Page 59 of Our Hearts to Break

“Wow,” Carter responds, “Too far, bro. Didn’t need to hear that.”

“Thought you were cool with us,” Nate tosses back at him, holding his right side and wincing.

“Yeah, I am. But I’d rather not think about you guys fucking. I heard enough weird sounds coming from your bedrooms over the years.”

Nate is unsteady from his fall, so Monroe and I drag him over to the bench. He hisses at the pain in his side and almost falls. By some miracle, we manage to get Nate on solid ground.

“Rousseau, Brooks, what the fuck do you think you’re doing on my ice?” Coach Marten barks out. “This isn’t a reality TV show. Save that shit for when you go home. We got a game to win.”

“Sure thing, Coach,” Nate grumbles.

“Sorry, Coach,” I add. “Won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t,” he snaps, glancing down at a clipboard. “Brooks, go see the doctor. You’re out for the rest of the game until he clears you to play. And Rousseau…” He clasps my shoulder. “Good luck in the NHL. I’m proud of you.”

I flash a smile. “Thanks, Coach. I learned a lot from you.”

He laughs. “No, you didn’t. That was all your dad. But thanks for humoring an old man.”

With my arm around Nate, I lead him out of the rink. The team physician guides us to a room where he performs a few neurological tests on Nate.

“I don’t see any immediate causes for concern,” Dr. Reynolds says with a hopeful grin. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t show symptoms of a concussion later. You know the signs. Keep an eye out for them. Can you remove your jersey and gear for me? I need to examine your back and ribs.”

Nate undresses, and I gasp at the reddish-purple marks already forming on his skin. The one on his back is about the size of my hand. He also has a puck-sized one on his ribs.

“You took a header,” Dr. Reynolds says with a sigh. “I don’t see any swelling in your abdomen, which is a good sign. Are you having any difficulty breathing, vision changes, or dizziness?”

Nate shakes his head.

“How about nausea?”

Another head shake.

“If you start to experience any of the symptoms I mentioned, you need to get to a hospital. Understand me?”

“Yes,” Nate mutters.

The doctor turns to me. “Can you keep an eye on him? His condition could change at any time?”

“I’m leaving in the morning.”

Dr. Reynolds looks at Nate. “Do you have someone else around just in case? A roommate?”

Nate nods. “I have eight of them.”

“Good,” he says. “Well, if you’re feeling okay, you can watch the rest of the game. But I’m not clearing you to play. Sit this one out. We’ll assess your condition before the next game.”

From the expression on Nate’s face, I can see he’s relieved. He didn’t want to play tonight because that meant less time with me.

We exit the room, our hands linked and savoring our final moments together because we won’t have this for a while once the sun comes up.

ChapterTwenty-One

RIVER

My cell phonedings with hundreds of messages and calls. I can’t ignore them forever, but Nate and his health are my primary concern.

He often brushes off injuries. This isn’t the first time he’s taken a hit that knocked him out. Nate is rough on the ice and doesn’t mind getting dirty.

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