Page 115 of Untouchable Player

When Jesse stops puking and the doctor comes to look at him, I go out into the waiting room where our families are sitting awkwardly. The doctor cuts the tension by giving Jesse’s parents an update, letting them know he’s going to be okay, but that he’s going to miss the next few games. I only notice the coach sitting alone by the vending machine when he pipes up, “I wouldn’t let him play anyway doc, don’t worry.”

“Madison Square Garden,” I say out loud.

Everyone turns and looks at me.

I feel my face turn bright red, but I repeat myself, “he’s not going to get to play at Madison Square Garden.”

Jesse’s dad gets up to go and speak to the coach and they talk with low voices by the vending machine after the coach buys Jesse’s dad a cup of coffee.

My mom scoots over and puts her hand on Jesse’s mom’s knee and Jesse’s mom starts to cry again.

“I know it’s silly, he’s fine.”

“It’s not silly,” my mom says, “he’s your boy, you’re allowed to worry, it’s your job.”

Harrison calls me outside.

“It was getting way too emotional in there.”

I give him a tight smile.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m glad he’s not going to be playing next year.”

“That’s not what his dad thinks. I heard him telling Coach he’ll be playing Madison Sq in no time.”

I slouch against the wall.

“I could have told you dating a hockey player sucks.”

I giggle, even though I try to stop myself, I can’t. Maybe it’s the adrenaline or the relief, or a mixture of the two, but once I start, I can’t stop.

“What? Oh gross, I didn’t mean like that.”

“I’m sorry,” I can barely catch my breath.

When Dad comes out, I’ve got tears streaming down my face.

“Deal with him,” Harrison says, “he’s drunk or something,” he pushes back through the revolving doors into the hospital and leaves me wiping tears off my face.

“You okay?”

“I was laughing, I don’t know why.”

“Normal trauma response, I once saw a guy with a nail right through his foot laugh his head off all the way to the hospital.”

I look down at my shoes and wince.

“He didn’t laugh when they took it out.” He smiles. It’s a sad smile that saysforgive me.

When he hugs me, I think about stepping back, but the smell of his jacket is familiar and comforting and reminds me of when we were kids and he’d carry us to bed after we fell asleep in front of the fire.

“I love you kid,” he says, “and I’m glad you don’t play hockey.”

“You are?”

I look up at him, there are grey specs in his stubble and it’s weird to realise how long it’s been since I looked at him properly.

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