Page 21 of Lucky Puck

In the meantime, I think I’m going to need all the help I can get to manage Brody through this weekend. In between the post-game press conference and the party tonight, we need to get that ring off his finger and be rid of Tammi the showgirl because tomorrow Brody has his breakout commercial shoot with an impressive group of superstar athletes. Jett pulled all the rabbits out of his hat to set Brody up with this promotional deal. It’s a gigantic financial and career coup for a kid in his rookie year with a lot of hype still to live up to.

Once we get rid of the ring and the showgirl, I only need to cross my fingers the lie to Lou doesn’t backfire. I have no idea how trustworthy he might be with keeping our so-called secret marriage a secret.

Brody, the not-so-kid-like young man, gives me that hot stare again, and I swear he can see through my pin-striped suit straight to my matching red-laced bra and panties.

While the pompous NHL official continues to talk to Lou and the doctor, I whisper, “Stop looking at me like that.”

Stubby—my new private shorthand name for the self-proclaimed Mr. Important NHL VP—breaks from his contentious-looking discussion and turns to me, Brody, and Sabien, where we wait at the training table.

He nods at Brody. “Doctor Patrick is ready to examine you for a concussion.” Stubby’s words are tight as he makes way for Doc Patrick to approach the table.

No one besides the trainer looks glad, and it’s a toss-up whether I’m more worried or glad. Either way, my trepidation meter rises to red zone levels. What if Brody has a concussion? What if the doc won’t let him back in the game? What if he has to miss tomorrow’s commercial shoot?

Doc Patrick mumbles something under his breath that sounds a lot like a very irreverent version of mind your business and get out of my way to Stubby. I’d bet my law school loan balance that Doc would love to give Stubby a shot from a knockout needle.

“Brody, is it?” Doc asks. “How do you feel? Headache? Nausea?”

“Shitty, yes and yes. But it’s nothing I haven’t played through before, Doc.” Brody throws in his lopsided grin as if that’s going to sway the no-nonsense old doctor.

Doc raises his brows, scowling like we just interrupted the best round of golf he’s ever played to rush here for a minor cut.

“Lay down and let me look at your eyes.”

“We’ve already done all this. Lou already bandaged me up⁠—”

“Never mind Lou and his preliminary ministrations,” Doc Patrick says, pushing Brody back down to a lying position.

He holds Brody’s eyelids open and shines a light in them while he looks through a lens, taking his time and double-checking back and forth between his two eyes, holding a finger up for Brody to follow and tapping on things to make him wince.

Which makes me wince. Maybe I shouldn’t watch. There’s a reason my career ambitions veered to law school rather than medical school.

Then the doc removes the butterfly strips from the cut, tapping at the sliced-open flesh and pushing at it. Blood oozes from it at the disturbance, streaming down Brody’s temple, and I take a step back, looking away after my tummy protests vigorously at the sight.

“Concussion,” Doc pronounces as he straightens. “And you’ll need a dozen or so stitches.”

“Fuck,” Brody mutters. The real disappointment in his voice makes me snap my head back around to look at him, unmistakable concern squeezing my chest. Though to be honest, I’m not entirely sure if he’s more upset about the concussion or the stitches. I read in his file that needles bother him.

“You need rest and quiet, but before you get to that, let’s take care of the stitches.” The Doc darts a glare in Lou’s direction, and the trainer backs up a step, looking sheepish. “You can assist.” The Doc shakes his head, returning his attention to Brody. “Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing. I’ll give you a shot for the pain.”

“Double fuck,” Brody mutters and glances at me. His eyes tell me he hates needles even if I never read about it in his medical file. He has a history of passing out when a needle any larger than a bobby pin is wielded in his direction.

“Why don’t the rest of you clear out,” Doc says, smirking at Stubby, “unless you want to watch me stitch him up.”

“No. But I want to know the prognosis on his condition, whether or not he can⁠—”

“He’s not going back into the game if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Hey, wait a⁠—”

Stubby cuts Brody off. “I want to know if he’ll be well enough to attend the event he’s obligated to appear at this evening.”

“We’ll see,” Doc says, dismissing the man. I don’t think it’s my imagination that Doc Patrick takes some pleasure in giving Stubby the worst answer ever invented by mankind. It forces you to wait, forces you to hope even when you know the answer is likely a resounding negative.

Without any further discussion on the subject, Doc reaches into his bag and pulls out a needle the size of Seattle’s Space Needle—or so my mind interprets it just before the room starts spinning and I fall into a black hole.

When I open my eyes, I find myself in the unlikely position of being sprawled in Brody’s arms, leaning against him where he sits on the training table.

My eyes flutter just in case I’m not really awake yet, but he’s still there after a few blinks, and I watch the concern etched in his creased brow ease as I struggle to stand and regain my composure.