Page 80 of Playing the Player

“I’m feeling good.” His smile is bright, but his eyes don’t match.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Conor.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you're not.” I run my palm down his face, cupping his cheek. He leans into my touch, closing his eyes and letting out a long breath.

“This sucks.” He sighs heavily, “I don’t care about my shoulder, that will heal. I do care about not playing hockey for at least six months.” He tilts his head up, looking at the dirty ceiling instead of at me, “It’s the one constant I’ve had in my life since I was a kid and now it’s just… gone.” Conor runs a hand through his messy blonde hair, “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know.” I tell him, honestly. I have no idea what he could do that would be able to take his mind off everything that requires only one hand. “Oh, once we get you settled at your place, we can make a list.”

“You and your lists.” He pokes my side playfully as I laugh.

“I’m sure we’ll find something to keep you busy.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift.

“I have some ideas…”

He chuckles, pulling me closer to him. “Come here.” Conor lifts his good arm for me to fit underneath.

“No, no. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Sasha. Come here. Now.” How can I deny that sexy, commanding tone?

I sigh dramatically before carefully sliding under his arm, resting my head against his chest. “If you complain about being sore afterwards, I’m leaving.”

“Deal.”

My fingers drift absent-mindedly over Conor’s chest as we lay there in a comfortable silence. It’s quiet and peaceful, broken only by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.

For the first time since everything happened, I can finally breathe.

We stay like this for what feels like hours and I never want it to end.

But it does end. Too soon. The door to Conor’s room swings open and I practically shoot out of the bed. The strong smell of a floral scented perfume comes into the room before the person wearing it does.

A stunning woman walks into the room, wearing a long, flowy summer dress. Her blonde hair is styled perfectly, showing off the large diamond studs in her ears. I would say she’s mid fifties and looks like she’s just walked off a beach runway shoot. She is unmistakably Conor’s mother. They look so alike, same shape and shade of dark blue eyes, same nose, same lip shape. If Conor was a woman, he'd look exactly like his mom.

A man with salt and pepper hair walks in behind her, dressed in a shirt and suit trousers. Conor doesn’t look as much like his father as he does his mother, but the resemblance is still there.

“Oh, my baby boy.” His mom rushes straight to him, cupping his face before kissing his forehead.

“Hey, mom.” It’s hard not to notice the brightness that returns to Conor’s eyes. It must be hard for him, not being close to his parents. I know I’m not close to mine, but I would see them every holiday. Conor’s parents always seem to be travelling so he doesn’t get to see them much.

“Son.” His dad nods in his direction, appearing as though he’s unaffected by his son laying in a hospital bed, but his eyes constantly flicking to the monitors tells me he’s more worried that he’s making it seem.

“And you must be Sasha!” Before I can react, I’m engulfed in the tightest hug of my life. “You are just beautiful.”

Fuck, I can’t breathe. “It’s good… to finally… meet you, Mrs Matthews.” I force out through my burning lungs. Air. I need air.

She laughs and finally releases me, allowing me to suck in what has to be a whole tree's worth of oxygen. “Oh please, call me Linda.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here for another hour.” I say as she moves back to the other side of the bed and settles onto one of the chairs left out for visitors.

Linda shoots Conor’s dad an exaggerated look. “Yes, well, my husband sometimes forgets that he’s not a Formula One driver.”

“If I remember correctly,” Mr Matthews starts, “you were the one telling me to drive faster.”