The antiseptic smell hits me the second I’m wheeled through the hospital doors, sharp and sterile, like every bad memory I’ve tried to keep locked away. My knee throbs in time with my heartbeat, not unbearable but bad enough to keep me biting the inside of my cheek every time the gurney jostles. The nurse chirps something about “minor injury, let’s just confirm with imaging,” but I only half-hear her.
Because Phoenix is right there.
Hovering.
He insisted on taking me to urgent care himself, telling the coach to call my family and have them meet us at the hospital. Phoenix just about carried me to his car and made me ice my knee the whole ride.
If the staff is annoyed by him being practically glued to my side, they don’t show it. He’s carrying my bag like it weighs nothing, jaw tight, eyes scanning the hallway like he’s personally going to punch out every obstacle between here and the exam room.
“You can sit in the waiting area,” the nurse tells him once I’m rolled into a curtained bay.
“No, I’ll stay. Thanks.” His voice is low, final, carrying that authority that makes people back off.
I roll my eyes. “Phoenix, I’m not having open-heart surgery.”
His gaze flicks to me, sharp but edged with something I can’t name. Worry. “You went down hard on the ice. You’re not shrugging this off with a sarcastic smile.”
“Don’t act like you’re my mom,” I mutter, pulling at the blanket over my legs.
He smirks, but it’s tight, like he’s holding something back. “Then stop acting like a kid who thinks he’s invincible.”
The nurse coughs gently, like she’s reminding us both this is neither the time nor the place. Phoenix finally steps back, but he doesn’t sit down. He just folds those broad arms across his chest and stares at me like he can will my kneecap to knit itself back together faster.
When the doctor arrives, Phoenix beats me to speaking.
“What’s the damage? Is it ligament, tendon? What’s his recovery time? Will he need crutches?”
The doctor raises a brow, glancing between us. “You’re…?”
“Teammate,” Phoenix says quickly. But the word hangs there like it doesn’t quite cover it.
The doctor turns her attention back to me. “Alright, well Mister…”
“Cameron,” I say. “And I’m fine. Really. Just a bruise, maybe.”
Phoenix makes a low sound in his throat, skeptical.
“Let’s confirm,” the doctor says. She examines my knee with careful pressure, asking me to bend, straighten, and rotate. It hurts, but its not unbearable. After a set of X-rays and what feels like a year of waiting, she returns with her verdict.
“Good news: no fractures, no torn ligaments. It’s a contusion with some strain. You’ll need to stay off it for about two weeks—no skating, no training. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Crutches to help you move around.”
Phoenix exhales like he’s just been told I survived a car crash. He immediately launches into a flurry of questions. “What kindof brace? Should he sleep with it elevated? How much weight can he put on it? Any pain management besides NSAIDs?”
I stare at him, equal parts exasperated and… something else. “You know, if you ever get tired of hockey, you’d make an excellent nurse.”
That earns me a side-eye glare, but his shoulders don’t relax. He keeps pressing the doctor until she reassures him twice more that this isn’t career-ending, just inconvenient. When the doctor leaves, the silence settles heavily between us. Phoenix is still standing by my bed like he’s guarding the perimeter.
I tilt my head at him, smirking despite the ache in my knee. “So, what color minivan are you buying for your new role? I think soccer moms usually go with gray.”
That almost cracks him. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting back a grin, but he refuses to give me the satisfaction. Instead, he steps closer, lowering his voice so no one outside the curtain can overhear. “You could’ve been seriously hurt. And Jax—” His jaw flexes hard. “He was taking after me. I’m sorry.”
Guilt shadows his face for a split second, but then it’s gone, replaced by something sharper. I don’t want him to feel like that. It’s not his fault that Jax doesn’t know how to play fair.
I let out a laugh, but it’s softer this time, not cruel. “It’s alright, Locke. What I want to know is since when are you the expert on rehab protocols? You rattled off brace types and elevation like you’ve got a degree in physical therapy.”
Some of the steel in his posture melts away at that. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing. “I practically do. Been in and out of hospitals since I was twelve. Concussions, torn shoulder, broken ribs—you name it. You spend enough time strapped to machines, you pick up what works and what’s bullshit.”
There’s a weight in his voice that makes me pause. It’s not just bragging but experience carved into him.
