Page 128 of Puck Struck
Ten…nine…eight…
The last thing that floats into view is Cam's face, steady and sure, promising me a future worth waking up for.
When I open my eyes later, my head still heavy from the fog of anesthesia, I see him sleeping in the chair next to me. Just like he promised. His hand rests on the edge of my mattress like he was holding mine when he dozed off.
"Cam," I whisper, my throat raw and dry.
His eyes snap open immediately and he shoots out of the chair to lean over me. "Hey. How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." Every breath sends fire through my insides. "How’s Ethan?"
"Perfect. Surgery went exactly as planned. He's sleeping off the anesthesia, but Dr. Patel says everything looks great."
"He's okay?" I mumble, fatigue washing over me. The pain medication makes everything fuzzy around the edges.
"He's going to be more than okay. You saved his life, Logan." Cam's thumb brushes over my knuckles. "Now go back to sleep. Doctor's orders. You need your strength."
"Stay?" My tongue feels swollen, like I got stung by a bee.
"I'm not going anywhere."
I let my eyes drift closed again, the meds pulling me back under. But even as consciousness fades, I can feel Cam’s handholding mine. It’s solid and real and promises me that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
I don’t know what the future holds for me. My hockey career is over. My shoulder may never fully heal. The recovery ahead is going to be brutal.
But Ethan is going to live. Cam is by my side. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, that feels like enough.
More than enough.
It feels like everything.
THIRTY-FOUR
logan
Three weeks post-surgery,and I've discovered that being sidelined is its own special kind of hell.
I can't lift my left arm above shoulder height. I can't drive. I can't shower without help. I can't even put on a fucking t-shirt without Cam or Tessa’s help. The liver incision is healing well, according to Dr. Patel, but my shoulder feels like someone takes a sledgehammer to it on a daily basis.
But more important, Ethan is thriving.
That's the only thing that matters. That's what I keep telling myself when the frustration of my limitations threatens to drive me over the brink of insanity.
"Uncle Lo, look!" Ethan rushes into the living room, faster than I've seen him move in months. His color is back, his skin a healthy tone instead of the sallow yellow that haunted us for so long. "I can touch my toes again!"
He hinges at the hip and bends over. Awhile back, he could barely get out of bed without help a lot of mornings.
"That's amazing, bud." I smile from my spot on the couch, where my ass has pretty much molded to the leather. "How do you feel?"
"Like I could run a marathon. Dr. Patel says my new liver is working perfectly." He plops down next to me, careful not to knock into my bad side. "She even said I can go back to school next week."
"That's great news."
"And she says you're healing really good, too, even though you're grumpy about it."
I lift an eyebrow. "I'm not grumpy."
"You told Cam yesterday that the physical therapist was 'an overpaid sadist with questionable credentials.'"
