Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

“It’ll be fine by morning. I’ve taken a puck to the balls before, and my junk works fine. No stupid spider is going to get in the way of me playing tomorrow.”

“If I don’t clear you, you can’t play.”

I’m about to plead my case, but she puts up her hand. “I deal with athletes with medical issues for a living. You can argue with me until you’re blue in the face, but if I tell you it’s not safe to play, it’s not safe to play. You’ll find another way to do what you came here to do.”

“Come on, Debbie. It’s the last day.”

She puts one hand on her hip and points at my sheet-covered crotch with the other. There’s an obvious bump. “You only get one set of those. They’re not car parts. You can’t replace them. It’d be a shame if nothing worked because you decided to be stubborn, wouldn’t it?”

I consider what she’s saying. I’ve had so many hockey injuries; ninety percent of the time I’m fine in a couple of days. Sure there’s residual pain. Sometimes there are creaks and cracks that shouldn’t be there, considering I’m only twenty-three.

The occasions when it takes longer to heal, I dial back the workouts, do some physio, swim instead of run, and take the required herbs and supplements to get my body back in order. The possibility that my man unit might not work the way it’s supposed to thanks to a spider bite is some scary shit. I’ve just started using it again. I need to make sure I’m functional when I see Sunny, which I’m hoping is soon.

I expel a heavy breath. “Okay. But let’s do what we can to make this better as quick as possible. I want to make tomorrow count. Plus I’m supposed to see my girlfriend, so the faster things are back to normal, the better.”

“You’ll need the better part of a week to recover from that bite.”

“Yeah. That’s way too long.”

“We’ll discuss options after the blood tests.” She slips out through the gap in the curtain, leaving me alone.

I take out my camera and snap a few pics of my swollen nut sac. From below it looks massive, and my dick looks average. It’s not flattering. I may not show this to anyone.

I tap into the Wi-Fi and check my messages. I still haven’t heard from Sunny, which is a bit of a pisser considering dickfaced bearded wonder has been posting pictures, again.

I send her a text. I can’t tell if autocorrect is screwing me or not, but I can’t listen to it because of the kid beyond the curtain. I mention the posts from Patchy Bushman. I’ve been dealing with this for less than a week, and I’m already frustrated with it. I hate this feelings crap. For the first time since fifth grade—when I got my stupid nickname—I’m insecure. Today can suck my gigantic balls.

Next I search the Internet for images of fishing spiders. I shudder as countless pictures pop up on the tiny screen. Those things are huge. I’m almost positive that’s what bit me. Because I’m curious, and sometimes stupid, I add the word bite after fishing spider.

“Holy fucking shit.” I clamp a hand over my mouth. That Michael kid is out there, and I shouldn’t swear in front of him. Then I start to hyperventilate. The bites featured are right out of a horror movie. I’ll be lucky if I still have my balls when this is over.

Nurse Debbie comes back, and I hold the phone up. “You said the damage wouldn’t be lasting!”

She takes the device from me. “That’s a brown recluse bite, not a fishing spider bite.” She clicks on another picture and hands me the phone. It’s bad, but not nearly as terrifying. Still, it’s my balls.

Nurse Debbie takes some blood and offers me painkillers and a strong antihistamine.

“How long do you think it will take for the swelling to go down?” I put my shorts back on. Tucking everything in is a feat.

“It depends. It could take several hours or a few days.”

“A few days? Is there any way to make that happen faster?”

She taps her pen on the clipboard. “Antihistamine injections work faster than taking them orally.”

“Do you have to inject it into my balls?” I can’t hold back the shudder.

She laughs. “Oh, God no! The arm or the butt works best.”

“Let’s do that, then.”

She gets a syringe and stabs me in the arm. It doesn’t deflate my balls instantly, or relieve the burning itch. If this is anything like an STD, I never want one. “So I’m good to go?”

“For now. I’d still like you to check in after the campfire, and then again in the morning. I should have the blood test results by then as well, although I expect they’ll come back clean.”