Page 66 of The Has-Been

But thankfully, there are no other outward signs of injury to his body. We check for a pulse at his wrist, then at his neck.

I surprise myself when I find my hands steady enough to find one.

“Pulse is steady,” I announce as Aubrey releases a deep breath, nearly in time with the players and coaches surrounding us. Chadlington’s own athletic trainers are now crowded around him as well.

“Tatum,” I call, rubbing his shoulder.

But he doesn’t respond.

Aubrey searches through her pack, finding a pair of scissors, and begins cutting his jersey and chest protector. She starts a sternum rub to help him regain consciousness.

After a second, his eyelids flutter, and he comes to.

“Tatum,” Aubrey says again.

“Yea—” he chokes eventually. “I’m alright…” he tries to murmur.

“Good,” Aubrey notes as I look behind her to find the paramedics waiting. “Tatum, can you move your legs for me?” Aubrey instructs, beginning her assessment for any spinal injury. I watch with wide eyes as Tatum slowly moves each of his legs. I feel a thousand pounds lifted from my chest as he moves them with ease.

“Good,” Aubrey and I say in unison.

“Now your fingers,” Aubrey orders. “Can you squeeze my hand? As hard as you can?” She laces her fingers with his. When I see her skin go pale, I know he likely doesn’t have any serious injuries—just suffered from glass jaw, Reid’s uppercut knocking him out cold.

“I don’t think he has any spinal injury,” Aubrey informs the paramedics as they move in. “But that can’t be ruled out,” she adds with an edge of certainty.

We work quickly with them to secure a neck brace for Tatum and place him safely on the backboard before helping carry him from the ice.

The players from each team clap, the crowd joining in. And before we know it, the arena is wild with cheers.

Aubrey stands beside me, helping carry the end of the stretcher alongside the three paramedics. Her pinky slowly touches mine, just a whisper of a touch.

Pinpricks dance on my skin.

I know she only does it because she can probably see the look on my face—the blatant stare as my mind races back to that night when I was being carried off the ice just like Tatum. How she had met the squad and grabbed my hand as I moaned in pain, the bone of my lower leg covered with a towel as her eyes widened from the unnatural angle it was twisted in.

I crack her a smile, thankful for her comfort in this moment, here for me just as she had been in the past.

But I’m not hurting, I’m not running from the memory. I allow myself to feel it, to use those emotions and think about how Tatum might be feeling.

Grabbing his shoulder, I quickly give what comfort I can before they put him into the back of the ambulance. “You’re gonna be alright, man,” I mumble. Tatum is unable to move much from where they have him strapped to the backboard, but he blinks, trying to murmur something.

I’m certain he’s telling me to “go fuck myself.” I try to ignore it, knowing it’s likely because he knows I’m best friends with the man who just knocked his ass out cold in front of a sold-out arena.

Aubrey and I stand outside as we watch the ambulance’s lights flash, then pull away.

We stand in silence for a few minutes before I reach out. I’m not sure why I do it, but I let my fingers slide sensually over her arm. I turn to her, watching her throat bob as she swallows thickly.

Quietly, I whisper, “You were amazing in there.”

Her eyes find mine as she shakes her head in dismay.

I incline my head. “Yes. Yes, you were.”

Finally, she manages to reply through stiff lips, “Thanks…you too.”

But I know it’s a lie.

I know that I don’t have that fight instinct like her. It doesn’t come naturally to me. And I wonder if she saw me freeze at first, how useless I had been in those first seconds. But I don’t have a chance to linger on the thought as she turns on her heel, grabs my hand, and leads me back through the arena’s doors.