Page 22 of Lucky Puck
Doc shakes his head. “Why don’t you find a seat, young lady?” He turns to Lou. “Get her a glass of cold water.”
“No, I’m okay,” I say to Lou when he takes my arm to lead me away. It’s irrational to want to stay and subject myself to watching the kid get stitched up, but I feel compelled, as if abandoning him to that super needle would be cruel.
“It’s okay, Brooks. Go have a seat,” Brody says, no irreverent grin, not even a smile or a hint of his dimple. He’s serious.
Stepping away from him, I tug at my suit jacket, attempting to straighten myself, to get a grip.
“I’m okay,” I say, convincing no one. “It was just… a shock. I’m not squeamish. Not really.” It’s true, though I’d never prove it by this room full of skepticism.
“Are you sure?” Doc asks. “I can’t afford to have you fainting on the patient again while I’m wielding my needle near his eyeballs.”
Brody snorts. I blanch. Sabien laughs, and Lou rolls his eyes.
Maybe I should go hang with Stubby in the other room. But there’s no way I’m relegating myself to keeping company with a man who clearly put himself in the category of an impersonal official who cares more about the NHL than my client’s well-being.
I nod. “I’m positive.” Stiffening my spine, I avoid Brody’s eyes. In fact, I avoid looking in his direction altogether as Doc pushes Brody to lie back down on the table, instead staring at the floor for a few seconds and then feeling like time is purposely moving slowly while Brody grunts under Doc’s ministrations. Refusing to think of that needle, especially refusing to think about that kiss, I look up at the clock.
Sabien leans in and speaks quietly, “He’s taking it like a man. I was afraid he was going to pass out, but I think you scared him into keeping his shit together.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s not a fan of needles of any kind, especially not big ones.”
“No kidding. Who is?”
Sabien smiles at my sarcasm. “Good point. But you made him see how he’d look if he passed out, so—”
“What do you mean how he’d look? How did I look?” Panic edges close, but I take a personal hygiene check and note that I haven’t drooled, or worse, as I swipe at my mouth.
“You looked helpless,” he says. “That’s not Brody’s style.”
“It’s not my style either. Helpless is the last thing I’d be called. By anyone. Ever.”
“Don’t worry, I believe you. I saw how you took care of things this morning.”
I’m not sure if the twinkle in his eye means he’s being sarcastic or if it’s admiration.
I’m choosing admiration.
“Well, that does it,” Doc says, turning to us and shutting off the bright light.
I take a tentative peek at Brody, and relief washes through me as he sits up, lopsided grin in place, and though he looks a bit paler than usual, the cut is miraculously clean and tidy.
“Doc, you’re a miracle worker,” I blurt.
“So I’ve been told.”
“He’s a plastic surgeon in his day job,” Lou says. Doc shoots him a scowl.
I smile. “That’s great because we need Brody to look his best for a commercial shoot tomorrow.”
Brody’s smile falters as he jumps down from the training table, still in his skates and gear. He holds onto the table when he wobbles on the landing, but he recovers so quickly, I’m not sure I should be worried.
“Right. We can’t let the sponsor down,” he says, and there’s no mistaking his sarcasm.
“You’re more worried about playing—”
Sabien cuts me off. “We’re all concerned about the state of Brody’s health with all its implications.” He stands close to Brody, and I instinctively go to Brody’s other side as we walk towards the door.
