Page 6 of The Cutting Edge
At long last, the doctor leaves but apparently has issued some order for the nurses to check on me every 10 minutes. This is unfortunate, because that's all my body wants to do is sleep. Instead, I distract myself with thoughts about Poppy's dad Logan, and in particular the way his biceps filled out his very snug T-shirt.
This is probably not the best use of my time, and it's most definitely a bad idea to lust over the father of one of my students. I don't even know if Poppy’s mom and dad are married, although I don't think so. I can't recall a time when Poppy's mother ever picked her up from practice. Maybe she travels for work or something. In fact, the only people I remember picking Poppy up regularly are her dad, her nanny, or a young woman I always assumed was Logan's assistant.
He does make for an excellent distraction. Even with the nurse coming in every few minutes to check on me, it’s tough to get him off my mind. Well, his muscles, anyway.
I want to text Mrs. Markham just to make sure that everything is okay and that she’s made it home safely.
Unfortunately, I do not seem to have my phone. Then I remember that all my stuff, including my shoes, my ID, and my wallet, is in my skate bag, probably back at the rink or on the floor of some long-gone ambulance.
Just great. Now what am I going to do? I don't have much time to think about it because every few minutes someone enters my room and takes my blood or add something to my IV, or tells me to get some sleep.
I close my eyes for a few seconds and I must have fallen asleep because suddenly there’s a male nurse briskly shaking my shoulders and I don’t remember him coming in.
“Coco, are you sleeping?” He asks. “I need to take some blood.”
“I just want to go home and pass out in my own bed,” I say. “Maybe have an extra large glass of Prosecco. It’s been a day.”
“That all sounds awesome except for the part about you going home or drinking alcohol.”
“But those are the fun parts,” I crack wearily.
“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” he quips. “How about instead of all that, I get an orderly in here to get some of the blood out of your hair.”
“Hmm, that sounds almost as thrilling,” I respond.
“Normally, they’d make you wait until they get you checked in upstairs,” he says. “So you’re really getting the VIP treatment. But I heard you had a handsome gentleman caller, so we want to make sure you’re the belle of the ball if he comes back.”
“Wow, I feel so fancy,” I say, “but I seriously doubt he’ll be back.” I raise my hand shakily to massage the area around my wound. “Unless he’s coming back to finish the job,” I laugh.
Chapter three
Logan
Ifeellikeatotal asshole.
I’m usually a real stickler about picking Poppy up on time. The last thing I want is for Poppy to worry. Shit, the whole reason I chose the training facility for her figure skating lessons was because it was literally in the same building as practice — and if I can’t get out, I can always send one of the staffers to run over and grab her.
Even though I prefer to do it myself.
And if I’m being honest, it’s not just because I like to be the one to pick Poppy up at the end of the day.
But I had my head up my own ass. And now Coco is lying in the hospital. It could have been Poppy. One of them could have died. Holy hell.
I’m shooting for shit right now, and I can’t figure out what’s going on with my playing. I had a dogshit practice and had just finished getting chewed out by Coach Michaels. I’d be pissed, but there wasn’t a single thing he said that wasn’t true.
I haven’t made a goal in two weeks.
Not even in practice.
My head is messed up.
I’m the team captain and the other guys look to me to set the tone.
Which I can’t do if I’m not scoring – and instead I’m spending all my time obsessing about how badly I’m screwing up.
Jesus, and last night was one hell of a screw-up. Coco’s in the hospital. Who knows how serious her injuries are? She could have permanent damage. That puck could have easily killed Coco or Poppy – and I know for an absolute fact, I could never live with myself if it had. There’s no way I can make everything right again, but I have to try. And I’ve really got to get my shit together. It’s starting to affect other people.
I’m an analytical guy. I’ve watched hundreds of hours of practice and game film every night after Poppy’s in bed, trying to figure out exactly where I’m going wrong, and searching for patterns in my playing I’m not seeing, which makes it nearly impossible to solve the problem with any sort of permanence. I can’t deconstruct where my game is going off the rails right now, and it’s frustrating the hell out of me.
