Page 8 of Pucking Billionaire

Shave the man? What’s next, a mani-pedi?

But then it clicks. The chest hair is in the way of the electrodes. I rummage for the razor, and there it is.

I attack the hair, but it’s too thick and curly. That, or this razor is too dull.

“Take out the child-sized sticky pads,” Mason says when he spots my grooming troubles.

I locate the smaller pads and take them out.

“Glue them to where the normal-sized ones would go.”

I obey.

“Now rip them off.”

I gape at Mason. “Rip?”

“I’m sure you’re familiar with waxing,” he says. “Same idea.”

Oh. Right. I rip off the first pad, removing the stubborn hair and proving without a doubt that our patient isn’t faking his unconscious state. Then I do it again on the other spot before attaching the two adult pads to the red, naked patches of skin.

Is the wax thing something I could get sued over? It wasn’t negligent, but it was gross.

From here, the AED basically takes over, telling everyone to stay clear when it deems necessary to hit the patient with a shock. Then it tells Mason to resume CPR.

I have to admit, the thing is cool. Kind of like Alexa with a medical degree.

The sound of sirens rings out nearby, followed by the footsteps of firefighters and EMTs. Moving swiftly and determinedly, they relieve Mason, place the patient on a stretcher, and rush away.

As soon as they are gone, I realize I have a question, so I pose it to Mr. Cohen and Mason. “Will he make it?”

“Probably,” Mason says. “Then again, there are no guarantees in life.”

“Will someone call and tell us?” I wish I’d asked this earlier when I was speaking with the chatty 911 operator.

“Doubt it,” Mason says. “It would probably be against HIPAA regulations or some such.”

“Well, he’s my client,” Mr. Cohen says. “So I’ll know if he makes it… eventually.”

“Will you tell us?” I ask.

“I’d have to ask my client if he would be okay with that,” Mr. Cohen says.

I blink at him. “How would he give you permission if he doesn’t make it?”

“In that case, I’d ask his family.”

“Just don’t bother on my account,” Mason grumbles.

I turn on him, incredulous. “You don’t care?”

“Not particularly,” Mason says. “I don’t know the man.”

“But you saved his life.” I glance at Mr. Cohen in the hopes that he can explain the enigma that is Mason.

Mason sighs. “Maybe I saved his life. Maybe I didn’t. All I wanted was to avoid newspaper headlines that say, ‘Hockey player with CPR training watches a man die.’”

It’s like he’s into two sports: hockey and being an asshole.

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