Sometimes falling in love happens in a split second, like a lightning bolt. And sometimes, it grows on you like facial hair, covering all available space over time, and before you realize it, you’re a hairy bastard, head over heels in love with your rival.
So when I stumble out of the rink into the night air having barely taken off my skates and pads, I’m lost. I can’t drive myself, my hands are shaking, my legs are weak, and my head is swimming with so many fucking thoughts I can’t even think straight.
A horn honks, drawing my attention to the road. Scott’s there, window down, leaning toward me. “Get in, Prince Charming.”
I don’t have the bandwidth to bite back. He must have been watching the game, seen the hit on Xavier, and come straight for me. My heart flexes, but it’s heavy, sore, and threatening to combust. My lungs are tight, my vocal cords stretched, and I can’t do anything but nod, throw my body into the passenger seat, and slam the door.
We ride in silence to the hospital. I sit staring out thewindow as the lights and buildings blur by. Scott knows me. He knows I’m in my head and nothing he says right now will pull me out, so he stays quiet. There’s a comfort there, a reassurance. He’s not trying to fill me with false hope and bullshit platitudes.
My phone vibrates in the pocket of my sweats, I know without looking it’s Valentina. My chest tightens. How the fuck do I talk to his mom when I don’t have any answers to give her? I can’t lie to her voice, but I can lie with my silence.
Ignoring the call, I open a group chat with both our moms and take the coward’s way instead.
Artemis: On my way to the hospital, will update ASAP.
It hits me, briefly and stupidly, that this is what real family shit looks like. Not PR statements, not carefully curated updates, just… showing up and offering a lifeline.
Valentina hearts the message, so does Mamá. I ignore the other messages, the group chat texts from my siblings, from Xavier’s siblings, from my former teammates. Cedar Rapids may not be a small town, but news travels every bit as quickly as if it were. Everyone knows. A, that he got hurt, and B, that I left the game.
Scott clears his throat as we pull into a parking space at the hospital. “Look.” He turns to me, his expression severe. “Jokes aside, I don’t know what we’re walking into in there. But whatever it is, we’ll face it together. Okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before he reaches across and takes my hand, giving me a squeeze. For a second, I almost pull back. Pride mixes with panic, something uncomfortable flooding my veins. I’m the one who provides comfort, I don’t take it. But something inside me tells me to let him hold on.
“You know the game. Concussion protocol, CT scan, mild is up to two weeks out, and you work up from there.” Hisvoice is firm, factual, and steady. “They stabilized his neck fast, if it’s something worse than concussion, then we deal with it, okay?”
My silence makes him squeeze my hand again. “Okay?” He’s right. Xavier needs me to be calm and positive right now, not a raging bull in a hospital. I take a beat. I force slow, steadying breaths to course through my body as we step out into the cold, into the unknown—the place I hate the most—and make our way into the ER.
I’m really starting to hate hospitals. After Apollo and Edith’s accident, the waiting was the worst. Here and now, waiting for Xavier to get treatment, it brings everything rushing back in waves.
Especially when the cavalry arrives.
Apollo and Athena burst into the waiting room like it’s me they’re waiting for news on. Ares is still at the game. Unlike me, he didn’t abandon his post. But despite the sliver of guilt under my fingernails, I don’t regret coming here for one single second.
It takes forever. My phone is red hot with messages, and my patience is fraying so fast I might deck the next nurse or doctor who blows me off, but eventually, I’m allowed in to see my boyfriend.
My stomach tries to crawl up my throat as I push the door open. He’s sitting propped up in the bed, eyes closed, shirtless, and hooked up to a few machines that appear to be keeping tabs on his—still beating—heart.
Whoever was outside told me they did a CT on his brain and his spine, but they’ve also done a series of other tests because his head wasn’t the only thing he hit. Dark bruises have already started blossoming under his skin. He’s had X-rays, an MRI?—
“Are you going to stand and scowl at me all night or areyou going to get your ass over here?” His voice filling the air threatens to buckle my legs from underneath me.
I stumble forward, barely catching myself on the bed before I collapse into the chair next to him and cradle his hand between both of mine. He’s alive. Relief douses me like a flash flood. I knew he was alive, no one said otherwise, but seeing it, hearing it, feeling it makes all the difference.
“I have a separated shoulder.” His words are slow, heavy with what I’m sure is medication. If he has a concussion, well, drug options are limited to the not-good shit, acetaminophen or Toradol. Not bad, but also not as good as it could be, especially when you’re battling blinding pain in every corner of your head.
“Type two, maybe type three, I need ortho to come have a look at all the scans they took. So far, they say there’s a complete tear of my AC ligaments and a sprain, or partial tear, of the CC ligaments. In layman’s terms, it’s tender as hell and swollen to shit. But I likely won’t need surgery.”
A relieved breath snakes through my lips. We can deal with a separated shoulder, it’s a hazard of the game. Been there, done that. A couple times in fact. I think we all have at one stage or another. “Sling, ice, NSAIDs, physical therapy, and not lifting anything heavier than your ego for a few months after it’s healed.” I bring his hand to my mouth, careful not to dislodge the IV in the back of his hand and kiss his knuckles one at a time.
He squeezes back, careful, like he’s matching my caution with his own.
Medical teams almost always start an IV for sports-trauma cases where they anticipate imaging, pain management, or possible deterioration. Even if they don’t give meds, they want IV access justin case. So why is the fact he’s got something so standard sticking out of his hand needling me even worse than the contraption embedded in his skin?
“I might have a fractured collar bone, but it could also just be a smudge on the x-ray.” He purses his lips. “And they need someone more senior in smudge reading to be sure.”
“Then we’ll just be patient and wait for someone who can decode smudges.” I try to inject some levity into my voice, but I don’t think I’m successful.
He nods. “I love it when you play nurse. You’re so sexy when you’re smoldering and worried.”
