Page 3 of The Cutting Edge
Quickly, I pull my fingers away. Ew. My head is throbbing, and now my fingers are all gross.
Do they give nurses flashlights? Or is that the kind of equipment you need a medical degree for?
“What do you remember?” she asks me. I sneak a peek at the badge hanging around her neck. Doctor.
“Where are my skates?” I ask frantically. Even though they’re a couple of years old, they were almost two grand, which I’m still paying off. If I lose them, I’m going to have to use my competition pair for lessons, and that is an astounding waste of money and skates.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got your skates,” a very large man at the edge of the exam room says.Well, gee, thanks, Mister. I feel so much better now.He stands in the doorway, filling it with his solid frame, his dark eyes permeated with distress. His fitted navy blue t-shirt hugs his toned body, pulling across his well-muscled chest and biceps. His well-worn jeans rest low across his hips, just loose enough to accentuate his strong thighs. His dark hair is damp, like he showered in a hurry, casually curling across his forehead and the collar of his shirt.
Well, hello, stranger…
“Okay…thanks?” I say, not really sure who I’m thanking. For all I know, he could be the very reassuring and polite guy who stole my $2000 skates. Although he does look vaguely familiar.
“What do you remember?” The doctor asks again, a bit more impatiently this time.
“I walked into the hockey rink, I heard a crack, the side of my head hurt like hell, and then I woke up here.”
“What’s today?”
“Tuesday,” I respond. “Am I okay? Because I have someplace I really need to be.”
“You’re not okay,” she says. “You took a hockey puck to the head. That little frozen piece of rubber probably hit you going a hundred miles an hour. We need to test you for a concussion.”
“A hundred and three miles per hour,” the well-mannered skate thief mumbles from just outside the door. Ah yes, Poppy’s dad is NHL superstar Logan Rivers. Everything suddenly clicks into place.
“Uh, sorry, that was inappr…” he says awkwardly, “habit.”
Rolling my eyes melodramatically sparks a twinge of pain. “Are you seriously bragging about the speed of your slap shotright now, while I’m in the ER, bleeding from the head?” Although, truth be told, I’m not a hockey fan and even I know that’s insanely fast.
“I”m so sorry, that was… autopilot. Are you okay? I didn’t see you guys come in.” He shakes his head in obvious distress, “I’m so sorry about what happened – I didn’t see…”
“It’s fine. Looks like I lived.” I say. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m in heaven, and Logan Rivers is just a really hot angel.
“Also, you really shouldn’t have been in the rink area – it’s a closed practice.” His voice cracks with worry. “Someone could really get hurt. Or worse.”
“Also,” I pause for drama, “I wouldn’t have been anywhere near that rink if you’d picked up Poppy on time.”
He drops his head, “Yeah, I’m so incredibly sorry about that… I …”
Poppy appears from around the corner and looks up at him solemnly, “She’s right, Dad. You were late.”
Damn, I didn’t see her. Now I feel like a jerk, saying that in front of Poppy.
“But everybody makes mistakes sometimes,” I quickly say in a singsong voice. Not exactly Oscar-worthy, but I don’t want Poppy to feel bad because her dad accidentally hurled a hockey puck at my head. Late or not, I should never have brought Poppy into that rink. What if the puck had hit her instead? My heart hurts to even think about it.
“What else do you remember?” the doctor asks.
“It’s Tuesday. Wait, I already said that. It’s March, twenty-something… well, that’s not a fair barometer because Ineverknow what the date is. I’m Coco Charmaine. This is probably Bayfront Hospital, which is the closest to the practice facility where I got smacked in the head. Could we possibly speed things along? I don’t mean to be rude, but my neighbor is upstairs having chemo and I was supposed to be there to sit with her and drive her home."
“We’re going to keep you overnight for observation. Follow my finger with your eyes.”
“No, please, I think I’m fine. It hurts, but I'm okay. My neighbor, Mrs. Markham, is like 85 years old. She doesn't have anyone else to drive her home and take care of her tonight. My roommate is out of town. I really can't stay."
“Just follow my finger. We need to run some more tests on you before you're allowed to leave. But I believe it's important that we keep you here overnight. Is there someone else who can drive your neighbor home?"
“Is she going to be okay?” Poppy whispers to the large man in the extraordinarily well-fitting T-shirt, as he effortlessly swoops her up in his arms. “She has blood on her dress…”
I look down at my pink skating dress, one of my favorite practice dresses, and there’s quite a lot of blood on the left shoulder. You know, like an epaulet, except with bodily fluids instead of fringe. Gross.
