Page 59 of Punchline
I barely knew where to start with all that. I glanced over at Marek and Carson, Marek with a flinty expression on his face as if he was a second away from punching me himself and Carson unhappy to be in the middle, and waved them back. “Ethan.” I leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth. His lips were dry and chapped, but it still soothed something deep inside me to feel them. “Baby. You did agreat job.” I set a hand on his wrist. “This part was an accident. It happens to a lot of people, even people who fight for a living. I think you’re amazing; there’s nothing boring about you.”
“Yeah?” His voice was small but at least he didn’t look so sad anymore, which was good. My heart couldn’t take it.
“Yeah. And I want to bring you home with me and take care of you and make sure you’re gentle on your hand so you can get back to hockey as soon as possible.”
Now he was smiling, and my heart lifted right along with his lips. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay.” He reached over with his good hand and pulled me in close. “Then let’s go home.”
The nurse had brought a wheelchair over, which was good because my next move would have been to pick him up and carry him right out of there myself. I didn’t know when my life had decided to rewire itself around Ethan, but it had done so wholeheartedly.
I stopped by Marek and Carson for a moment while the nurse helped Ethan into the chair. “I’ve got him,” I said. “Send whoever you need to over to my place—PT, trainers, your coach, whatever. The door will be open.”But he’s staying with me.
“Good.”
It was about the best ending to a rough nice I could picture. Now, to get Ethan back to my place, put him to bed, and figure out how to reschedule work so I could be home with him for the next few days.
Or maybe a week.
CHAPTER 19
ETHAN
I felt like shit.
I felt like someone had zipped me into an empty, stinking hockey bag and tossed me down the stairs. Then run me over with the bus. Then made me bag skate for like five hours.
But at least I was… well, “comfortable” was being generous, but I was lying on something that was much kinder to my body than everything I’d been on before it. The stretcher had been awful, the gurney hadn’t been much better, and I vaguely remembered reclining miserably in the passenger seat of a car for like seventeen hours. Lying on the ice probably hadn’t been all that fun either, but I’d been so focused on the pain in my arm, I hadn’t noticed.
My arm. Which was now throbbing relentlessly. My elbow and shoulder screamed at me to move them because they’d been still for too long, but the sling—one of those heavy-duty ones wrapped around my midsection—didn’t let anything budge. There was also some telltale pain that dared me to try.
Right. Because I’d broken… uh… what had the doctor said? I didn’t know. Something, something, fractures and surgeries and downtime, oh my. Wait, hadn’t he said Iwouldn’tneed surgery? Or… fuck, I didn’t remember. I just remembered a lot of pain and a lot of words, and then “let’s give you something for that pain.” And then everything had been blurry and weird, and my arm hadn’t hurt as much.
I licked my dry lips. I had no idea what they’d given me, but it had been somegoodshit.
It did leave my head full of spiderwebs, though, and time had definitely gone weird. What time was it? Shit, whatdaywas it?
I was suddenly wide awake—was I late for practice? And we were getting on the road right after practice. Fuck, what if I missed the bus?
Panic had me trying to sit upright, which reminded me of both the industrial grade sling and the pain.
Oh. Right.
My hand was broken.
Wouldn’t be practicing today. Wouldn’t be traveling with the team. Wouldn’t be playing again for… well, that was probably in my discharge papers somewhere. Or the club’s medical staff would evaluate me and decide.
Wouldn’t be today, though, that was for sure.
Man. No hockey for the foreseeable future. Even though my body felt too shit-whipped to handle getting out of bed and taking a shower, the thought of not being able to play hockey for a while—that fucking sucked. At least I’d still be getting paid. Right? I didn’t know chapter and verse of the collective bargaining agreement—I couldn’t even remember specific details of my own contract—but I was pretty sure there was something in there about getting paid while we were injured.
I brought up my good hand and wiped it over my face.
God, I was a mess. Was this just the pain meds? Or had I gotten a concussion too? Just what I fucking needed.
Right then, the world shifted, sending a bolt of panic through me.
