Page 16 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

"Small pneumothorax," he corrects.

"You read your chart?"

"I heard someone say it."

"Then you also heard someone smarter than you tell you to stay in bed."

The almost smile returns. He takes the spirometer because refusing now would be childish and he knows it. That, at least, is something.

I talk him through the first slow breath.

He hates it, every part of him hates it.

His fingers tighten on the plastic. His shoulders tense before he remembers one of them cannot afford the movement. The ball barely rises.

Pain shadows his face. He lowers the device.

"Again," I say.

"That was one."

"It was a warm-up."

"You always cheat?"

"Only with patients who lie about their pain level."

He studies me for a beat, then tries again. Better this time. Not great. Better.

I set his pain medication within reach, verify the schedule, check his IV site, then scan his band and administer what he’s due for. He watches every movement.

Not suspicious. Controlling.

There is a difference.

"Laptop," he says. "No."

"Phone?" "Later."

"Coach?" "Later."

"How's Ethan?" That one lands differently. His voice changes. It gets quieter. Rougher.

I pause. "I have not been updated on him yet."

"Find out."

Not a request. Not rude, either.

Almost desperate.

I set the cup down. "Mr. Walker…"

"Jamie."

"Jamie," I correct. "Right now, your job is healing."

"My team needs me."