Page 99 of Game Misconduct

“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “I’ll be here for you. Every step of the way.”

A small smile twitches on his lips. “I know you will.”

His fingers curl in the blanket, restless. “Everything feels… fuzzy.”

“I know. Try not to move your head.”

“Hard not to,” he says. “Feels like it’s full of cotton.”

My throat tightens. I’m in love with him. I love him so fucking much, and I’m left standing helplessly by his side. I hate that I can’t do anything to take away his pain. To smooth everything over.

At the hospital, the transfer is painless. ER staff take over, voices calm, efficient. In a private VIP room, he answers questions again, slower this time, brow furrowed in concentration. I stand at the foot of the stretcher, arms folded tight to keep from reaching for him. I’m his support system, not his doctor. Not anymore.

The CT room is bright and cold. They help him onto the narrow table, fitting his head into a molded cradle with foam blocks on either side, gentle but firm.

“Stay very still,” the tech says. “It’ll be quick.”

As the table slides forward, his eyes find mine one last time. “You’ll be right there?”

“Right here,” I promise, stepping to where he can still see me through the opening of the scanner.

The machine whirs to life, clicking as it rotates. Thirty seconds stretch into an eternity. I watch his chest rise and fall, counting the breaths without meaning to.

When it’s over, relief hits me so hard my knees weaken.

Back in the ER bay, we wait. Minutes tick by, each one loud in the silence. He rubs at his temple, jaw tight.

Finally, Annaliese returns. “CT’s clean. No bleed, no swelling.”

I exhale heavily. As much as I want to see the films myself, I know I have no right to ask. Later, if he wants me to review his case, we can talk about that. But for now, I don’t want to overstep. My main concern is him feeling better.

“But,” she continues, “that doesn’t mean he’s in the clear. He’s got a concussion. Symptoms lasting this long put him out until he’s fully recovered.”

Nick groans. “Knew there was a catch.”

“I’ve got to get back to the arena, do some paperwork,” she says. “You’re good to get him home?”

Briskly, I nod. “I’ve got him from here.”

She softens. “I’m glad he has you. Glad he has some support.”

“Me too,” I whisper.

A nurse comes by to discharge him, and I fill out the paperwork to the best of my ability. I don’t know his street address—it’s plugged into my car’s GPS—or his full date of birth—just his birthday, not birth year—or his social security number. I list myself and Elsy as his emergency contacts, and⁠—

Fuck. Elsy. She’s at home, watching the game. No doubt she saw what happened.

Pulling out my phone, I find three missed calls from her. I fire off a quick text to our best friend, letting her know he’ll be okay and that I’m taking care of him. She replies with a heart immediately.

“Let’s get you home.” We drove to the arena together, and his car is still there. I hail a rideshare in the app. “Car is seventeen minutes out.”

He looks at me, eyes clear despite the pain. “You okay?”

My laugh is weak. Tense. “You’re the one on the gurney.” Because if I don’t deflect, if I let myself think about everything that’s happened tonight, I will have a panic attack. Because if I don’t keep putting one foot in front of the other, I will break down.

And he needs me to be strong. At least for right now. Later, once we’re home safe and he’s tucked into bed, I can have my meltdown. I can take the time I need to process this.

“Still.” His voice drops. “I hate seeing you worried.”

My heart stutters, and I reach out, finally, resting my hand over his. The warmth of his skin in the chilly ER bay helps center me. Reminds me he’s alive, that his heart is beating, that blood is coursing through his veins.

He’s not dead. He’ll recover and come back from this.

He has to.

“I’m not worried,” I lie.

He squeezes my fingers, trusting me completely. “Stay with me,” he murmurs.

“I’m not going anywhere.”