Delay of Game (The Baltimore Banners Book 6)

by Lisa B. Kamps

  “Fuck.” At least, that’s what he tried to say. He had no idea what actually came out of his mouth but it sure as hell didn’t sound like he meant it to. He clenched his jaw, breathing in short gasps of air with a hiss, waiting for the pain to subside.

  Memory slowly came back, bits and pieces that accompanied each painful throb in his arm.

  The puck bouncing off the pipes and shooting into the corner.

  Skating after it, digging in with the blade of his stick.

  Passing it behind him, getting ready to turn.

  A bone-crushing weight hitting him from behind, sending him into the boards. Falling to the ice, searing pain exploding along his arm.

  Being helped off the ice. X-rays. Hospital. Surgery.

  “Fuck.” His voice was clearer, the word recognizable now. Someone laughed, the sound off to his right, close. But the laugh wasn’t quite right, a little tense, a little strained.

  Justin forced his eyes open, blinking against the bright light overhead. He took a few deep breaths, nice and slow, then turned his head to the side and blinked again.

  Val was sitting near the bed, her dark hair brushed off her face and secured at the back of her neck with some kind of elastic band. Her dark eyes were wide in her pale face. Were those smudges of fatigue under her eyes, or merely shadows from the play of light? Justin blinked again, trying to clear his vision, wondering why Val would look so worried, so tired.

  Wondering why she was here.

  He closed his eyes again, squeezing them tight, then reopened them. His mind still felt foggy, like the grayness hovered just at the edges, waiting for him. The desire to give in was almost overwhelming. It would be easy, so easy.

  But he couldn’t. Not yet.

  Justin shifted, his breath escaping in a hiss as pain ripped through his arm with the movement. He waited a few seconds, then moved again, more carefully this time, his gaze drifting down.

  He didn’t want to look, was almost afraid of what he’d see. Which was stupid. He already knew what he’d see. His fucking arm was broken, he’d had surgery on it. What the hell did he expect? A sudden miracle? Yeah. Maybe instead of pins and screws, the surgeon used a magic wand and instantly fixed everything.

  Yeah, that would be nice. Except the soft cast on his arm told another story.

  Justin stared at it for a few minutes then leaned his head back and sighed. “They could have at least given me a better looking cast.”

  Laughter again, sudden, almost a little harsh. Justin looked over at Val, surprised to see her holding both hands over her mouth, like she was trying to stop herself from making any more noise. He watched her for a few minutes, frowning as something niggled at the back of his mind.

  “You yelled at me.”

  “What? I did not.”

  “Yeah you did. You said I was pissing you off.”

  Val looked away but not before he saw her eyes widen in surprise. Was it his imagination, or was that a slight flush tinting her cheeks? It didn’t matter, the color looked good on her, chasing away the chalky white that made her face so pale.

  “Why was I pissing you off?”

  Val turned back to face him, that faint blush still sitting high on her cheekbones. She shifted in the chair, rested her hand on the side of the bed, then moved it away. “You’re imagining things.”

  “Am I?” He smiled, at least tried to, he wasn’t quite sure how the final result actually looked on his face. Then he stretched his right hand out to the edge of the bed, palm up. Val looked at him, then down at his extended hand. Quiet seconds went by before she reached out and took it in hers. She laced her fingers with his and squeezed, at least a dozen different emotions crossing her face. Justin couldn’t read any of them.

  “How are you feeling?” Val’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper and filled with worry, concern. He lifted their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a quick kiss on the back of her hand.

  Just that was enough to drain him.

  “Groggy. Weak.”

  “Yeah, well. You did just have surgery.”

  “Hunh. You’d think they’d give me something for it. My arm hurts like hell.” He glanced down at it, like that would make the pain go away, then leaned back with another sigh. “What did the doctor say about it?”

  Val’s silence sent a blast of fear through him, biting and nearly as painful as his arm. He turned to look at her, wondering what he’d see on her face, expecting to see his own horror reflected back at him. What he saw instead was confusion, real and honest. She frowned at him, then shook her head.

  “Justin, he didn’t really say anything. Not to me. He wouldn’t, since we’re not related.”

  His heart rate settled, but only marginally. Justin tried shifting on the uncomfortable bed again, wincing at the pain even that slight movement caused. Val was instantly on her feet, leaning over him, trying to help by moving the pillows behind him. He tried to smile, had trouble finding the energy to do even that. The grayness was calling again, beckoning, promising escape.

  “He should have…I told him to.” He forced his lids open, tried to focus on Val’s face. The sudden irrational fear that she was disappearing gripped him and he reached for her, needing to feel her, needing a physical connection. Her hand closed over his again, her fingers squeezing his once more.

  She said something, he wasn’t sure what. Something about the doctor talking to him later. Justin didn’t care, not right now, not with the grayness pulling at him.

  No, not yet. He couldn’t go just yet.

  He forced his eyes open, blinking until Val’s face came into focus.

  “Stay with me.”

  “Justin—”

  “Stay…need you.”

  “I’m here. I’ll be here.”

  Justin tried to thank her, tried to tell her how much it meant to hear that. Words tumbled from his mouth, mumbled and incoherent even to his own ears. He struggled to keep his eyes open, felt them close. His lids were heavy, so heavy.

  He opened them once more, his gaze resting on Val’s face. Then his lids drifted shut and he faded away, floating, tumbling back in the welcoming grayness.

  Justin woke again, an hour later, maybe longer. He had no way of telling. The lights in the room were dim, the grayness filling the room only a little lighter than the grayness he had just drifted from. He turned his head, noticed Val sitting in the chair next to him, her head resting on the edge of the mattress. Her hand was still wrapped around his, their fingers laced together.

  He wanted to move, to brush the hair from her face and tell her she should go home, that he’d be fine. But he couldn’t find the energy, not with the grayness pulling at him again. And a selfish part of him didn’t want her to leave, wanted her right there beside him.

  He squeezed her fingers and drifted back off.

  The next time he came to was sudden, abrupt. Not the gentle floating between gray and light. Flames licked at his arm, burning, painful. Cotton lined his mouth, making his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, his lips dry and chapped. Justin blinked, moved his tongue around inside his mouth, trying to work up some spit, then looked around.

  “Fuck.” The word came out wrong, thick and dry, but no less intense as he scowled at the guys standing at the foot of his bed.

  Mat. Randy. Kenny. Brad. All of them dressed in a variation of worn jeans and tshirts. All of them still sported unkempt beards, each face marred with cuts and bruises. Randy’s nose looked like it had been broken—again. Kenny’s right eye was swollen, colored an ugly purple. He was surprised the hospital staff had even let them in to visit.

  Justin groaned and rested his head against the sorry excuse of a pillow then glanced to his right. Val was gone.

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be back. Alyssa took her home so she could get some sleep and clean up. She’s been here the entire time.” A frown marred Randy’s face, like he wasn’t exactly happy with what he just said. Justin ignored him.

  “When you do it, you do
it all the way, don’t you?” Mat’s voice boomed in the relative quiet of the room, making Justin wince. He tried to smile then gave up. There was no reason to smile, to pretend. Not in front of these guys. He glanced down at his left arm, at his fingers sticking out from the soft cast, mottled and a little swollen.

  “Yeah, guess so.” His gaze drifted to the narrow table off to the side, and the Styrofoam cup sitting on it. Justin motioned with his head. “Can someone hand me that water?”

  “You allowed to drink?”

  “Hey, asshole, they wouldn’t have put it there if he couldn’t.”

  “Don’t jump in my shit. I was just checking.”

  Justin rolled his eyes then shot Mat a grateful look when he pushed the table over to him. Yeah, because God forbid anyone actually just hand him the cup. He closed his fingers around it and lifted it to his mouth, surprised at how much his hand was shaking, surprised at how weak he felt. He took a few sips from the straw then sat the cup back down, afraid he might drop it.

  “What was the score?” Justin knew they’d won the game, had a vague recollection of someone telling him that. But that was all he could remember. Everything was still fuzzy, nothing more than random glimpses here and there in his mind. Hell, he didn’t even know what day it was or how much time had passed since the game. At least a day. More likely two. Maybe.

  “Four to two. We had to get at least one extra goal for you.”

  “Yeah. And Murray’s being suspended for that hit. And fined. No idea for how long or how much, though.”

  Justin grunted, choosing not to say anything. What the hell could he say? He didn’t really care about the suspension or the fine, not when the damage was already done. Yeah, it was great news they were advancing to the third round. Great news they had a shot at winning the Cup two years in a row.

  Justin glanced back down at his arm.

  They’d be doing it all without him. Yeah, that was just fucking great.

  “So what’d the doctor say? You hear anything yet?”

  Justin shook his head. “Haven’t seen him yet.” And while he wouldn’t admit it to his teammates, that wasn’t a visit he was looking forward to. His mind was clearing enough now that he could remember more. The compound fracture. The sickening white of bone poking through torn flesh. Being told he needed surgery, that they’d be putting in plates and pins. Maybe some of the details were still missing or fuzzy, but he remembered that much.

  And that was enough. He’d be out for a while, he didn’t need a medical degree to know that much. What he didn’t know was how long. And that scared the hell out of him.

  He blew out a heavy breath and leaned his head back again, closing his eyes and grimacing as another flare of pain exploded in his arm. The guys were talking and laughing, their voices loud in the small room. Justin tried tuning them out, tried tuning everything out.

  He was tired. So fucking tired. Which made no sense. He’d been out of it for…he wasn’t sure how long. Long enough that he shouldn’t be tired. But all he wanted to do was sleep.

  No, first he wanted something for his arm, something to make the pain go away. Or at least reduce it to something a little more bearable. Then he wanted to sleep.

  The talking and laughter died down, followed by some throat clearing and foot shuffling. Someone’s rubber soles squeaked against the floor, followed by a solid thump and low grunt, then another rough throat clearing.

  “Justin, dude. Wake up.”

  “Christ, Mat. Stop with the fucking ‘dude’ all the time. I thought—” Someone yanked on Justin’s foot, twisting his toe under the thin blanket. He kicked out with his foot, jarring his arm in the process. “Fucking shit, you fucking asshole—”

  Justin opened his eyes, ready to tear into whoever had twisted his toe, then promptly snapped his mouth shut. All four of his teammates were suddenly glancing down at the floor, shifting their weight, looking more like guilty kids than brawny hockey players as the doctor hovered just inside the doorway, watching them.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Justin understood their sudden discomfort. The doctor looked like he was maybe all of eighteen years old. Short, maybe five-feet-six, if that, with a slight build. Intense dark eyes looked out at them from a light brown face, a ghost of a smile hovering on thin lips.

  No, he wasn’t a kid. The liberal sprinkling of gray in his dark hair and beard said that much. But the intensity of those dark eyes looking out from what appeared to be such a young face was a little disconcerting at first.

  The doctor ignored the shocked looks of his teammates and stepped into the room, all business as he moved around the bed and gently lifted Justin’s arm. Justin tried not to wince, tried to control his breathing as pain shot through the limb again. The doctor looked up at him, his face carefully blank, then went back to studying the arm. He reached into the edge of the soft cast and checked Justin’s pulse, pinched his fingers, had Justin wiggle them.

  “Does that hurt?”

  Justin wanted to tell him that fuck yes, it hurt. But not with his teammates standing at the foot of the bed, watching him. So he clenched his jaw and tried for a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe. A little.”

  “You are so full of it, Tome. You look like you’re ready to pass out.” Of course Mat would be the one to say that. If Justin could, he’d jump out of bed and slug him, just on principle.

  The doctor gently placed Justin’s arm by his side and gave it a gentle pat, wisely ignoring Mat and the other guys. “Surgery went well, and all the bones are now together and happy. I’ll have one of the nurses give you something more for the pain while we work on getting you discharged.”

  He patted his arm once more then grabbed a clipboard and started making notes, the tip of the pen scratching against the paper. “I have some motion exercises I want you to do, as tolerated. Ice. And I want to see you in a week. We’ll see how the swelling does, give you a different cast then.”

  The doctor finished with his notes and replaced the clipboard. Then he looked at Justin with those too-intense dark eyes. “You can probably start therapy in six weeks.”

  Six weeks, just to start therapy? That meant the end of June. Training camp started in September, which didn’t give him a whole hell of a lot of time.

  “What about—” Justin paused and cleared his throat, almost afraid of asking the question. He glanced around, saw the same question on his friends’ faces, the same hesitation. Justin cleared his throat again and looked back at the doctor. “How long before it’s back to normal?”

  “You mean before you’re back to playing? That’s going to be up to the team physician. It could be anywhere from three to six months.”

  Justin knew the doctor was still talking. The man’s mouth was moving, sounds were coming out. But he couldn’t make sense of any of them, not when all he heard was two words, repeating over and over.

  Six months. Six months. Six months.

  Justin closed his eyes, unable to look at the doctor, unable to look at his teammates. He didn’t want to see their pity, didn’t want to see his own horror reflected on their faces.

  Six months.

  Justin squeezed his eyes shut and forced his throat to work. Deep breaths, in and out, forcing himself to breathe normally.

  Forcing himself to pretend that his world hadn’t just crashed around him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Val pulled into the closest open space, hitting the brakes just a little too hard before putting the car in Park. She heard Justin’s swift intake of breath, more like a hiss of air through clenched teeth, and she winced.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m good.”

  He didn’t look good. He looked like he was ready to pass out, with his pale face and the sheen of sweat covering his brow, dampening the edges of his hair. She opened her mouth to apologize again, then snapped it shut and climbed out of the car, moving around to the passenger side. But Justin was quicker and already had the door opened, was grabbing th
e edge of it with his right hand and trying to stand. She hurried over to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, helping him.

  “Val, it’s a broken arm. I’ll survive.” The words were nothing more than empty bravado because he looped his right arm around her shoulders, accepting her help. She slammed the door shut then remembered his bag, the oversized white plastic one from the hospital. Never mind, she could get it later. It wasn’t like there was anything in there that he needed right now. Or anything he was likely to wear again, considering he’d gone straight to the hospital from the game.

  How long ago had that been? The game had been Tuesday night, he’d had surgery yesterday. Two days. It seemed so much longer, like a lifetime had gone by in the last forty-eight hours. She could only imagine what it felt like for Justin.

  She led him up the walk and into her building, across the lobby to the elevator. Justin leaned more heavily against her, his breathing harsh, his face a little paler.

  “Why do I have this weird feeling we’ve done this before?” Even his voice was ragged, drained and tense. Lines of pain creased his face even though he was doing his best to hide it.

  “I don’t know why you didn’t let them give you that last dose of medicine.”

  “And I don’t know why you didn’t just take me to my place.” He tried to smile. At least, she thought he did. It came out as more of a grimace. He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead then pulled back, watching her with a frown.

  “Yeah, definitely creepy déjà vu. I’d swear—”

  “Look, elevator’s here. Let’s go.” She tightened her arm around him and stepped into the elevator, thankful for the interruption. Justin didn’t have déjà vu. No, what he had was a glimpse of memory from that night she’d brought him back here, after he’d had too much to drink. She didn’t want him to remember, at least, not more than what she’d told him. Because how embarrassing would that be, for him to remember she’d actually made out with him, right here in the lobby, in the elevator?