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So, not a good sign.
Hudson sat on the padded table, his pads off, just his undershirt on along with his padded pants and socks, sweat still trailing down his back despite the cool air of the locker room. “I’m fine.”
“I also don’t like the way your neck snapped back.” He picked up a neck collar. “Let’s see what the X-rays say.”
In the next room, the X-ray machine was processing the shots taken of his neck and spine.
Bonus of using the Ajax training center.
“Does your head hurt?”
Hud looked at him. “I just took a head shot by a man running thirty miles per hour. It was like getting hit by a truck. What do you think?”
Another red mark.
Oops.
“Any nausea?”
When he’d seen Berker headed toward Iris earlier? Um, yes. “No.”
“Vomiting.”
His tackle of her had kept him from seeing a collision that would have induced vomiting. But, “Nope.”
Black checkmark.
“Blurred vision?”
Only when he thought about a life without Iris. He shook his head.
Balance problems. Always.
But not anymore. Time to figure out how to live his life in the now, not always two steps in the future. “Nope.”
“Sensitivity to noise.”
“Just the sound of your voice, Doc.” He smiled.
Bastian did not. He gave him a look, then stepped away to the computer located on a nearby table. “X-ray looks clear. But my guess is that you have a sprain.”
“Probably, but I don’t need a neck collar.”
He came back to Hud, put his hands on his neck, probed. “What venue are we at today?”
“Ajax Arena, Amsterdam.”
“What half is it now?”
“Fourth quarter, just over two minutes left.”
Two minutes, and then he’d see Iris, and then…then he was going to follow up that wink—what an idiot—with something a little more specific.
“Who scored last?”
“Me. I scored.” He made a fist and pumped his arm.
“That’s right he did.”
