Page 72 of Icing Hearts

Then, I go out.

When I wake up again, I’m in a hospital bed, a smaller, warm hand in mine.

I’m unfocused but I know she’s here and smiling at me and cute. “Hi, pretty.”

“Tory.” She squeezes the hand. I’m surprised to see it’s attached to me. That’s special. “I was worried about you. I’m glad you told them to bring me along.”

“So pretty.”

“Thank you. How are you feeling?”

“So good.”

“Oh, gosh.” She presses a little red button. Round like a ladybug.

A doctor comes in with Coach Anderson, and I clap for the two of them. “Clara. You should stand.”

“Why?”

“The guest of honor just walked in. He deserves a standing ovation, Silly.” Tory giggles.

The doctor speaks up. “He’s showing symptoms of the concussion. We did an MRI when he was unconscious. Everything checks out. He just needs to take it easy for the next three days. No hockey. No screens, For the next forty-eight hours, he needs to be woken up every three hours when he’s sleeping, and a few test questions asked. The nurse will be in later to go over everything. Is there someone who can monitor him?”

Coach looks at Clara. Clara looks back. Nods. Impressive how they can talk without words. I’m jealous.

“Clara can. She’s one of the managers. The three of them can split the duty.”

“I can handle it on my own,” she tells him.

He says, “I’ll check in with you in the morning.”

“Time for a sleepover with my nurse!”

Chapter 43

Clara

Coach helps me get Tory into his room and onto the bed. I bid him farewell and return to the bed. When my fingers guide his head down onto the pillow, I feel a huge knot at the base of his skull.

“Oh no, you have an egg.”

Tory flips the corner of the blankets off his legs and looks around the bed. “I do? Where? That’s so baby girl of me.”

“What does that even mean?”

He tries to recline on his back, but his head bumps the pillow. “Ow. I don’t know, Clara. I’m concussed. Good grief, I can’t be held accountable for any thoughts, words, or actions.”

“Whatever you say, baby girl.”

“Actually, come closer, I’m gonna kiss ya on the lips,” he says with a British accent.

“Oh boy. Let’s get you to sleep.” I rise from the bed and shut off all the lights except for a small desk lamp.

“Oh, Clara,” he calls from the bed. “I’m a sick, sick man.”

I rush over and sit on the edge of the bed. “Is it the concussion? What are your symptoms?”

“My heart. It feels as though it’s cleaving in two. My stomach is constantly aflutter as though I’ll vomit at any moment.” A bottomless, teasing smile takes over his face. He’s quite self-satisfied when he says, “And there is a sickening void on my lips the shape of yours.”

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