Page 62 of Gravity
Bryce's gaze lands on each of their faces. Tears stream down his cheeks too fast for me to sweep away. His dry lips break into a trembling smile, and his free hand rises toward our bunched teammates. Everyone takes hold, twenty guys laying their hands on top of each other to reach Bryce as one.
I lift Bryce's fingers to my lips and kiss his knuckles. He shoots me a worried look, a question buried beneath his happiness.
I lean in and kiss him on the lips, this time surrounded by our teammates. Our family.
And when I pull back, everyone is beaming.
ChapterNineteen
Hunter
Within minutes, the tender moment we've shared as a team is broken when a flurry of nurses descend on the room. Drs. Morin and Jacques both arrive, their coats rumpled like they've just rolled out of bed. They tell us that, like the team, they've spent the night in the hospital. While we were camping in Bryce's room, both of them were sleeping on couches in the staff break room.
First come the battery of tests on Bryce's neurological functions. His pupils are equal and reactive, his reflexes fire on cue, and the sensation in his fingers and toes is good. He identifies each of us immediately, his eyes flicking to our faces when Jacques calls out our names. His memories and humor seem to be intact, too, because when MacKenzie winks and blows Bryce an obnoxious kiss, Bryce rolls his eyes.
Throughout it all, I hold his hand. I stay at his side, where I am meant to be, and no one bats an eye.
Then come the serious conversations. What happens next? How do we move forward? What do the days ahead look like? Will he speak again? The team steps out of Bryce's room for the first time, and it's just Bryce and me and the doctors in the pre-dawn darkness.
“We're going to bring you back into surgery later this morning,” Dr. Morin says. “We need to repair your larynx and your cricoid ring fractures. We'll also need to insert a stent to keep your airway open while everything heals. You won't be able to swallow or speak, and your tracheostomy will remain in place for now. We'll be able to close it after your throat heals.”
Jacques holds out a clipboard and a pen. “You'll have to talk by writing for now. Or through text. I don't know where your cell phone is…” He trails off and looks at me.
“Everything is still at the arena.” Our clothes, Bryce's truck, his keys. Our cell phones, tucked into the cubby above our bench seats in the dressing room. I'm in my compression leggings and undershirt, and my padded uniform shorts, which I wore to the hospital last night, are somewhere in one of these corners. I shimmied out of them in the middle of the night without taking my eyes off Bryce's rising and falling chest.
Jacques nods. “Once you get your cell phone, Bryce, you’ll be able to text anyone at any time. But for now, we'll use this. What questions do you have?”
Bryce's eyes are wide as he writes a bullet pointed list of questions on the clipboard.Did we win last night? When will I be able to go home? What about my conditioning? When can I play again?
“Yes, the team won.” Jacques smiles briefly. “For your conditioning, we'll have you doing light exercises as soon as possible. We've got to give your body time to heal, and keeping you in great shape is part of that healing process. We don't want you to lose what you have worked so hard to gain. Right now, we're confident we can put you back into playing condition, and it is everyone's expectation that you'll return to the ice. I can't promise you when that will be. A lot of that will depend on you.”
Bryce scribbles on his clipboard, then flips it around.Tomorrow?
“Not quite. You need to heal, but we're going to give your body every possible advantage we can throw at it.” Jacques sounds encouraging. My fingers stroke the inside of Bryce's elbow as my heart pitter-patters.
Bryce points his pen at his earlier question.When can I go home?
Dr. Morin answers. “Let's see how surgery goes today. We need to reconstruct your cricoid with a bone graft, and we need to insert a nasogastric feeding tube in you. Both of those are tricky procedures, but if they go well, my hope is that you'll be home at the end of this week.”
Bryce frowns. His pen moves across the paper.There's a game tomorrow night.
“There is, and you will be cheering on the Étoiles from here,” Jacques says.
So will I, I want to say.I'm not leaving your side.No one can make me. No one will take me out of this room. I'm here, and I'm staying.
But…
As long as I have known him, Bryce has wanted to win the Cup for this team. He's given everything of himself to these guys, to bring them here, to bring them this chance. Everything in Bryce's life has led to this season, this playoff run, this moment. Almost dying on the ice isn't going to stop him.
If the team stumbles because of his injury, he won't be able to forgive himself.
He will want me to play tomorrow night to help the team. And if he asks me, I won't say no. I'll give him everything. Anything he wants, anything he needs. I'll cradle his hopes and keep them safe until he can take hold of them again. I'll build scaffolds for his dreams, too, and I will lift him on my shoulders until he can touch the stars.
His hand finds mine when he sets the clipboard down. Our fingers thread together, and we both squeeze so hard our arms shake.
Jacques looks from Bryce to our hands to me, and his smile turns gentle. “A lot of things went right, Bryce. Your team got you off the ice and into the medical room in under a minute. The ambulance arrived three minutes later. We had you in the operating room less than fourteen minutes after that puck crushed your throat. You've had a ton of support these past twenty-four hours, and you're going to continue to have that same support throughout your recovery. We're all here for you. Both of you.”
Bryce nods. His thumb strokes across my hand.
