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"Yeah," he said, pressing the screen and lifting the phone to his ear. "Hey, Eddie, what's going on?"
"What's up?" I asked.
“Not sure what happened, but he's in the ER."
My heart sank. "What? Is he okay?"
"I don't know. We need to go now."
We were out the door in seconds, rushing headlong into the unknown.
Chapter13
Hoss
My heart pounded as Pete drove us to the hospital. The call from Eddie had been short, his words slurred. Something was wrong—very wrong.
I glanced over at Pete; his knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
“If this is what I think it is—" I started.
Pete cut me off. "Don't even go there. We don't know anything yet."
We thought the worst, even if we didn't want to say it.
A memory suddenly hit me like a slap in the face, and for a moment, I was back in the ER myself when my life was spiraling out of control. I remembered the antiseptic smell, the fluorescent lights' sharp glare, and the hospital sheets' abrasive scratch against my skin. My gut was on fire, a scalding reminder of why I was there.
"Alcohol poisoning," the doctor said, his voice laced with a mix of concern and disappointment. "You're lucky your friends brought you in when they did."
The room was a blur of faces—former teammates who looked both worried and disgusted, my best former coach with arms folded across his chest, and my family…damn, my family. The disappointment in their eyes was the worst part, cutting deep, like a surgical scalpel.
"What the hell, Hoss?" Coach Tommy shook his head. “Don’t throw it all away.”
I wanted to defend myself, but what could I say? He was right. I might have suffered a bad injury, but I was still in one piece and could do everything except professional-level hockey. I was almost too old for that, anyway.
They all eventually left me alone, each turning their back and walking out of the room, some clear out of my life. I was left alone with my thoughts, a shaky hand rubbing my forehead.
It was the wake-up call, one of those defining moments you hear people talk about.
Our arrival at the hospital brought me back to the present. Pete and I burst through the ER doors, wanting answers to a thousand questions. Taylor was at the door and immediately spotted us. He looked nervous and waved us over as he chewed on his bottom lip.
"Taylor, what happened?" Pete demanded.
He took a deep breath. "Hey, Eddie had low blood sugar, like one of those diabetic crashes, you know? My uncle's got diabetes, so I caught the signs real quick. We had to call 911.”
I felt my stomach drop. I was relieved it wasn't alcohol or drugs but pissed at myself for even considering it. The guilt was like a sucker punch. “How is he now?”
Taylor nodded. “He’s stable, but you really should chat with the doc.”
A nurse showed us to a corner of the ER. The hospital smelled of disinfectant. As we approached, the doctor gave Eddie a look that walked the fine line between stern and sympathetic.
"You need to monitor yourself," the doctor said, clicking his pen and jotting down notes. "Especially with your history."
"I know, Doc," Eddie sighed, his eyes lowered, avoiding ours. "Been diabetic since I was a kid. I messed up. I get it."
Pete and I exchanged a loaded glance. It was a wake-up call. Mentorship just got real, more serious than either of us had anticipated.
"So, when can he get back on the ice?" Pete asked, cutting to the chase.
