Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
That warm-belly feeling floods through me again, the same one that got to me in the arcade when Lane called me a loser and somehow made me feel accepted.
I make a mental note to ask one of the doctors at the hospital if this heat in my gut is normal, because mushy, emotional warmth isn’t something I’ve ever had to deal with before.
Maybe it’s stomach cancer or something.
The wait is excruciating, even more so than the gash on my face. Though that doesn’t actually hurt at all right now. “Drugs a good,” I murmur, answering a question Lane didn’t ask.
We were taken to a VIP suite in one of Chicago’s top hospitals, which I didn’t even know was a thing. We need to get on this VIP thing back in San Jose because my room looks like a hotel suite. Only thing is I’ve been left here alone with Lane since we arrived and they pumped me full of painkillers, and Lane has barely said a word since.
It only makes me more worried about my eye.
If you strip hockey away from me, what’s left? Hockey has been the only consistent thing in my life. It became my lifeline. My support.
The last couple of months, I’ve had it in my head that the end of my career will happen because every team in the NHL would get sick of my antics and think I’m not worth the drama. An injury was the last thing on my mind. Lane sits on the side of my bed, next to my good eye, and he grasps my hand.
“I know you’re trying to reassure me, but quit it with the pity.” I pull my hand out from under his.
He takes it back. “I’m not trying to reassure you because telling you everything will be okay would be complete bullshit when a doctor hasn’t even looked at you yet. I’m just letting you know that I’m here for you because no matter what the outcome, you’ll need a support system in place.”
“You think I’m going to lose my eye, don’t you?”
“I’m more worried about your mangled face. You’ve practically gotten away with murder because of your looks. You’re going to have to learn to—” He gasps. “—be friendly and bring out your real personality.”
Why is it that when he insults me, I want to swoon?
I laugh, but it’s hard because my face feels tight. “Shit. Does that mean I have to be genuine? I don’t know how to do that.”
Lane’s hand squeezes mine. “Yes, you do. I’ve seen it. All you have to learn is how to show it to other people. From the couple of times I’ve seen you with your friends, I get the impression the Collective don’t even know who you are deep down.”
They don’t. No one does.
And I’m starting to suspect that neither do I.
“No one likes the real me.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he says, “I do.”
We’re thankfully interrupted by them collecting me for some tests, including a CT to make sure I don’t have a bad concussion. Because the laceration is so close to my eye, they want to put me under to stitch it up and get a better look at my actual eye to assess the damage and possibly repair it if they’re able to.
It’s going to be a long night.
It’s tempting to ask them to sedate me so I can sleep through everything, not just for the surgery, but I already know the answer will be no.
Seconds tick by, and now that I’m alone and only with the doctors, I get a glimpse of my future without hockey.
It’s fucking lonely.
I let the medical staff poke and prod me. I sign forms I can’t even read because my bad eye is covered, and my good eye is blurry, but before I know it, I’m waking up in recovery with half of my face numb.
I ask the recovery nurse if they took my eyeball, but all she says is, “Don’t worry, dear. All of your important parts are still intact.” Then I have to wonder what actually came out of my mouth. I thought I asked about eyeballs, but maybe I said balls …
“You can ease up on the painkillers,” I say. “I think they’re making me loopy.”
“Sure, it’s the painkillers that are doing that.” Lane sounds close, but I have to twist my head to find him.
“Have they told you anything?”
“Only that you hit on every single male in your operating room before they put you under.”
“Did I?”
Lane laughs. “No, actually, but that you even asked tells me all I need to know.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re going to be fine. I was worried when they said you were on your best behavior, like maybe you were dead and they hadn’t realized because you were so quiet, but you’ve reassured me you’re not a corpse.”