Forever Pucked (Pucked 4)

I grab it and take a deep breath before I push up. It hurts like a motherfucker. There’s no limit to the discomfort: my legs, my shoulder, my face, my ribs. Pain radiates out until all I can do is breathe around the white spots in my vision and the sharp stabbing ache that makes it impossible to move.

“Alex?” My dad puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Give me a second.”

“I can get you a chair.”

“I’m just stiff. I’ve been lying down for hours.” I shuffle forward, and my stomach rolls. I’ve taken hits before. I’ve had some bruises and bumps, stitches, a couple of previous concussions—but they were nothing like this—and I’ve never broken anything, let alone multiple anythings.

I hold the IV tighter and take a few more cautious steps. Not having the use of one arm makes everything harder. My balance is off, and the aches are worse than I expected.

I grit my teeth and keep going. Ten feet seems like ten kilometers. My dad keeps his hand close to my elbow. Though if I drop, he’s not going to be able to do a damn thing to stop me. Sweat beads my forehead and drips down my back. A trip to the bathroom has never been this difficult. I finally make it to the toilet and drop onto the seat, breathing hard.

“I’ll give you some privacy and bring a chair for the trip back,” my dad says.

I don’t argue.

He closes the door, and I let my chin fall. Even that small movement causes my head to swim. I’m freaked out. I’ve never been injured this badly. I relieve myself, but I don’t think I have the energy left to get up and wash my hands. All I want to do is lie down and close my eyes.

A knock at the door reminds me I’m still sitting on the can. “Gimme a minute.”

“Do you need any help in there?”

It’s Violet. Fuck. “I’m good.”

After a pause she says, “Okay. Your dad has a chair out here, so when you’re ready I can bring it in for you.”

I definitely don’t want her to see me like this. “You can send my dad in with it.”

“O-okay.”

Muffled conversation filters through the fake-wood panel before it opens. My dad backs into the bathroom with the chair. Violet’s holding the door for him, so she ends up seeing me anyway, sitting like an asshole on the fucking toilet because getting up is too difficult. She drops her eyes and turns away, her fingers going to her mouth. Then the door closes, and it’s just me and my dad.

He’s usually an easygoing guy—mellow, doesn’t interfere much with my life and my choices—but today he seems far less passive than usual. He’s frowning, hovering. There are very few things I hate more than appearing weak, mentally or physically. Right now I feel both.

I make the move to the wheelchair. My dad flushes and pushes me over to the sink, where I finally get to see my face. I look like I’ve been in a serious fight. With a truck. Both of my eyes are black, and the stitches across the bridge of my nose are dark with blood, making it look worse than I’m sure it is. My face is swollen, not to mention bruised along the left side of my jaw.

“It was a hard hit, Alex. It took your helmet off. We were watching the game. You can stop pretending it’s not that bad.”

Well, that explains the stitches and bruised jaw. I wash the one hand I can move, focusing on my fingers. “I’m pretty fucking scared.”

He rests a palm on my shoulder. “You’re worried about your career?”

“Yeah.”

“Because of the concussion.” It’s a statement.

“I’ve never had one this bad. I keep waking up confused.” One serious concussion is manageable, maybe even a couple, but after a certain point, the stakes get higher and the residual impact becomes too risky.

“We don’t even know the extent of the damage yet, Alex, or the projected recovery time. Let’s focus on accepting that you’re not getting back on the ice next week and move forward from there.”

He’s right. I know this. But hearing it makes it more real than I want it to be. I have to hope for the best, which is quick healing and a fast recovery so I can get back in the game before the end of the season.

When my dad wheels me out of the bathroom, we find Violet and my mom having a whispered conversation. They’re both red-eyed. Violet turns when she hears the door open and comes to me, maybe with the intention of helping, but there’s nothing she can do since she can’t lift me. I manage to get my own ass into bed, but I allow her and my mom to fuss over tucking me in.