chair for the trip back,” my dad says.

I don’t argue.

He closes the door, and I let my chin fall. Even that small movement causes my head to swim. I’m freaked out. I’ve never been injured this badly. I relieve myself, but I don’t think I have the energy left to get up and wash my hands. All I want to do is lie down and close my eyes.

A knock at the door reminds me I’m still sitting on the can. “Gimme a minute.”

“Do you need any help in there?”

It’s Violet. Fuck. “I’m good.”

After a pause she says, “Okay. Your dad has a chair out here, so when you’re ready I can bring it in for you.”

I definitely don’t want her to see me like this. “You can send my dad in with it.”

“O-okay.”

Muffled conversation filters through the fake-wood panel before it opens. My dad backs into the bathroom with the chair. Violet’s holding the door for him, so she ends up seeing me anyway, sitting like an asshole on the fucking toilet because getting up is too difficult. She drops her eyes and turns away, her fingers going to her mouth. Then the door closes, and it’s just me and my dad.

He’s usually an easygoing guy—mellow, doesn’t interfere much with my life and my choices—but today he seems far less passive than usual. He’s frowning, hovering. There are very few things I hate more than appearing weak, mentally or physically. Right now I feel both.

I make the move to the wheelchair. My dad flushes and pushes me over to the sink, where I finally get to see my face. I look like I’ve been in a serious fight. With a truck. Both of my eyes are black, and the stitches across the bridge of my nose are dark with blood, making it look worse than I’m sure it is. My face is swollen, not to mention bruised along the left side of my jaw.

“It was a hard hit, Alex. It took your helmet off. We were watching the game. You can stop pretending it’s not that bad.”

Well, that explains the stitches and bruised jaw. I wash the one hand I can move, focusing on my fingers. “I’m pretty fucking scared.”

He rests a palm on my shoulder. “You’re worried about your career?”

“Yeah.”

“Because of the concussion.” It’s a statement.

“I’ve never had one this bad. I keep waking up confused.” One serious concussion is manageable, maybe even a couple, but after a certain point, the stakes get higher and the residual impact becomes too risky.

“We don’t even know the extent of the damage yet, Alex, or the projected recovery time. Let’s focus on accepting that you’re not getting back on the ice next week and move forward from there.”

He’s right. I know this. But hearing it makes it more real than I want it to be. I have to hope for the best, which is quick healing and a fast recovery so I can get back in the game before the end of the season.

When my dad wheels me out of the bathroom, we find Violet and my mom having a whispered conversation. They’re both red-eyed. Violet turns when she hears the door open and comes to me, maybe with the intention of helping, but there’s nothing she can do since she can’t lift me. I manage to get my own ass into bed, but I allow her and my mom to fuss over tucking me in.

I get another dose of drugs, and then I’m back to la-la land.

-&-

I spend the next three days in the hospital. Violet refuses to leave. Charlene and my mom bring her laptop and some files so she can work, and a change of clothes—something more comfortable than jeans.

I try to tell her she can go to work—I know she’s got that proposal to prepare—but she tells me I’m more important than work, which makes me feel good and bad at the same time.

After more than seventy-two hours of observation, the doctor gives me his verdict on Sunday morning before I’m released. Violet, my dad, and my coach are with me when he gives me the rundown. The stitches in my face are the least of my worries. The dislocated shoulder is further complicated by my fractured collarbone and broken rib. I have at least four weeks before I can start any kind of rehab on my shoulder, which was already bugging me before the hit. My rib will have to stay taped for the next three weeks.

The worst part of the discussion revolves around my concussion. I still have no recall of the events leading up to the hit, or anything that happened afterward.

The first memories that have really stayed with me since the injury are when I woke up with Violet in the hospital bed with me, and even that’s hazy. They want to monitor my brain activity closely over the next several weeks, testing for residual impact, I guess. It makes me nervous.

Even if I end up progressing quickly with rehab, which is beginning to sound unlikely, I’m still looking at a good month of sitting on my ass before I can start real training. After that, it’ll be another four to six weeks before I can get back on the ice. It’s already mid-March. Unless we can maintain a solid winning streak, we don’t have much of a chance at the playoffs this year.

Which means I’m out for the rest of the season.

With only three years left on my contract, this kind of injury could change a lot. And not in a good way.

I turned twenty-six recently. While hockey careers are short, I never imagined mine being over already. I figured I’d have at least another five years before I have to make decisions on what’s next. I’ve been planning, but nothing immediate. I assumed Violet and I would have started a family by the time my hockey-playing days were over. We’d have a couple babies, maybe with more on the way.

I’m happy to hang out and be a dad for a few years, take some down time—by then Violet might be working from home, if at all, so we can travel and just enjoy life. Then I’ll get into coaching, if that’s something that feels right. Why did I make millions of dollars to keep working my ass off if I don’t have to?

But that’s all supposed to be later, years from now. I’m not ready to slow down yet.

I’m quiet as I listen to the doctor talk, nodding and agreeing when he sets up what will be a period of rest, followed by a fairly rigorous rehabilitative regime beginning several weeks from now. But my mind is racing, and all I can think about is how hard I worked to get here, and how one hit could take it all away.

Violet grips my hand, her throat bobbing as she swallows thickly. I squeeze back, and she looks at me. Her smile is weak and tears hang heavy on her lashes. Her fear is my own.

I hope this season is the only thing I’m going to lose.

Full House

VIOLET

Once we know Alex is out of the proverbial woods, he gets to come home on Sunday. Robbie goes to the airport once Alex is released so he can make his meetings Monday morning. I’m not sure what those meetings entail other than talking about weed, since his job is to research and perfect medical strains of marijuana, but it seems necessary for him to be there.

Daisy stays, settling in a guest bedroom. She loves to cook, and she loves to dote on Alex, so she’s totally in her element. I’m not used to Alex needing to be taken care of.

He’s typically self-sufficient. If anything, it’s me who gets doted on most of the time. Alex wakes up early some mornings to make me breakfast and coffee. He’s the one who makes sure groceries are added to the list when we’re running low. With him out of commission, that’s going to fall on me. Am I a little indulged? Yup. But Alex likes it that way. And honestly, I like it, too, probably more than I should. I’ve never been with someone who takes care of me the way he does.

But that’s not to say I can’t do it when I have to. Growing up without a dad for all those years meant me and my mom had to manage on our own. We were fine. She had a good job, and I never really longed for anything. I mean, obviously I didn’t get the pet pony, but if there were ever financial issues I didn’t know about them. She and I worked together and got things done.

Then Sidney came along in my late teens, and our lifestyle changed significantly. We moved into a bigger house. I inherited an annoying stepbrother. Buck was only around for about six months before he was drafted, and even before then, he was always at hockey practice, “studying” in his bedroom with one of his tutors, or out with his hockey friends.

I spent my time taking extra classes and studying with my nerdy friends, or working a part-time job at an accounting firm, because even in high school I liked working with numbers.

I’m a long way from my self-reliant roots at this point, so having Daisy here as an observer to my lackluster housekeeping skills is concerning. Our relationship started out tumultuously, and while things are much better than they were, Alex will always be her baby, and I’ll always be the woman who took him away from her.

Add to that the presentation for the Darcy account, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have some kind of breakdown soon. Mr. Stroker is obviously giving me some leniency, and we’re postponing the meeting until the end of the week. I hope by then Alex is settled and things are less insane.

Anyway, the presentation is good to go. I uploaded it to the shared account at work so Charlene could review it, and I sent it to Stroker, who gave it the thumbs up, apart from minor tweaks. However, despite being ready, I’m still in no state to present a multimillion-dollar portfolio. As important as this job might be, I need to be home with Alex. And I need sleep and a seriously long shower.

Once we’re in the house, Daisy decides we need groceries, which is true. I haven’t been home at all since the game four days ago, so our leftovers are less than fresh, and the vegetables are wilty according to Daisy’s standards. She helps herself to the keys to my car, and off she goes.

I’ll take private time with Alex since I haven’t had any for the past few days. A nurse or doctor seemed to be constantly popping by the room to check on him, which made for more than one almost-embarrassing moments.

The hit Alex took scares me more than I let on—or at least more than I’ve let on since my initial freakout when it happened. I’m afraid not just because he got hurt, but because there’s no guarantee that was the last time. If he gets injured that badly again, his career is done, and I don’t know how well Alex will handle that.

More than that, I can’t stop worrying about how different things could be if his injuries were more severe—and they’re already pretty damn bad. He might have amazing medical coverage and lots of money, but life can change in an instant with a head injury. What if Alex wasn’t Alex anymore after this? I try not to think about it as I climb the stairs to our bedroom. I want to cheer him up, be a comfort not a burden.