I roll my eyes. “What about your brain?”
He blinks at me. “What brain?”
The joke shouldn’t be funny, but grief-adjacent panic makes everything a little hysterical. He chuckles at his own joke. “Concussion protocol.”
I nod, frustration knotting my muscles. We’ve all lived through concussions and relatively minor injuries. They’re painful, time consuming, but they’re not life threatening. My irritation is that he’s fucking hurting at all. I want to take it from him, to reach into his body and wrap my fist around his pain and yank it out by the root.
“Rest, no screens, bright lights, or loud spaces. Short and supervised walks. Hydration, good protein intake, and most importantly, listen to your body.” I smile at him. “And your boyfriend.”
“I never saw that last one on the leaflet.” After a quick beat of silence, his eyes scan my face. “The fact you’re here means you left the game.”
I nod, unsure of how to answer without falling apart.
“That’s going to come back and bite you.”
I hitch a shoulder. “Let it. This is more important.You’remore important.” It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said out loud, and the animal in my chest rattles the bars of its cage to punctuate my sentence.
His eyes flutter closed with a faint smile ghosting his lips and his chest rising and falling in measured, even breaths.While I know I need to update everyone, I can’t help but watch him breathing, letting his intake of oxygen settle something deep inside my bones.
Without letting go of his hand, I work my phone out of my pants pocket and drop into the joint family group chat. I type out a quick update. Valentina has three sons and a daughter who play hockey, she knows as well as I do that panicking and dropping her life to run every time one of them gets hurt would quickly become an expensive pastime.
I snap a selfie with Xavi in the background to attach to the message. Concussion, shoulder, clavicle, breathing, bruised, and needing quiet and rest. The not-so-subtle undercurrent there being: don’t invade this hospital room unless your life depends on it.
He needs quiet. He needs space. He needs me. In that order.
Next, I send a similar update, same selfie to my former teammates. And the message I attach with it is a little harder to write.
Artemis: I’m guessing some of you probably know, or suspect, but Xavier and I are together. I know it’s not ideal because he’s a smelly wolf, and he’s the enemy, but in all ways that count most he’s on my side. And I’m on his.
I was sure anxiety would twist in my gut like a serpent when I sent it, but instead, all I feel is relief, a peace weaving through my muscles as I watch Xavier rest.
It’s not coming out to my entire current team, that’ll have to wait for now, but it’s a start, and it feels right and long fucking overdue. I’m not leaving this room. Not until he opens his eyes again—and not after, either.
CHAPTER 44
Xavier
Everything hurts and I’m dying.
At least, I think I’m dying.
There’s a drummer beating a constant rhythm in my head. I don’t dare risk opening my eyes in case it gets worse. I come back to myself in pieces. Fractured glimpses of memory.
Unfortunately, I’m still in the hospital. They kept me overnight for observation. Most of the time, they kick us handsome, burly hockey players—who lost consciousness on the ice—out after a few hours, twelve, max.
We get released into the wild with a responsible adult to make sure we don’t die overnight in our sleep, then we’re called back after 48-72 hours to get looked over. But when the aforementioned burly, and devilishly handsome hockey player pukes twice in front of nurses, and got a little confused with his words, apparently, they keep you in.
It didn’t help that my boyfriend already called it and threatened to lie to the nurses about my symptoms to get them to keep an eye on me overnight. He didn’t have to say a word, though, the projectile vomit spoke for itself.
A snuffly snore next to me prompts me to crack one of my eyes open, just a little, enough to see my slumbering ice prince lying on top of my hand.
Warmth rushes through me.He stayed.And dios mío… he looks fucking wrecked.I don’t know what that does to me, but it’s monumental.
On the other side of the room, hushed voices make it hard not to smile.
“They’re so fucking cute together.” It’s Artemis’s sister Athena.
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” I think it’s Scott’s amused voice that answers.
