Page 57 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

Finally...

Jamie looks down at the blanket across his lap. "I think he is braver than I am."

***

The orthopedic floor is finally beginning to settle as my shift winds down. The afternoon rush is settling down. Fewer doctors and bigwigs clutter hallways. Visitors are settling into chairs beside loved ones. Therapy winds down for the day. And the overhead lights soften almost imperceptibly.

Hospitals never truly become quiet. They simply exhale. A shadow falls across my workstation. Dr. Whitaker stands putting on his overcoat. "You look pleased."

"I am." I tap Jamie's chart. "Everything's moving exactly the way we'd hoped."

He glances down. "The orthopedic surgeon will probably clear him to fly home in another day or two."

"I think so."

He nods once. "Good." He starts to walk away, then pauses. Without turning around, he asks, "Do you know why I assigned Captain Walker to you?"

I blink.

"I assumed it’s because I was on the trauma service." A small smile touches his face. "No."

He turns now. "I assigned him to you because neither one of you knows how to quit."

For a few seconds, I simply stare at him. He gives me one amused look, then continues down the hallway as though he'd commented on tomorrow's weather.

I look back at Jamie's chart. Then...through the partially open doorway into his room.

He's asleep. The paperback has slipped sideways onto the blanket. One hand still rests loosely across the cover, and the sling has shifted slightly during sleep. Without thinking...I step quietly inside.

Years of habit keep my footsteps nearly silent. I ease the blanket back over his shoulder, straighten the sling, and move the call button a little closer to his good hand. Tiny things. Things he'll probably never notice.

He doesn't wake. His face looks younger and somehow less guarded.

Without the polite smile he wears for everyone else, without the quiet determination that seems stitched into every waking moment, he simply looks...tired.

Not physically. Soul tired.

***

The realization catches me unexpectedly.

For almost a week...I've been treating broken bones. Watching lung sounds. Monitoring surgical wounds. Checking pain levels.

All the things medicine knows how to measure. And yet...none of those things had ever been Jamie's greatest injury. His body was healing exactly the way the textbooks predicted. The harder part...would never appear on an X-ray. Because no scan can measure the weight of responsibility.

I stand there a moment longer, watching him sleep. Watching the man who thanks every nurse, remembers every name, encourages frightened children, and carries breakfast trays because someone else looked busy.

A man who had somehow convinced himself...that everyone deserves kindness except him.

My chest tightens, not with pity, but with understanding. I quietly switch off the brighter bedside lamp, leaving only the soft light near the window.

The room immediately feels calmer. Warmer. I reach the doorway. Pause. Look back one last time. "Who's taking care of you, Jamie?"

The words barely rise above a whisper. He sleeps peacefully through the question, never hearing it.

Maybe...that was for the best. Because I wasn't sure he would know how to answer.

I quietly pull the door almost closed behind me.