Page 97 of Game Misconduct

thirty-seven

. . .

Bex

No.

No, no, no.

Nick is sprawled on the ice, and he’s not getting up.

Beside me, Ceci clutches my arm. “Breathe, B,” she whispers. Like she’s afraid to talk too loudly.

The entire arena has gone silent as the medical staff converge on Nick’s prone body. My heart leaps into my throat as they wrap him in a cervical collar and load him onto a stretcher.

Annaliese is on duty tonight. She’s surely making her way down from the team’s booth to the exam room. She’s in charge.

But I can’t just leave him there.

The book club has gathered for the game, and there are eight of us here in Ceci’s suite. We were supposed to grab a drink after the game so I could finally introduce them to Nick.

“Go,” Sadie says, nudging me. “Take care of your man.”

Jumping out of my seat, I fly across the suite, down the hallway, and to the staff-only elevator. I flash my employee badge at the sensor and jab at the button about seventeen thousand times, until the metal doors creak open. It takes about five hundred years to lurch downstairs.

When I get to the ground level, I sprint through the tunnels until I reach the exam room. The tunnel smells like rubber and melted ice, the roar of the crowd reduced to a dull, distant thrum. Annaliese—Dr. Palmer—has Nick on the table, the lights dimmed.

He’s already stripped off his jersey and pads. His bare chest is slick with sweat, and he’s clutching his head, his posture slumped. Defeated. He looks different like this. Smaller. Not weak—just human in a way nobody else never gets to see.

That’s when it lands.

Not like a lightning strike. More like a truth I’ve been circling for weeks finally becomes unavoidable. I don’t panic. I don’t try to talk myself out of it. I just know.

I love him.

I love him because the man who jokes through pain and shrugs off bruises is quiet as he battles through the injury. Because he’s scared, just enough to be honest about it, and still chooses to trust me with that fear.

“Dr. Whitney,” Annaliese says. “I could use a second opinion.”

She’s a neurologist where I’m a neuroscientist, and between the two of us, we balance each other out. We work together on diagnosis and treatment plans. We’re two sides of the same coin, and all we want is to take care of our athletes.

“I—”

She doesn’t know. Not about us. I’ve been putting off this conversation.

I don’t want to be in this room as his doctor. I want to be his girlfriend. I am his girlfriend. And his girlfriend doesn’t belong in this room.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I blurt.

“I know you’re not on duty, but I could use a second pair of eyes on these results.” She holds the tablet out to me. “He lost consciousness for about four and a half minutes. By the book, it’s grade one, but he’s having difficulty focusing, which could tip him into grade two territory.”

My stomach sinks. He’s had seven brain injuries in his past, and each one increases the chance of the severity of the next. A grade two concussion is dangerous.

I snap on a pair of nitrile gloves and look him over. His eyes are bloodshot, staring at the floor. I put a finger under his chin, tipping his head up, and he winces.

He focuses on me, and his brow furrows. “Bex?”

“It’s okay,” I murmur, moving my finger from side to side to test his pupillary reaction. “It’ll be okay.”