Page 20 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"All good, ma'am."

I watch her hands move across his skin, poking and prodding the bruising on his left shoulder. It's already darkening to deep purple, spreading down toward his bicep.

From the car rolling.

From Valek's violent reaction to being followed.

From Whiskey's absolute fucking refusal to leave well enough alone.

"Your shoulder took quite a hit," the doctor observes, gently probing the injury. "Any grinding sensation? Popping?"

"Just sore," Whiskey says, though I catch the slight wince when she presses harder.

"Mmm." She makes a note on her clipboard. "Well, I don't think anything's broken. You alphas are built tough."

"That's what they tell us," Whiskey agrees cheerfully, flexing to show off his biceps as if he wants her to fuss over him more.

Just to torment me, I'm sure.

She turns her attention to me, and I straighten automatically. Her hands are cool and impersonal as she checks my ribs.

"Bruising here," she notes, pressing along my left side. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound at the flaring pain. "Does it hurt to breathe deeply?"

"A bit," I admit.

"Is he broken?" Whiskey pipes up worriedly, earning another eyeroll from me.

"Unlikely. Just bruised." She moves to my jaw, tilting my face toward the light. "This from the accident?"

"No," I say flatly. "That's from our teammate."

Valek's right hook, to be specific.

"Rough sport," she observes, making another note. "Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"No."

"Vision changes?"

I fucking wish.

Then I wouldn't be able to see Whiskey.

"No."

"Good." She steps back, surveying us both with the eye of someone who's seen every kind of injury imaginable and has already cleared us. "You're both remarkably lucky. A rollover accident could have been much worse."

"See?" Whiskey says, shooting me that insufferable grin. "Told you we'd be fine."

"It wasn't a little accident," I mutter. "We rolled an SUV down a fucking mountainside."

"Details, schmetails," Whiskey waves dismissively.

The doctor hands us discharge papers with a stern expression. "No strenuous activity for two weeks. That includes hockey, mind you."

Whiskey's grin vanishes instantly. "Wait, what? Two weeks?"

"At minimum. Your shoulder needs time to heal properly, and⁠—"