Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Melissa?” I croak softly, not wanting to wake Gram.
Mel looks up, her eyes locking on mine. A beat later, she’s out of her chair, crossing the room on swift, silent feet. “Hey,” she whispers, tucking her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. “How are you feeling?”
I start to sigh, but it sends pain flashing through my shoulder, so I stop. “Like garbage. What’s the verdict? What did the doctor say? How long am I going to be out?”
“I’m not sure,” Melissa says, glancing toward Gram. “They mostly talked to Delores. I didn’t want to stick my nose in since I’m not family.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here. Surprised, but…glad.”
“You don’t remember seeing me before?” she asks, caution in her voice that makes me nervous.
“No.” I wince as I try to sit up and sharper pain stabs into my neck.
“Lie still.” She reaches for a remote control I didn’t notice sitting on the mattress. “I think this should do it.” She pushes a button and I’m lifted into a more upright position, one that eases the pain in my neck, but makes my shoulder bones feel like they’re grinding together with no connective tissue.
I curse as sweat breaks out on my upper lip and a wave of nausea rolls through my mid-section.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” she says. “Should I put you back down?”
“No, it’s fine,” I grit out, as the pain starts to dull a bit. “Now that I’m still, it’s…better.”
“Let me go get a nurse,” Mel says. “You’re probably due for something for the pain. They had you pretty drugged up before. I’m guessing it was for a reason.”
“No,” I say, resisting the urge to reach for her hand. I’ve learned my lesson about moving the hard way. “I need my head clear to talk to the doctor. Whatever they gave me messed me up. I don’t remember anything after they loaded me into the ambulance behind the arena.”
That isn’t completely true. The longer I’m awake, the more bits and pieces of lost time flash on my mental screen. I remember feeling grateful to see Gram and Melissa standing by the entrance when they rolled me into the ER, pain as the nurse prepped the wound at my neck for surgery, and something about the tooth fairy and a blow job that I don’t want to think about.
Then there’s the fact that I’m pretty sure I told Melissa that I love her, but hopefully she’ll chock that up to the drugs.
There’s no reason for her to think I was serious. We haven’t made contact since that night in November—not on the phone or via text message or so much as a single like on a social media post. (Though I’ve been studying her feed with the focus of a student cramming for a final that’s twenty-five percent of his grade.)
No matter how many times I tell myself I’m going to forget about Mel, as soon as I’m alone at the end of a long day, I find myself scrolling straight to her feed. There, I torture myself with pictures of her latest food experiment, Mel playing in the snow with her son, or looking adorable in her chef hat as she garnishes a hundred tiny salad plates with the focus of a general preparing her troops for battle.
In pictures, she’s the fun, vibrant person I wish she’d let me close to, the one I’ve had a crush on since high school, the woman I spent one incredible night with before she pushed me away.
She was just scared, I know that. Scared of letting her guard down with a guy who teased her when we were kids and of letting herself have feelings for a man who doesn’t fit into her perfect, small-town life. But I’m pretty sure she has no idea that’s why she went on the offensive the morning after our epic sex fest, and I’m in no place to help her work through her fears right now.
I’m too deep in the fear zone myself to have words of wisdom for anyone else. Though having her here is nice, a reason to hold onto hope in a world that suddenly feels very dark.
If I’m out for the rest of the year, the chances I’ll be starting for the Midges next season are slim. I might not be part of the team at all. I might be sent back down to the minor leagues or, even worse, told my time chasing the dream is over. After nearly ten years of working my ass off and finally hitting the ice at thirty-two, as one of the oldest rookies in the NHL, this could be how my story ends.
“I need to keep my head on straight and get some answers,” I say, my voice rough and the backs of my eyes beginning to sting. I tell myself it’s the pain making me tear up and suck in a bracing breath. “Can you please go get a doctor? Or a nurse? Someone who knows what’s going on with my busted body and can fill me in?”