Page 58 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
Through the haze of pain, I hear Isabella's voice, steady but laced with an undercurrent of panic. "What do you need? Tell me how to help," she pleads, her fingers squeezing mine.
The medic is a flurry of activity, checking vitals, adjusting supports. "We need to stabilize the knee before we can move him. Keep him conscious," she barks orders, his professionalism a thin veil over the tension.
The world tilts and spins as they transfer me to the couch in my cabin. I'm vaguely aware of Isabella's constant presence, her voice a soothing hum in the background. The medic administers painkillers, his movements efficient but gentle. "This should help with the pain," she says, but her eyes are grim.
Isabella hovers, torn between being in the way and wanting to help. "Ice, we need ice," she says, darting off to fetch it.
I want to tell her it's okay, to put on the brave face I'm known for, but the words get lost in a haze of pain and medication. The world is slipping away, my consciousness ebbing as the painkillers take hold.
The last thing I remember is Isabella's voice, a steady stream of words meant to comfort, to keep me anchored. But the darkness is too inviting, too easy to slip into. I let go, the pain and the fear and the fight all fading away into nothingness.
***
Grogginess weighs on me like a heavy blanket as consciousness slowly seeps back. My eyes flutter open to a blurred world, a dim room lit by the soft, muted glow of a winter afternoon. Snow cascades down outside the window in heavy sheets, painting a tranquil scene at odds with the turmoil inside me.
I try to piece together the fragments of my memory, but they're elusive, slipping away like shadows. Then, as if summoned by my confusion, the door creaks open and Isabella steps in. Her presence is like a break in the clouds, a clarity amidst the fuzziness. She's ethereal in the dim light, her concern etched in the lines of her face.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, her voice tinged with worry.
"Like I’ve been hit directly in the knee by a truck," I reply, attempting a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. My knee throbs with a persistent ache, a painful reminder of my folly, and my head feels like it's trapped in a vice.
"You've had quite the tumble, Mr. Steele," she says, eyeing my knee with a critical gaze. She carefully checks the bandage, her touch gentle yet firm. "It's a good pull on the knee and a bit of a knock to the head. Fortunately, it's nothing too grave. But, and I mean this," she adds with emphasis, "you need rest. No strenuous activity, especially on the ice."
She pauses, her eyes meeting mine. "And you're lucky it's not worse. You didn't aggravate that old ACL injury, but you were dangerously close. A bad enough injury could have you walking with a limp for the rest of your life. Remember that."
"Understood," I say, the tone of my voice reflecting the gravity of her warning. "I'll take it easy. No heroics."
Isabella's not pleased, her arms crossed as she listens to the medic's assessment. I can see the lecture forming in her eyes, but before she can unleash it, something catches her attention. Her eyes widen in shock, and without a word, she turns and rushes out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, leaving a trail of unanswered questions behind her.
Lying there, I'm left in a stew of confusion and concern, the medic's words echoing in my mind. I've dodged a bullet, but the incident has left its mark. I can't shake the feeling that something's not right, a sense of unease that goes beyond my injuries. And Isabella's sudden exit only deepens the mystery.
As the medic continues her checks, offering advice on pain management and recovery, my thoughts are elsewhere. I'm concerned about Isabella, about the look of alarm that had flashed across her face. What could have possibly caused her to react that way?
The window offers no answers, just the steady fall of snow that seems to isolate us further from the world. I'm trapped in my own body, limited by pain and injury, and now, seemingly cut off from the one person I need to connect with.
The medic wraps up her examination with a final word of advice, her tone stern yet concerned. "Mr. Steele, you need to stay off that knee as much as possible. Rest is crucial for your recovery," she instructs, her eyes scanning mine for understanding.
I nod, absorbing her words while a part of me already schemes ways to get back on my feet.
"However," she continues, sensing my restless spirit, "if you absolutely need to move around, I'll leave a pair of crutches for you. But only for necessary movement, understand? No gallivanting around, especially not back on the ice."
Her words are a clear directive, a non-negotiable order that even my stubbornness can't argue against. "Got it," I reply, a touch of reluctant acceptance in my voice.
"Good," she says, her expression softening slightly. "Take care of that knee. You're no good to anyone if you're permanently sidelined."
With that final piece of advice, she gathers her things and exits, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the unexpected concern for Isabella's sudden departure.
I settle back against the pillows, the painkillers beginning to dull the sharp edges of my discomfort. But they can't numb the worry, the growing sense of unease. Something's up, and I intend to find out what it is.
29
Isabella
Hunchedoverthebathroomsink, I rinse my mouth for the third time, trying to rid myself of the lingering taste of my upheaved lunch. My mind is a chaotic swirl of worry for Dom and frustration with him for his reckless behavior on the ice. Seriously, what was he thinking? The nerve of the guy to put himself—and us—in such a situation. Yet here I am, my stomach in knots over him.
A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts. "Come in," I call out, hoping my voice doesn't betray the turmoil inside me.
The door opens, and in walks the team medic, a woman with a kind but no-nonsense demeanor. "Isabella, are you alright?" she asks, concern evident in her eyes.
