Page 30 of Game Changer

“Hello, Mr. Boone. This is Cathy Sheldon from Upstate Emergency Center. You’re listed as emergency contact for Lindsey?—”

“Yes, we’re on our way to the hospital now.”

“Good. That’s good. She’s in surgery, so when you come into the hospital through the emergency room, tell them who you are, and they will direct you to the fourth floor. Someone will meet you there.”

“Yeah, okay. Is there anything else you can tell me? For lack of better words, I’m fucking dying over here.”

“Pray.”

“That’s it?” I ask, hoping there’s more.

“We’ll see you soon.”

Minutes later, we see lights flashing in the distance, and my hands begin trembling. Then, as we get closer, my stomach sours when I see the metal twisted and mangled, the window shattered. One of the doors—the passenger side back door—has been removed. I’ve seen enough cop shows to know that they used that device they call the jaws of life.

“Fuck, man, fuck.” I hit the dash over and over in frustration. “How can she survive that?”

“She’s a fighter, yeah?” Logan asks, trying to offer some reassurance.

“She’s … she’s … No, man, she’s not. She’s frail. She’s—” I can’t even finish my sentence before the tears well up in my eyes.

“The call you got from the hospital; what’d they say?”

I know he’s just asking this to keep me calm, but there’s no way I can be calm after seeing that. The vehicle went through a ditch filled with snow and is damn near wrapped around a tree.

“She’s in surgery,” I manage to choke out, my voice shaking. “They said it was serious.”

Logan nods, his own face a mask of concern as we wait to be directed past the wreckage.

“We have to go to the hospital,” I say suddenly, wiping away the tears that have started to fall. “Can’t we just fucking pass these people? Tell them we have to get to her?”

“Of course, man.”

“Stupid request, I know. We can’t make things go any faster than they are,” I grumble.

“We’ll get there as fast as we can.”

I nod. “Okay.”

The hospital doors slide open, and the cold, sterile air smacks me in the face. It smells like sickness, like pain, like bad news. The fluorescent lights overhead are too bright, too harsh for two thirty in the morning, but nothing feels right—nothing.

Logan and Hart flank me on either side, silent but solid. Their footsteps echo against the floor, perfectly in sync with mine. None of us speak. What the hell is there to say?

My chest is too tight, my hands clenched into fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. I don’t even feel it.

The front desk is empty except for a tired-looking receptionist in navy blue scrubs. She glances up, blinking against the glare of her computer screen.

“Can I help you?” Her voice is quiet, almost gentle.

I clear my throat, but it still comes out rough. “I … uh … I’m here for …” I swallow hard, my voice barely working. “My, uh … Lindsey Bellemont. She was in a car accident. They told me she’s in surgery.”

Her expression shifts. Pity. That quiet, practiced sympathy hospital staff always have. I fucking hate it.

“Name?” she asks, already typing.

I tell her, my tongue thick in my mouth.

She nods, glances at the screen, then back at me. “She’s on the fourth floor. Surgical. Take the elevators down the hall, turn left.”

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