Page 98 of Puck Struck
We're just starting to doze off when I hear footsteps pounding down the stairs.
"Logan!" Tessa calls out, sharp with panic. "Logan, I need you!"
We both jolt upright, scrambling for our clothes. Cam dresses with lightning speed. I'm still pulling on my jeans when Tessa appears in the doorway. She takes one look at us but doesn't even blink.
"It's Ethan," she says, her voice tight with fear. "He's burning up and he's babbling. Not making sense at all. We need to go to the hospital. Now."
We rush out of the house and it’s all a blur. Cam and I follow Tessa upstairs to Ethan's room. He’s lying in bed, cheeksflushed bright red, his skin radiating heat like a furnace. When I press my palm to his forehead, he barely stirs.
"Hey, buddy," I say, keeping my voice calm even though my heart is thrashing. "How are you feeling?"
He opens his eyes, but they're glassy and unfocused. "Uncle Lo? My tummy hurts really bad."
"I know, kid. We're gonna take you to see the doctor, okay?"
The ride to the hospital is a nightmare. Ethan drifts in and out of consciousness while Tessa takes his temperature every few minutes. Cam drives like a man possessed, getting us there in half the usual time.
The emergency room staff knows us by name. They take one look at Ethan's jaundiced skin and feverish state and take him back immediately. Tessa goes with him, leaving me and Cam in the waiting room.
Soon afterward, we're all sitting in a consultation room with Dr. Patel, and the news is exactly what I've been dreading.
"Ethan's liver function is declining rapidly," she says without preamble. "His bilirubin levels have tripled since last week, and his ammonia levels are dangerously high."
"What does that mean?" Tessa's voice is barely a whisper.
"It means we need to move up the timeline for transplant. Significantly." The doctor's gaze shifts to me.
I nod, my mouth suddenly dry. “Okay,” I say.
"We'll need to run some additional tests, make sure everything is still in order." She pauses. "Is there anything about your health that might affect your ability to donate? Any changes since your last evaluation?"
My shoulder throbs like it's mocking me. Beside me, Cam goes very still.
"No," I lie. "Nothing's changed."
The doctor narrows her eyes at me for a minute longer thanI’d like, then nods. "We'll keep Ethan overnight and start him on a new medication regimen. But we need to schedule the transplant surgery as soon as possible."
"How soon?" I croak out.
"Two weeks. Three, at the most."
Two weeks. The playoffs. The end of my career.
It's nearly three o’clock in the morning when Cam and I finally get back to my house. Ethan's at the hospital, stable, sleeping peacefully with the new medications. Tessa stayed with him and told me to go home and rest.
We sit in Cam’s car, silent. "You should get some sleep," I finally tell him. "Big practice tomorrow."
"So should you." He studies my face, and I can see him wanting to say more, to offer comfort or help. But what can he say? What can anyone say?
"Logan," he starts to say then pauses for a beat. "If you need anything?—"
"I know." I force a smile. "Thanks. For tonight. For being there."
He nods, like he knows there's nothing more to be said right now. I get out and walk up to the front door. Once I’m inside, I stagger into the kitchen and drop onto a stool.
Two weeks. Maybe three.
Fourteen years of hockey, over. Just like that.
