Page 8 of In My Hockey Era
Kneeling on the bench seat, I hold the edges of a nasty gash together with my gloved fingers and prep the suture kit.The guy on the stretcher is barely older than twenty, with a split eyebrow, a broken nose, and the cocky attitude of someone who absolutely lost a fight but still thinks he won.He’s refusing to be taken to the ER—something about his health insurance, and opted to have me patch him up right here.His buddy, another genius with too much confidence and too little sense, watches me thread the needle like he might pass out just from witnessing it.
“Dude, does that hurt?”the friend asks, like the answer isn’t obvious.
The guy on the stretcher shrugs—or, well, tries to.It mostly results in a wince.“Not really.”
I smirk, tying off the first stitch.“That’s because I’m great at this.Hold still, and maybe your face will still be somewhat presentable when I’m done.”
The friend exhales, impressed.“You ever get grossed out doing this?”
“Not even a little.”I move to the next stitch, perfectly steady, perfectly in control.Outside the rig, I hear sirens in the distance.Another call comes in over the radio, but none of it touches me.This?This is easy.
“You should’ve seen the time she had to put a guy’s finger on ice,” Ethan Park, my partner, calls from the driver’s seat.“Dude was losing it, and Lucy just grabbed a sandwich bag and—”
“Not the time, Park,” I interrupt, finishing the last stitch.I snip the thread, toss the needle into the sharps container, and give my patient a pat on the uninjured shoulder.“You’ll live.Maybe don’t start another bar fight anytime soon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters.
We release him, and as soon as I toss my gloves in the trash, I scrub up at the sink.The movement is automatic, my hands moving through the steps on instinct, but my mind?
It’s elsewhere.
I keep thinking about that email from Vivian Carter.About my upcoming meeting with the Stampede.About why the hell they want to talk to me.
I’ve been covering this team for years, and it was never about getting my name out there—it’s about the game, the team, the love of it all.So why now?Why me?
“You got a sec?”
I glance up.Captain Herrera, my station manager, stands in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Sure,” I say, drying my hands.
She gestures for me to follow, leading me out of the ER into the hallway, where the noise dulls to a distant hum.
“You do great work, Lucy.I’ve been watching and I’m impressed.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
“And I’ve been thinking… You ever consider taking the advanced trauma training?”she asks.
I blink.“What?”
Herrera tilts her head.“You’ve got the skills.You handle high-pressure situations better than most.You should think about leveling up.”
Leveling up.
The phrase sticks in my brain.When she encouraged me to take additional training last year, I did.But I’m happy where I’m at—aren’t I?I like my job.Love my job, actually.I love being out in the field, working fast, solving problems, staying in the action.More responsibility could mean more time behind a desk.And that?That’s not what I want.
Is it?
“Just think about it,” Herrera says, giving me a pointed look before she walks off.
I stand there for a moment, flexing my fingers.
Advanced trauma training.A meeting with the Stampede.
A week ago, none of this was on my radar.
Now?
