Page 107 of Game Misconduct

When Bex explained that she couldn’t be my doctor, I have to admit, I was relieved. As much as I love her, I don’t want her to treat me like a patient. Like an invalid. Sure, I’m a little banged up, but I’ll recover. I’ll get better. Because she’s taking care of me.

Because I couldn’t do this without her. I love her. Even when she crowds me, even when her face creases with pity, I still love her.

I just have to figure out how to tell her.

Do I do some big, grand gesture? Do I blurt it out? Is it too soon? I don’t want to scare her away.

Need bubbles up inside me. I have to tell her. Now, now, now.

Opening my mouth, I’m ready to blurt it all out. But when she nods, carding her hand through my hair, I lose my nerve.

“I know you’re a fully capable adult. I just want to take care of you. Want you to feel better.”

“It’ll just take some time.” That’s the only way to get through this.

Time that I don’t necessarily have.

I’m not worried about my position on the team. My second line center spot will be there when I’m ready to take it back. Yes, Reynolds stepped into my position when I got hurt, and a kid from the minors backfilled his spot, and it might take some work to get back to game-ready, but I’ve done this before. I know what it takes. Without being conceited, this team loves me. They need me.

I just don’t know if it’s what I want.

Eight brain injuries, this one the worst of them all. I know there’s a risk of them getting exponentially worse, but I always kind of chalked it up to a scary threat and not the actual reality.

And my actual reality? It’s pretty fucking scary.

It’s been nine days, and I still can’t move quickly without a headache bursting out, much less skate. How the hell am I supposed to play hockey like this? How am I supposed to put my life on the line every night?

Two and a half seasons left. Can I last that long? I honestly don’t know. I don’t want to retire. I don’t want to be done with hockey. But I might need to be, before it’s done with me.

Like McKittrick⁠—

“Are you hungry?” Bex asks, pulling me out of another spiral.

Not for food, only for her.

I thread my fingers through her hair, bringing her mouth to mine. I take her lips in a soft, needy kiss.

But like she has every time since my injury, she pulls back first.

“Let’s get you something to eat,” she says, getting to her feet. She holds out her hand, and I take it, hating that I need the help to get up.

My head spins as I stand, and I pause, letting my equilibrium adjust. When I finally feel like I won’t keel over—or worse, puke—I squeeze her hand.

The lights are dimmed in the main room, too. I settle at the kitchen counter and watch as she pulls two glass containers from the fridge, heats them, and dishes them onto plates. When Bex started staying over, I increased the portions Tyler made to include food for her, too. Because she doesn’t need to eat the high-protein, low-fat slop I have to force down.

We’re silent as we eat. I don’t want to talk about the team, or my recovery, or how I’m feeling, and I definitely don’t want to snap at her for asking. Whatever’s on her mind, she doesn’t bring it up. I can’t decide whether I’m grateful for that or resentful. Maybe it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.

A knock on the door interrupts the silence, and I start to slide off my stool, but Bex gets there first. She opens the door to MacGregor and Logan.

“Hey, Doc Whitney,” the captain says with an easygoing smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here. The patient doing okay?”

Grumbling under my breath, I ease off the stool and around the kitchen peninsula.

“Fuck off.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “We wanted to check on you. Make sure you have everything before the road trip.”

“I’m fine.” Standing behind Bex, my hands on her shoulders, I glare at my teammates. “Off you fuck now. Bye-bye.”