Someone mentions a backboard and I sit up as best as I can. “No. I can skate. Help me.”
They hesitate, but Jack and Leo flank me on either side and lift me up. They all but carry me off, but at least I’m upright. The crowd is on their feet, clapping and cheering as I go.
I don’t remember much of the walk back to the locker rooms, but after the team doctors check me out, I’m told I likely have a concussion and a separated shoulder. I’m still struggling to focus, probably because of that concussion thing, but I hear enough to know they’re sending me to the hospital to fix my shoulder and check out my head. I feel like I’m outside of my body, watching myself in slow motion.
“Did it count?” I ask Hunter, the young trainer tasked with helping me out of my skates and uniform.
His brows pull together in confusion as he unlaces my right skate and yanks it off.
“The goal. Did it count?”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, man, it counted.”
The pain dulls. At least we got a goal.
3
YOU WOUND ME
BRIDGET
I hurry out of the break room, pulling my hair back and securing it with a clip.
My coworker Hannah falls into step beside me. Her brows lift and a playful smile tugs at her lips when she scans my face. “You look tired. Did you get any sleep today?”
If it were anyone else commenting on my appearance, I’d be offended, but Hannah’s words and scrutinizing gaze isn’t her being mean, she’s just one of those people who tells it like it is. And sadly, she’s right. I do look tired, but I guess there’s no hiding the fact I only got three hours of sleep.
“I slept,” I say with a hint of defensiveness in my tone.
“Oh yeah? How many hours?”
A small laugh escapes. “Hopefully enough to make it through another night.”
We slow our pace as we approach the nurses’ station to begin our shift.
I work nights as a registered nurse on the orthopedic floor of the hospital. I got placed here a month ago after six months working on the cardiac floor and a short stint on the psychiatric wing. I’m going to school to get my bachelor’s degree in nursing. Once I have my BSN, I want to be a pediatric nurse. I fell in love with peds during my RN clinicals, but so far, a spot hasn’t opened up.
For now, I’m bouncing around different areas of the hospital, getting experience and filling in wherever I’m needed. Moving around in the hospital means I haven’t stayed in one spot long enough to form many friendships with my coworkers, but Hannah is one of my favorites.
She offers a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know how you manage it all. Working all night and then going to school all day. You need more rest.”
“I got a nap in at lunch, and I slept a couple more hours this evening.”
Her mouth falls in a straight line, silently communicating her disapproving thoughts on my schedule.
Back-to-back night shifts during the week are the worst. I get off work at seven in the morning, head to my place for a quick shower, then go to a full day of classes. When I’m done, it’s basically time to be back at work. Despite the lack of sleep, I love my job. Totally worth the bags under my eyes.
“I’m fine. Let’s just hope it’s busy tonight or I might fall asleep on my feet.”
“You haven’t heard?” she asks as we stop to look at the board.
“Heard what?”
“We’ve got a VIP.” Her lips curve into a smile.
My brows lift at her excited expression. “That’s good news?”
“Ask me who it is.” She nudges me with an elbow, and her smile widens.
“I don’t care who it is.”
“Just ask me,” she insists, practically vibrating next to me.
“Okay, fine. Who is it?”
Before she can answer, the charge nurse on the day shift shouts my name. Sandy is a frightening woman who has worked at the hospital longer than I’ve been alive. Her patients love her, but everyone that works with her gives her a wide berth. One of her jobs is to create the schedule for the nightshift. We had a new hire last month that talked back to her and barely lived to regret it. She quit on day two.
I happen to like Sandy’s no-nonsense, slightly prickly personality. She still scares me, but I like her.
After startling, I aim a wobbly smile at her. “Yes?”
“I’m assigning you the VIP in 601 tonight.”
“Lucky,” Hannah hisses and then leaves me to start her shift.
Lucky? Is she joking? I once overheard a nurse trade two vacation days to avoid taking a VIP patient. No one wants to get stuck with a VIP.
All I’ve heard since I started working here is how management hovers nearby VIP rooms, popping in and out unexpectedly and scrutinizing care decisions, and that the patients are often more demanding. Sometimes it’s a doctor’s family member or a loved one of someone in administration, or it could be a donor who gives large sums of money to the hospital each year. The criteria for who makes a VIP is broad and not clearly defined.
But as I look around, I notice a few more jealous gazes turned in my direction, which makes no sense to me.
Sandy brings both hands up to rest on either end of the stethoscope around her neck. “Let’s do the bedside report for 601 first.”
Nodding my agreement, I follow her toward the room of who I’m sure is going to be the most stressful patient of the night. On the plus side, I probably won’t be bored enough to realize how tired I am.
The hospital is laid out in an L-shape. One long hallway with patient rooms extends out from the nurses’ station, and on the other side are four more patient rooms—though these are bigger, nicer, and often reserved for cases the hospital deems a higher priority. Room 601 is one of the nicer rooms. Maybe the nicest since it sits at the end of the hallway. Every floor has one room at the very end of the short hallway with windows that look out onto the city. The executive offices are on the top floor on this side of the building for that very reason.
“So, who is the patient?” I ask her as we pass by empty rooms, trying to shake any negative thoughts. Whoever it is, they’re just another person that needs the same empathy and care.
She stops in front of the supply closet and hands me two extra pillows and a blanket. “Are you a hockey fan?”
“Hockey?”
She nods.
“No. Not really. Why?” As I ask the question, my throat goes dry.
“I never really cared for it either, but my husband is a diehard. We always go to a couple of Wildcat games each season. He’ll be so jealous when I tell him I got to meet one of his favorite players.”
The implication of her words hits me with force. A Wildcat hockey player is here?
I can’t seem to find my voice to ask her which player. Besides, there are a dozen other guys it could be. There’s no way it’s him. It can’t be.