Page 77 of Body Check

She looks beautiful, even with her dark hair pulled back into a lopsided ponytail, and her makeup smeared all over her face. She stayed all night. She stayed by my side for as long as they’d let her, and now she’s here again.

And I know, it’s not because she’s my patient advocate. She’s here because of what we share, and I don’t take that for granted.

Slowly, she stirs, and her eyes blink open a few times. She focuses on me, and a wide smile splits her face.

“You’re awake,” she says. Unfolding herself from the couch, she comes to my side, smoothing my hair back again. She’s never done it as much as she has in the last twelve hours, but I can’t deny how much I like it.

“Mm. Come here.” I reach for her until her hand lands in mine, and I tug her down to meet me for a closed-mouth kiss. The inside of my mouth is sleep-sour, and I won’t subject her to it.

Amelia pulls back, her hand cupping my face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better, now.” I scoot over in the uncomfortable hospital bed as much as I can. “Come sit.”

She pauses.

“Please. I need you.” My voice breaks.

Her soft sigh melts the tension in her shoulders. She perches on the edge of the bed, and I tug at her legs until she swings them up onto the bed.

I wind my non-IV arm behind her, curling her into my body. She rests her head on my chest, her palm landing on my abs.

“Much better,” I declare, burying my face in her hair. She smells sweet, like marshmallows and hot cocoa—it’s her favorite body wash—and more importantly, she smells like home.

We both drift off, dozing in and out of consciousness. I’m dimly aware of a nurse coming by to check on me, but I fall back asleep to the sound of her clucking at us.

A knock on the door wakes me up, and I blink through fuzzy contact lenses at Dr. Hudson, wearing a white coat over his scrubs.

“How’re you feeling, son?” he asks, glancing between me and Amelia with a question on his face.

She’s out like a light, though, and I don’t have the heart to wake her.

“Pain meds are great,” I tell him honestly.

He hums. “We’ll get you a script for the flight home.”

“Can I go back today?”

“We need to monitor you for twenty-four hours. If everything goes well, you can fly home tomorrow or the day after.”

It’s only then that I notice the woman beside him, wearing a white coat over her dark green scrubs.

“Mr. McKittrick. I’m Dr. Iglesias, and I’m overseeing your recovery for the next day or so.”

“Nice to meet you.” I’d shake her hand, but my right arm is currently trapped under Amelia’s sleeping form.

“We’ll make sure you’re stable enough to travel as soon as possible,” Dr. Iglesias continues. “I know you’re itching to get back to Boston. The major concern right now is blood clots. Flying could exacerbate it. As soon as you’re past the risk window, we’ll get you sent home.”

“Thanks.” I swallow. “And recovery timeline?”

“You’ll need to wear a cast for four to twelve weeks,” Dr. Hudson says. That puts me out for the remainder of the season, and the entirety of the postseason.

I wince.

“I know. You’ll be non-weight bearing for a few weeks, and then we’ll assess and re-cast if necessary. You’ll have a lot of physical therapy.” His mouth curves into a wry smile. “Not that it’ll be a hardship for you, eh?”

“We don’t—she doesn’t do my PT,” I clarify. “We keep our relationship strictly professional at work.”

Dr. Hudson snorts. “Sure, son.”