Page 103 of Well Played

I lie, shaking my head no. I know what a pop means, and that happened when I came off the ice last night.

When he probes the joint with a finger, I clamp my jaw to keep from howling like a strong nor’easter. He motions me down. “Pants off. I need to see the swelling.”

My balance is precarious. With one hand on the table, I slip my shoes off. Then I have to lean back as my fingers fumble with the belt buckle and unzip. The pants drop and I waddle over to a chair. Can’t get the pant legs over my feet and off unless I sit down. Moans rise into my chest; heartburn follows. Moisture gathers on my lashes. This may be the worst day since my dad died twenty-five years ago.

Doc clicks his tongue as he helps me back to the table. I rub an arm across my damp face, and wriggle from the dampness that makes my shirt cling to my back.

His chilled fingers feel good against the heat around my knee. I strain my ears but his mumbles are unintelligible. Negativity blankets us. Then he just stands back, eyes glued to the obvious swelling and redness.

Every nerve tells me he is going to recommend I go on injured reserve. But I can’t afford not to play. My position is already tenuous with the team. The only way to prove my worth is on the ice.

“Sorry, Sauer,” he starts, just as Ax walks into the room.

“What’s the verdict, Doc?” He looks offhand, standing in his long-sleeved team blue-and-silver marled turtleneck, hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks.

A click of heels announces another interloper. I glance around. Maya, jacket discarded, has donned a white coat over her blouse and slacks. Somehow the look is sexy. Can’t tear mygaze away from her rosy lips, porcelain complexion, and curly brown locks.

Goose pimples rise on my forearms as I try to erase the sudden lust swamping my brain. 1916, 1924, 1930, 1931, 1944, 1943 … I start to count down the years the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup.

The breeziness of Maya’s tone disconcerts me. “Adnan is amazing. I loved the studio space. I think I made the right decision to come to Chicago.”

My head buzzes as she gushes. I want to get up, grab her, and stop her mouth with mine. Stop her talking. Feel her soft lips… Everything dies away in the sweet-sour fantasy of the moment.

Ax shakes my shoulder. “Sourpuss, you okay?”

Little tickles have been moths fluttering around my spine all morning but this is an exponential explosion I didn’t expect. When I force away the ripples and paste a scowl on my mug, Ax takes it as a normal response but for my own peace of mind, I need to scare Maya out of the room. Out of Chicago. Back to wherever she came from. “Shut up, woman,” I yell. “I can’t stand your driveling. Just go away.”

Fists against her hips, the scorching heat rolling like a cloud toward me ignites not fear or anger but the trembling of uncontrollable excitement. I hear Ax as if from underwater. “Is he having a heart attack?”

Doc’s response rumbles like a far-off volcano. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s ready to climax. Never seen anything like this. The pain must be unimaginably intense to cause this reaction.”

My vision blurs and I gasp at the sensation of falling. The last thing I remember is a cuff tightening on my upper arm.

When I come to, the room is black, punctuated with lights winking red, yellow, blue, and green. My throat is on fire but when I try to sit up, bands across my chest and abdomen keepme immobile. My cry of protest, when it comes, is more of a squeak.

Within a few seconds, shoes schuss across the floor. A hand presses against my forehead. Then the steps retreat. Indistinct mutters filter in from somewhere and a man and a woman approach me.

“Mr. Sauer?”

Not able to respond, I blink my eyes to let them know I can hear them.

A dark shadow falls over me. A gritty male voice asks, “You need me?” Is this the angel of death? Or Charon, preparing to row me to the underworld? My lips move, but still no sound. Panicked, I fight against the bands.

“Unstrap him and we’ll sit him up. Probably needs some water before he can talk.”

I focus on thick fingers deftly unclipping the bindings, then he hits a remote to raise the head of the bed. A woman in sage green scrubs holds a lidded cup with a paper straw up to my mouth. After a few sips, she pulls it away.

Desperate for more, I grab at her, clamping what should be an iron grip around her wrist. Instead, my fingers are flaccid and I can barely hold on. A scratchy incomprehensible noise pushes up from my chest.

A Texas twang cautions me as she slaps my hand away. “Stop that, young man. Just sips for a while.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the bed, a man in blue scrubs has the tips of a stethoscope inserted in his ears. He holds the bell against my chest. “Seems to be recovering.”

I hear my voice in my head. “What happened?” No response. Try again. Still crickets. Whispers swirl around me. Tears of frustration dot my cheeks. One more try.

My mouth opens and I scream, “What the fuck is going on?” The thready sound barely carries, but the world comes to ascreeching halt. The blue scrubs guy says, “Relax, Mr. Sauer. You had a minor cardiac incident brought on by the injury to your knee.”

The nurse gives me another sip of water. The sensation of swallowed glass shards rips at my throat, but a little volume comes back. I expect to see blood spray out when I ask, “Does that mean I’ll be released soon?”

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