I understand immediately. In a mass casualty event, sometimes you do what you have to do. Protocol is secondary to saving lives.
“Okay,” I say, shifting into crisis mode. The exhaustion evaporates, replaced by sharp focus. “Triage. Everyone who can walk on their own, send them to the waiting room. Serious injuries, bring them straight back. We’ll sort them by severity.”
Coach Ramirez nods and starts barking orders at his team. The hockey players move with surprising coordination, following my directions without question. They’re used to taking orders, I realize. It shows in every movement.
I’m directing a player carrying a woman with a head wound toward Exam Room 3 when I notice one of the hockey players limping badly. He’s tall, probably six feet or more, with dark brown hair that falls across his forehead in messy waves. His head is covered with a baseball hat. Even exhausted and injured, he moves with a kind of fluid grace that catches my attention.
“You,” I call out, pointing at him. “I need to look at that leg.”
He turns, and I get my first clear look at him. Lean muscle wrapped in that dark blue uniform, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. His face is all sharp angles and strong lines, a jaw that could cut glass. But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. Amber. The color of honey held up to sunlight, bright and intense even under the harsh fluorescent lights.
For just a second, something flickers in those eyes. Something that makes my breath catch.
Then he frowns. “I don’t need your help,” he says, his voice unbothered. “There are people who actually need treatment.”
Coach Ramirez appears beside him so fast it startles me. He grabs the player by the back of his shirt, leaning in to whisper something I’m not meant to hear.
But I do hear it. Just barely.
“No pack healers available at this time.”
Pack healers? What the hell does that mean? Is that what they call their team doctor? Does their team even have a doctor?
The player stiffens. “Coach, I’m fine. I can wait until we get back.”
“Now, Wolfe.” There’s steel in Ramirez’s voice. Not a suggestion but a command.
The player’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. He glares at me, and I scoff. As if treating him is supposed to be the highlight of my day.
But he gives in, following me to an empty exam room with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to the gallows.
I point to the exam table. “Sit.”
He does, moving stiffly. Now that I’m closer, I can see the blood seeping through his uniform pants, the fabric torn and darkened around his left thigh.
I grab gloves and supplies, my hands moving on autopilot through familiar motions. “I need you to take off your pants.”
“Buy me dinner first,” he drawls.
I don’t even look up. “Funny. Pants. Off. Now.”
He mutters something under his breath but complies, standing to peel the uniform pants down his legs. His thighs are muscular, dusted with dark hair, and there’s a vicious gash running along his left quadricep. Blood wells from the wound, fresh and bright.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “You’ve been walking on this?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s deep. You probably need stitches.” I clean the wound, working quickly. He doesn’t even flinch, which is strange because this should hurt like hell. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
The bleeding should have slowed more by now. I press gauze against the gash, applying pressure. He watches me work with those unsettling amber eyes, his expression unreadable.
“You must be falling over yourself,” he says suddenly, a sneer curling his lips. “Being in the presence of Grayson Wolfe.”
I glance up at him with a blank look. “Who?”
His eyes narrow. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”
