Page 6 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
"Already on it," Liz says, but she's white-knuckled and nervous.
Trent tries to laugh, but it comes out as a gurgle. "Well, this isn't what I planned for the day," he says, and then his lips go a little blue.
I am never making fudge again.
I grab his elbow and haul him to his feet before steering him out into the main PT suite. Usually, hockey players are strong, but I guess hockey players having an allergic reaction are the exception. Trent is floppy as hell, like one of those wind puppets at car lots. He leans on me, taller by almost a foot, so it's like giving a piggyback ride to a freaking Christmas tree.
"Move!" I yell, and the rest of the team scatters like pigeons. I hear one of the trainers shouting about calling 911, but I'm already rushing him out into the hallway.
He's barely coherent by the time we hit the double doors.
Liz races out after us, wavingthe EpiPen.
We fumble with it and then stab it into his thigh, all while I'm praying we didn't just hit his femoral artery.
Trent gasps, then blinks hard. The color starts to come back to his face, but now he's sweating buckets, and his words are all scrambled.
"We're going to the ER," I tell Liz.
She nods, still white as a sheet. "I'll let Coach know what's happening."
"I can drivesh," Trent offers, even though he very clearly can't drive. He can't even speak.
"I'll get you there," I tell him firmly. "Just don't die. If you die, I'm going to be the PT who fudged a hockey player to death for the rest of my life."
He tries to grin, but his lips are puffy, so it looks more like a Muppet impression than a smile.
I drag him through the cold, past the loading dock, and into the backseat of my car. He's too big to fit comfortably, so I sort of fold him in half like an Ikea futon and slam the door.
"Stay awake!" I order, running to the driver's side while praying the thing starts, because of course I left the headlights on last night. The engine catches on the second try, miracle of miracles.
I pull out onto the icy street, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for Trent's clammy wrist to check his pulse.
He opens one eye, looking at me in the rearview. "Am I dead? You looksh like an angel."
"Not yet," I say, trying like hell not to read into his comment. He's delirious. A hockey stick probably resembles an angel to him right now. "But you will be if you puke in my car. This is a lease."
He laughs. Chokes. Then laughs again, weak but alive. "You're the best PT ever," he slurs. "Gonna keef you all to myshelf."
"I almost killed you with fudge," I remind him.
He shrugs—or tries to, anyway. "Worf it, Shunshine."
We squeal into theER parking lot ten minutes later, and I hop out, half-dragging, half-carrying him through the sliding doors into the waiting room. He's already looking better than he did when I folded him into the car, but it's still not great.
The triage nurse takes one look at him—still half naked and covered in hives—and hustles us straight back.
"One of the therapists called ahead," she says. "They told us you were coming."
The adrenaline crash hits me all at once, and I start shaking. The nurse looks at me, looks at Trent, and shakes her head. "Christmascookie exchange?"
"Fudge," I say, voice wobbly. "He's allergic to bees." I gulp. "And raw honey."
"Well, hon, you aren't the first felled by sweets this week," she says. "At least you had medical staff on standby."
Yes, medical staff responsible for the entire fiasco. I am so getting fired for this.
I slump in a plastic chair in the exam room, still breathing hard, while Trent lies on the hospital bed, grinning like a maniac even as they put him on oxygen and load him up with Benadryl. I should be terrified. But he's alive, and he's also reaching out to squeeze my hand.
