Page 2 of Down to Puck

Emerson’s eyes are soft seafoam, caught somewhere between blue and green and ringed with muted shades of gold. They remind me of early mornings at the beach as a kid.

“Yeah. I know where I am.” Emerson nods sagely. “I’m in heaven. Have to be, ‘cause I’m seeing angels.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a slow smile.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” He reaches out to brush his fingertips across my heated face. “Don’t even mind being dead if I get to look at you forever.”

The room tilts, then rights itself before my next breath. Nerves, I assure myself. Just a little first-night anxiety. There’s no other explanation for my tachycardic heartbeat, or the way my skin crackles with fire beneath his touch.

“No sign of spinal cord injury or internal bleeding,” my voice is steady, despite the tremble in my stomach and the lump in my throat. “Pupils sluggish, but responsive. Initial neurological assessment reveals intact cranial nerve function and sensation in all extremities.”

I swallow hard and continue my assessment. The team is counting on me— now is no time to develop an acute case of tummy butterflies. My own fingers move gently along the edge of the brace at Emerson's neck. I’m checking for injuries, but it’s impossible to ignore the way his pulse jumps beneath my touch. When he speaks again, the deep rumble of his voice vibrates through my hand and into my bloodstream.

“That’s definitely giving me a sensation in my extremities,” Emerson’s laugh is muted by pain and opiates. “Maybe I should get hit in the head more often.”

Beside me, the medical scribe is taking notes as fast as I rattle them off. Her pen never stops moving, but her eyes are darting between Emerson’s face and mine. I don’t have to look around to know that all of the PAs and athletic trainers are looking at us, too.

“The game—” Emerson blinks twice, and the fog clears from his gaze. “I was on the ice, and then something hit me.”

He goes to shake his head and stops with a pained groan.

“Easy, Emerson.” I place one hand on the center of his chest to keep him from trying to sit up. “You were injured during the game. You’ve got a nasty laceration on your head. I’m going to take the collar off, and then I’m going to have to stitch you up, okay?”

Beneath my palm, Emerson’s chest is carved from solid steel. His jersey is open— cut down the middle by the first responders to check for major injuries. The two halves hang open now, revealing deep bruises and long-healed scars.

“I prefer to be on the other end of the leash.” Emerson’s voice is low and dark with promise. “But I’m willing to make an exception for you, Angel. You can do whatever you want, as long as you keep your hands on me.”

According to his chart, Emerson is five-foot-nine. You’d never know it to watch the man play. In the rink, he runs circles out of guys five and six inches taller. That swagger is on full display now.

On skates or on a gurney, Emerson Stone is the biggest thing in the room.

“Okay, tough guy.” I wait as two nurses help him up to a sitting position. “Let’s get you patched up and off to the CT and MRI machines.”

Emerson’s legs hang over the edge of the bed. His thighs are wide as tree trunks, his calves sculpted and thick. Beneath the open halves of his shirt, the tight ridges of a six-pack lead to the most defined v-cut I’ve ever witnessed.

I’ve seen less-perfect renderings of the male form in medical textbooks.

“If you want to know what’s going on inside my head, Angel—” Emerson grins like a hungry wolf as I step between his thighs. “All you have to do is ask.”

Lightning flashes behind his aquamarine eyes.

“This might sting a little.” My voice is quiet— breathier than it should be.

I’m caged between Emerson’s legs, close enough to smell the ice, sweat, and blood that clings to him. He doesn’t flinch— doesn’t even blink as I inject a local anesthetic into his forehead. I clean the wound gently, dabbing softly along his rust-colored hairline until the entire length of the cut is disinfected.

Suturing a wound is something I’ve done too many times to count. I could sterilize and close a laceration in my sleep. I’m pretty sure I’ve done exactly that at least once during medical school.

But there’s something different about this— a vulnerable intimacy that I’ve never felt before.

Emerson’s eyes never leave my face. There’s an intense, determined look in them— like he’s fighting to hold on to a memory before it disappears. My hands are steadier than I feel as I stitch him closed with a thin length of nylon.

“All done,” I set my tools down and peel off the powder blue latex gloves with a snap. “How are you feel—”

Emerson’s lips crash against mine.

Every thought in my head evaporates as time slows to a crawl. My heart pounds frantically in my chest. It’s not my first kiss— I managed to get that far in medical school, even if there wasn’t time for much beyond a few exploratory pecks in the library after hours.

But this?

---