Page 13 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

Today, Jamie Walker is a post-op trauma patient with a repaired clavicle, injured ribs, and a lung I plan to keep a very close eye on.

That is all.

Dr. Henson stops beside me with his tablet tucked under one arm and a paper cup of coffee in his other hand. He looks like he has been awake since Tuesday, which is impressive since it is Friday.

"Morning, Annette."

"Morning."

He nods toward room 412. "You're staying with Mr. Walker today."

Not a question. A decision.

"Any specific concerns?"

"Other than the fact that every sports reporter within three states has called the hospital main line?" His mouth twitches. "Pain control. Breathing exercises. Fall risk. Ego management."

"Ego management is not in my scope of practice."

"Today it is."

I pick up the tablet again. "Was he awake overnight?"

"Enough to ask about the score twice."

That does not surprise me. "Anything else?"

"He asked whether his rookie defenseman was okay before he asked whether he needed surgery."

I glance toward the closed door. There it is again. That same instinct. Everyone else first.

Dr. Henson lowers his voice. "He’s going to push."

"Most elite athletes do."

"Not like this one."

I almost smile. "Then I suppose he and I will have a very educational day."

Dr. Henson tells me to call him “if he develops increased shortness of breath, worsening chest pain, dizziness, fever, if his oxygen drops, or if he gets a sudden urge to prove masculinity by walking down the hall unassisted."

"That last one sounds likely."

"That's why I said it." And he walks away.

I take one breath before opening the door.

The room is dim, the blinds half drawn against the morning sun. Machines hum softly. The scent of antiseptic lingers beneath the sharper smell of hospital coffee from the hallway.

The bed is empty.

For half a second, I think I have the wrong room.

Then I see him.

Jamie Walker is half sitting, half sliding off the other side of the bed. He’s wearing a hospital gown, a sling, an oxygen cannula, and the expression of a man who believes sheer determination can override gravity.

It cannot.