“I don’t understand what’s going on,” I mumble into his hard chest.
“He’s tough. He’ll make it out of this.”
I’m just concerned about the condition he’ll be in when he comes out the other side.
-&-
It feels like we wait forever for news. Sidney has disappeared twice to check in with a nurse. Ten minutes after he returns with no news, Darren gets up and leaves the room. I look at Charlene.
“He’ll get answers,” she assures me.
I don’t see how he’ll be able to make things happen when Sidney hasn’t, but the anxiety of nothingness is the worst torture.
A nervous nurse none of us has seen before appears in the doorway with Darren behind her soon after. She looks over her shoulder, and he smiles. Now, Darren is a nice-looking guy. His features are angular, almost severe, but when he smiles, everything softens and he’s stunning.
The nurse turns back to us and we wait. “Alex is responding—”
I’m out of my chair before she can finish her sentence. “He’s awake? Can I see him? I need to see him.”
She puts her hand up, her smile patient and practiced. I want to punch her sweet face.
“He’s awake, but the doctors need to finish setting his shoulder. As soon as they’re done, someone will be out to see you.”
“Is his shoulder broken? Is he okay?”
“The doctor will have the results of his X-rays and his CT scan shortly.”
I hate the non-answers almost as much as I hate the waiting. Darren stops her before she can walk away and murmurs something. Instead of heading back toward the emergency entrance, she takes off in the other direction.
“She’s getting a doctor now,” he says softly. But then that’s the only way Darren ever speaks. Softly. He’s deliberate with his words. He’s usually more of an observer. I don’t know why I’m noticing this, or why it matters.
Fifteen minutes later, a doctor comes in holding a clipboard. Alex has what he says is a “moderate to severe” concussion. He was unconscious for more than a few minutes, which is a big concern. He’s also experiencing some loss of memory, the doctors call it retrograde amnesia, which is apparently not unusual for this kind of head trauma.
The phrase head trauma causes more tears. My mom puts her arm around my shoulder, but I’m numb, so I can’t feel anything other than bubbling panic.
The doctor keeps talking. Half of it is medical jargon, but I get the important parts. He sustained no injury to his spinal cord, thank Christ. The thought of Alex having to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair starts a whole new round of tears. I can’t get a handle on myself at all. I should be embarrassed, but I can’t find it in me to care that I’m such a mess.
Alex has a dislocated shoulder, a fractured collarbone, and a cracked rib. It could’ve been so much worse. He’s lucid, but on pain medication, and he experienced confusion and some aggression when he initially came around.
“Aggression?” I ask.
“It’s not uncommon after a concussion like this one. Is he usually an aggressive person?”
“No,” I say.
“Sometimes,” Darren says at the same time.
We look at each other.
“Not outside of hockey,” I say.
Buck coughs.
“Or when it comes to me, or his sister.” I wring my hands as more than one throat clears. “Okay, sometimes he’s aggressive. But only when he’s really, really upset.” God. I sound so defensive. “He’s never aggressive with me. Ever.”
“Locker room,” Buck mutters.
I spin to face him. “That was hot sex! I’ve never been afraid of him.”
The room is silent apart from the doctor tapping his pen on his clipboard.
Buck sighs. “I’m not trying to be a jerk, Vi. I’m just saying, Alex has a history of aggressive behavior, and while it’s generally directed at someone other than you, it’s important to remember he’s been concussed, and sometimes people get weird and act in ways they usually don’t after something like that. Right, doc?”
The doctor’s eyes shift between me and Buck, and then he nods. “Sometimes the trauma to the brain causes atypical behavior. We’ll observe him closely for the next forty-eight hours and decide if we need to monitor him longer. There are additional tests scheduled for the morning.”
“What kind of tests?”
“Just standard tests after this kind of injury.”
I know what he’s saying between those words. He wants to make sure Alex’s brain is working properly, that he hasn’t sustained lasting brain damage. Beyond being an amazing hockey player, Alex has a gorgeous, intelligent mind. Thinking about that part of him being affected by this is too scary.
The doctor will let us see him, but we’re only allowed in two at a time, and the visits must be brief. Sunny and I go first.
“He’s no longer aggressive, but he’s experiencing some difficulty with memory and some confusion, so be patient with him.”
If Alex can’t remember me, it’ll be like that Adam Sandler movie where they go on their first date over and over.
I take Sunny’s hand when the doctor opens the door, because I’m relieved and terrified at the same time. He’s okay, but not.
“You have visitors, Alex.”
I’m unprepared when he comes into view. The lights are dim, but I can still see the damage, and that’s only the obvious stuff. He has black shadows under his eyes and the bridge of his nose is stitched and taped. His arm is braced and his shoulder wrapped. I can see it under the hospital-issue gown. His eyes are tired and glassy, medication making him slow to react.
As big as he is, he looks fragile hooked up to all the monitors and beeping machines. And what’s worse, he regards me with curiosity, not familiarity.
I shield my face with my hair so he can’t see my fresh tears. I can still see him, though. Confusion is the strongest emotion on his face apart from pain.
“Oh, Alex,” Sunny whispers brokenly.
“I look that bad, eh?” He cracks a weak smile.
“You’ve been prettier,” she says. It’s a joke, but it comes out with a stuttered sob at the end.
Neither one of us is really good at this whole keeping-it-together thing. I wish I could be stronger.
I let go of Sunny’s hand and rush over to him, stopping when I reach the side of his bed, unsure where or if I should touch him. “I was so scared.” I wipe away my tears, but they keep falling.
He focuses on my hand, the one with the huge rock. I don’t know if he actually knows who I am, or is drawing conclusions based on deduction.
“C’mere, baby.” He pats the edge of the mattress.
I sit gingerly beside him and take his hand. There’s an IV needle taped to it, and it’s cool and clammy. I lift it to my lips and kiss his knuckles, then rub my damp cheek on the back of his fingers.
“I love you,” I tell him. “I thought—I didn’t know. It was so fast, and you weren’t moving, and I didn’t kn-kn-know—” I can’t take a deep-enough breath to get the words out.
Alex cradles my cheek in his palm. “It looks a lot worse than it is,” he whispers hoarsely.
I don’t believe him. The pain in his eyes and his voice are obvious.
Sunny comes to stand on the other side of the bed. Alex glances at her without moving his head. She gives him a small smile, then reaches out to brush his hair off his forehead before giving him a tentative one-armed hug. He needs a haircut. He’s been putting it off for a while.
“You had us worried,” she says quietly.
“I’m gonna be fine.”
She nods, but she’s crying, too, relief mixed with the fear now. “Mom and Dad’ll be here in the morning. They’re pretty shaken up.”
His brow furrows and then smooths. “They know I’m okay?”
“They know you’re conscious,” she replies, probably because okay is subjective. Alex is breathing and conscious, but that doesn’t mean he’s hon
estly okay.
After another minute, it becomes clear that talking is taking all of Alex’s energy. His blinks grow longer as he fights to keep his eyes from staying closed.
Sunny says she’ll go get Darren. No one makes me leave. Instead they rotate through in pairs, ignoring the two-people rule while I sit on the bed beside Alex, holding his hand in both of mine. Each time a new person comes in; curiosity and confusion dominate his expression. But he always smiles even though it seems to take him a minute to remember who he’s talking to—except for Darren and Lily. He recognizes them both almost immediately. After ten minutes, the doctor comes in to tell us Alex needs to rest.
I don’t want to go anywhere, but it sounds like I’m not being given much of a choice. I’m slow to stand.
Alex grips my hand tightly. “No.”
I run my fingers through his hair. It’s greasy, but I don’t care. He’s lucid and seems to have all of his faculties. For now. We’ve been warned that the confusion and memory loss can persist and recur. “You need to rest.”
“I’ll sleep better if you’re here. They’ll bring in a cot for you.”
I look to the doctor, who doesn’t seem to think this is a good idea, based on his pinched expression.
“She’s my wife. She stays.”
My head whips around. Or maybe he doesn’t have all his faculties. I’m glad the doctor can’t see my face, because I’m sure it’s all about the shock. Alex isn’t looking at me; he’s glaring at the doctor as if he’s challenging him to say no to the demand, because it certainly wasn’t a request.
“Either my wife stays with me, or I go home.”
“I won’t sign your release papers.”
Alex’s smile is tight, and tired. “Then I guess she’s staying.”
The doctor clears his throat and looks down at his clipboard. It’s odd. It’s not like Alex can get out of the bed and pummel him or anything. Or maybe he can.
“I’ll have a nurse bring a cot and some blankets.”
Alex loosens his grip on my hand, and his body relaxes. As soon as the doctor leaves the room, he closes his eyes.
I lean in, kiss him on the forehead, and whisper, “Alex, we’re not married.”
A small smile makes his right dimple appear briefly. “I know, but we will be, and I got my way, didn’t I?”
I laugh a little. “You always get your way. I’m going to say goodbye to everyone. I’ll be right back.”
“’Kay.” He’s already half-asleep.
I’m pulled in for hugs, even by the coach. The mood is somber, tempered with cautious relief. He’s okay, but how okay is the question.
The nurse still hasn’t come with the cot by the time I return, and Alex is asleep again. I pull a chair up to the side of the bed and lay my cheek on the sheets by his hand.
I have to believe he’s going to be fine. Accidents happen on the ice all the time, but usually it’s bruises and aches and pains for a few days. This is so much different. It makes me aware of just how dangerous this game can be. And just how much I never want to lose this man.
I slip my hand under his, and he curls his fingers around mine. I watch his chest rise and fall, taking in the fly bandage across the bridge of his nose. I don’t think it’s broken again, which is good. He’s got a decent bump as it is. Another break would be bad. The bruising under his eyes is getting darker, and there’s some swelling.
I want to crawl into the bed with him, but he takes up almost all of it, so I stay in the chair, hold his hand, and wait for a cot. I’m emotionally and physically exhausted. Fear does that to a person. So I close my eyes and listen to the sound of Alex breathing until mine matches his.
7
Pain in the Brain
ALEX
Everything hurts.
My head feels like it’s going to explode. My face aches, and my right arm and shoulder are screaming in agony. What the fuck happened?
“All right, I need you to wake up there. Open your eyes.”
I don’t know that voice.
I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to stop feeling pain. There’s so much of it. I make a noise, but that’s about all I can manage.
“This’ll only take a minute. I need you to open your eyes, Alex.”
Alex.
Is that me? That sounds about right. It’s familiar anyway.
I pry my lids open. It takes a lot of effort. My vision is blurry. The room is dark, so it must be night, but there’s a light somewhere. It stings my eyes. I try to raise my arm to shield them, but there’s something heavy on top of it. Heavy and wet.
“There you are. I was getting worried.”
I try to turn my head toward the voice, but this makes lights explode behind my eyes. I groan.
“I need to check your heart rate and take your blood pressure.”
“Wher’mai?” My mouth is too dry to manage anything else.
“You’re in the hospital, dear. Do you remember what happened?”
This feels like a conversation I’ve had recently. I blink a few more times, clearing my vision. I search my mind for events, things, places, but everything is hazy, indistinct. Thinking makes the ache in my head worse.
A feminine moan vibrates through my hand. I glance down and notice there’s a girl—no, a woman—sleeping in a chair with her head on the bed. I’m cradling her cheek in my hand. She looks familiar, unlike the woman checking my heart rate.
“I would’ve moved your wife to the cot, but I hated to wake her,” the nurse says.
Wife?
I scour my foggy, sluggish brain for a wedding. It seems like that should be a monumental event, something I would recall, even as out of it as I am.
My wife rubs her face against my palm and moans, “Alex.”
I slip my hand out from under her cheek, wipe the sweat on the sheets, and stroke her hair. It’s soft. Waves of auburn tumble over her shoulders and across her neck.
Yes. This woman is mine.
My brain might not be online, but my body is. The agony on my right side lessens as I touch her, as if I’ve been dosed with morphine.
She lifts her head, lids heavy with sleep as she blinks. She swipes her hand across her mouth and licks her lips. “Alex?”
Her voice clears the haze. Memories trickle in, like the beginning of a rain shower.
A pink leopard-print bra.
A first kiss that started a quest to get her to date me; green tea lattes and cake she shouldn’t have eaten because it had dairy in it; my air hockey table; me outside her apartment, begging to be let in; a public declaration; a proposal; an engagement party—loving her, being inside her, wanting her, needing her.
I may not know how I got here, or what happened to put me in the hospital, but I know I love this woman more than is probably rational. I also still have zero memory of this apparent wedding.
“Baby? Are you okay? Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital,” I croak.
“Do you know how you got here?”
I go to shake my head, but those white lights burst into my vision and steal my thoughts, shattering them. I suck in a breath and groan, struggling to piece together the mosaic of fragmented memories again.
“Alex? What hurts?”
My wife puts a gentle hand on my cheek. It’s warm, soft. I lift the hand that doesn’t hurt to keep the contact.
“Everything.”
“Can we get him something for the pain, please?” she asks the nurse, running the fingers of her free hand through my hair.
“I’ll be right back,” the nurse says.
“Water?” One word seems to be all I can manage.
“Of course.” She disappears into the hallway, leaving us alone.
I look back up as my wife leans down and kisses my forehead. Then she dips lower and brushes her lips over mine. It’s brief, but it feels like love.
“Do you remember what happened?” She sits on the edge of the bed.
&nb
sp; “No.”
“Do you know who you are?”
“Alex.” I rest my hand on her thigh.
She’s wearing jeans. They’re tight. She’s small—tiny even—but she’s curvy and gorgeous. God, she’s just beautiful. Perfect.
“What’s your last name?”
It takes me a second to find the information. “Waters.”
She threads her fingers through mine and brings them to her lips, exhaling a shuddering breath. “What do you do, Alex Waters?”
“I love you.”
She smiles. It makes her even more beautiful. “And you do it very well. But I’m talking about your job. What do you do for a living, other than love me?”
I close my eyes and think. My head throbs. “I play hockey.”
She releases another long breath. “That’s right. You play professional hockey. You’re the team captain.”
“For Chicago.”
“Exactly.” She kisses my knuckles. “Do you know who I am?”
“Mine.”
She nods, a soft smile curving her lips again. I return the grin, but it hurts my face, so it’s short-lived.
“What’s my name, Alex?” Her voice is so soft, I barely hear the question over the beep of the machines.
I keep my eyes on her instead of closing them. I see purple. Flowers. “Violet.” A single tear drifts down her cheek. I brush it away with the back of my fingers. “Don’t cry, baby. I know all the important things.”
“I was scared tonight,” she whispers.
“C’mere.” I slip my hand behind her neck and urge her closer. She puts her head on my chest, and I hold her with the arm that works. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. Everything hurts.
There are still a lot of missing pieces, like what happened to put me in this kind of pain, but I’m too tired to think any more.
The nurse comes back and gives me water, which I sip. I feel sick. Then she hooks another bag up next to the IV, presses a button, and I feel nothing but warm. Violet moves away from me, and I want to protest, but my tongue isn’t working.
-&-
I wake up sometime later confused, disoriented, and in pain. It’s still night, and it takes me a good minute or two to remember who I am and where I am. Violet—my fiancée, who I said was my wife, because she will be eventually—has pulled a rolling cot up beside my bed.
Forever PUCKED (Pucked #4) Page 10