Page 62 of Punchline
He rolled his eyes. “He needs to see your arm. Up close. And it’s not like he isn’t around sweaty hockey players twenty-four/seven.”
Okay. He had me there. But still. I felt disgusting, and I didn’t want to subject anyone else to it.
To my surprise, Jake’s response was to very patiently help me through what amounted to a sponge bath. It didn’t do much for the sweaty sling, and it wasn’t the most dignified thing I’d ever done, but he was sweet and attentive, and I did smell a lot better afterward.
“If you tell Marek and Carson about this,” I grumbled at one point, “I will end you.”
Jake snickered as he ran the damp washrag down my back. “Secret’s safe with me.”
“It better be.”
He just chuckled and continued helping me transition from “absolutely disgusting hockey player” to something that would be semi-acceptable in public. Then he texted the Aces’ team doctor to let him know we were on our way, and we headed out to his car.
I peered at him from the passenger seat. “Do you really have all of today available to ferry me around?”
“Yep. Carson told me he’d square away anything at the gym, and he threatened me with grievous bodily harm if I showed my face for the next forty-eight hours.”
I barked a laugh. “Ooh, so this is just from Carson’s threats of violence, then.”
Jake tsked and rolled his eyes. “No.” Beat. “It’s fromMarek’sthreats of violence againsthimif he doesn’t make sure you’re supervised.”
“Okay, now it all makes sense. Marek is pulling the strings. Got it.” I nodded, but then I smiled. “Seriously, though—thank you for all of this. Including the, uh… sponge bath.” My face heated.
That got me a soft smile and a gentle hand on my thigh. “Don’t mention it. And I mean, the sponge bath meanttouching you and ogling, you, so… ” He shrugged unrepentantly.
“Even if I wasn’t touching you?”
“I can take a rain check.” He paused. “To be serious, I’m happy to look after you for a few days. I know how much an injury can throw everything off, especially when your dominant hand is out of commission.”
I scowled down at my arm. Yeah, that had made things like eating, brushing my teeth, and tying my shoes complicated. I refused to admit out loud that while it was kind of humiliating in a way, it was also sweet and endearing when my enormous, six-foot-forever boyfriend knelt and tied my shoes for me.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I appreciate it. Hopefully I can make it up to you when I’m not so… ” I gestured at my arm.
“I’m not worried about it.”
Minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot outside the training center. Jake led me inside and spoke to someone behind the reception desk. She handed us a couple of badges on lanyards, and then apparently Jake knew where we were going, so I just followed him into the familiar building and down a decidedly less familiar hallway. We passed by the Aces’ locker room, then stopped at a door markedMedical.
The Aces’ doctor, Dr. Morris, was a white guy in his fifties with sparse white hair and intense blue eyes. “Mr. Bernier,” he said as he shook my left hand. Turning to Jake, he cocked his head as if he wasn’t sure if or how to address him.
“Jake Radovitz.” Jake extended his hand. “I’m keeping an eye on him.”
“Ah.” Dr. Morris shook his hand, then had me sit on anexam table while Jake took a chair. “Well, I’ve reviewed everything from the hospital, including your X-rays, so let’s take a look at that hand.” He got right down to business, too—off with the sling, bandage, and splint.
He was gentle with my hand, I’d give him that, but it still hurt. And being out of the sling let me move my elbow and shoulder a little, but that renewed ache in my hand and wrist canceled out that relief. Something told me it would be a while before I experienced “completely comfortable” again while still conscious and undrugged. Good times.
After he’d examined my arm, he carefully put everything back on… which of course, hurt again. With Jake’s help, we got the sling back on, and I settled back on the table, sweat trickling down the back of my neck for some reason.
“So how bad is it?” I asked.
“Well, it could’ve been a lot worse.” How did he manage to make that sound so grim instead of optimistic? “That kind of impact—a displaced fracture was very likely, but you were quite fortunate.”
I nodded as he spoke. I vaguely recalled someone saying something similar last night. Then again, I vaguely recalled purple snakes on the ceiling, so it’s possible I hallucinated some of it. I’m not kidding—those drugs weregood shit.
“With fractures like this,” the doctor explained, “you’re looking at about eight weeks off the ice. If it appears to be healing well at six weeks, you can start skating lightly to ramp up your conditioning, but do not start at full speed or doing any stick-handling until you’re given the all-clear.” He inclined his head. “Got it?” His tone suggested he’d had this conversation with a million hockey players, and at least half of them hadn’t taken him at his word.
“Got it, yeah,” I said. “When do I get a cast?”
He peered at my arm again. “I’m going to recommend about five days, depending on the swelling.” He ran me through some various instructions for caring for it, including taking off the sling for a few hours a day to prevent a frozen shoulder or other issues. Good—maybe we could run the damn thing through the washing machine while we were at it. He wanted to see me back a few times between now and when I started skating again, and he reiterated that “don’t skate until I fucking tell you it’s okay” warning.
