Page 95 of Check & Chase
“You knocked him flat.” A small smile touches her lips. “Probably saved Jackson from a serious injury.”
“Good. Worth it, then.”
“No, it was not worth it.” The professional mask slips entirely as she leans forward, eyes blazing. “You might have a brain injury, Chase. You could have…” Her voice cracks. “You weren’t even wearing a helmet.”
“I wasn’t exactly planning to go on the ice,” I point out, then immediately regret the defensive tone when I see tears gathering in her eyes. “Emma…”
“I thought you were dying.” The words come out in a whisper. “There was so much blood, and you weren’t moving, and all I could think was that I never told you…”
She stops abruptly, looking away.
“Told me what?” I reach for her hand, ignoring the IV tugging at my skin.
Before she can answer, the door swings open and a doctor enters, followed by a nurse. Emma immediately pulls back.
“Mr. Mitchell, good to see you awake.” The doctor—a petite woman with kind dark eyes and graying hair pulled back in a neat bun—approaches with a tablet in hand. “I’m Dr. Patel. How’s the head feeling?”
“Like someone tried to split it with an axe.”
“That’s to be expected.” She taps something on her tablet. “I’m going to ask you a few questions to assess your cognitive function.”
I submit to the examination—following her finger with my eyes, reciting the date, squeezing her hands to test my strength. Standard concussion protocol I’ve been through before, though never this severe.
“Your CT scan showed no brain bleeding, which is the good news,” she explains. “The bad news is this is a significant concussion that will require careful recovery. No screens, no reading, no physical exertion for at least a week.”
“And hockey?”
Her expression confirms what I already know. “You’re looking at a minimum of six to eight weeks before we’d even consider clearing you for light skating. And that’s assuming no complications.”
Six to eight weeks. Combined with the meniscus tear, that’s…
“The season,” I state flatly. “I’ve lost the season.”
“It’s too early to make that assumption,” she replies. “But I would prepare yourself for significant recovery time.”
Emma watches me carefully, gauging my reaction. But what is there to say? The reality is sinking in with brutal clarity. I’ve fucked myself. One impulsive moment, one protective instinct, and my season could be over.
Dr. Patel continues with instructions for care, medication schedules, follow-up appointments. I nod in all the right places, though the information blurs together through the fog of pain and disappointment.
“We’d like to keep you another night for observation. If all goes well, you can be discharged tomorrow with someone to monitor you.”
“I’ll stay with him,” Emma volunteers immediately, then flushes when both the doctor and I look at her. “I mean, I have medical training, so I’m qualified to monitor his symptoms.”
Dr. Patel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “That would be acceptable. I’ll be back to check on you this evening, Mr. Mitchell.”
After she leaves, silence falls between us.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I finally say, though the thought of Emma caring for me sends warmth through my chest. “I can hire a nurse.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She fusses with my blanket, not meeting my eyes. “You need someone who understands both the concussion and your knee rehabilitation.”
“And that has nothing to do with personal feelings?”
Her hands still. “I didn’t say that.”
Before I can press further, the door opens again, this time revealing Donovan, arms full of what looks like half the gift shop.
“There he is!” My captain grins, though I can see concern beneath it. “The crazy bastard himself.”
