Hot Puck (Rough Riders Hockey 2)

Gabe gave a single nod. “Got it.” They slowed as Paul paused at a door, entered a code, and stepped through. “Hey,” Gabe asked Eden, “think I could ride in the back with him?”

Eden shot him a you-can’t-be-serious look.

Gabe shrugged and smiled. “I’m dying for his autograph.”

“And I’m dying for my paramedic’s license.” Which included a certain number of patient cases or hours as an EMT. Eden had opted for cases over hours since she worked at one of the busiest ambulance companies but couldn’t give a lot of hours.

“I’ll give you the call on paper,” Gabe offered, hopeful.

“Which would require you to lie.”

“I would never lie.” He pushed the gurney through the doorframe and shot a smile at Eden over his shoulder. “I’d just very carefully word my report.”

She was grinning at his excitement as she stepped into another hallway.

“I’m fucking fine, goddammit.”

The man’s bellow erupted from the next room and echoed off the concrete walls, startling Eden to a stop. Unease prickled over her skin. The fear response was automatic and still came now and then when she least expected it. Less and less as time passed and Eden’s life moved on, but the paramedic program was wearing her out. Fatigue kept her from compartmentalizing as well as she used to. Stress broke down her professional barriers more easily.

Eden rolled her gaze to the ceiling, searching for strength and patience.

“This is fucking bullshit. They need me on the ice. Do I look like I need to go to the fucking hospit— Ah, goddammit.”

Eden heard the pain in the man’s voice and smirked at Gabe. “Still want to ride in the back with him?”

She didn’t wait for his answer before stepping into the next room—obviously the main locker room. The space was large and well-appointed, with lacquered blue benches lining the walls. Each cubby space had been assigned with a brass nameplate. The team’s logo—a stylized image of a horse’s head wearing an intense expression—was everywhere: painted on walls, cut into carpet, carved into wood. A lot of money had been dumped into this space.

She took a quick glance around at the half-dozen men standing in a semicircle around Croft. He’d dropped to a seat on a bench in the middle of the room and was holding his head in both hands. His hair was dark, drenched, and standing up in every direction. He’d stripped off his jersey, and shoulder pads lay on the bench beside him. His muscles stretched a red long-sleeved shirt around thick biceps and across cut deltoids.

Eden wasn’t a small woman. At five foot seven, she worked out and carried her own tight frame of muscle. But in this room, surrounded by these men, she was acutely aware of the power surrounding her—and not just the physical power. Croft himself wielded a significant influence over these men. Men who she guessed wielded their own authority in other circles.

This room reeked of power and money and testosterone.

Eden knew all about that bullshit—and it meant less than nothing to her.

She rounded the bench and stepped between two of the men to stand in front of Croft.

“Mr. Croft,” she said in a professional but compassionate tone. “I’m with Capital Ambulance. After that hit, we need to stabilize your spine as quickly as possible. You shouldn’t be moving until you’ve been assessed by a physician. My partner and I are going to take you to Georgetown University Hospital.”

“Fuck.” His bitter anger cut into Eden’s stomach. She stood her ground, hoping she hadn’t flinched externally. “Give me a fucking minute. I’m gonna be fine. Jesus Christ, you’re all making something out of nothing.”

Everyone had the right to refuse medical care, and as far as her responsibilities went, she could walk away at any time after a mentally sound patient said no. But there was a bigger, more ethical part of her job. The part that drove people to seek this work in the first place: the desire to take care of others who couldn’t take care of themselves in times of trauma or stress or illness. And she believed it was part of her ethical job to recognize those who truly needed a doctor’s wisdom and guide them into skilled hands.

Considering this man hadn’t even stayed still after taking such a bad hit to the head, she’d definitely put him in the poor judgment category.

“You have to go, Beckett.” The team doctor delivered the assertion with what Eden thought was an overabundance of consideration. They were dealing with a grown man, not an angry two-year-old. “It’s concussion protocol.”

“Fuck protocol,” Croft yelled, pushing to his feet. His sheer size—around six foot three and at least two hundred pounds—made Eden take a step back. Made her gut flutter with alarm. “I wasn’t out more…” His words drifted away. His gaze went distant. “I wasn’t… More than…”

“Gabe.” Eden alerted him to Croft’s imminent drop. Gabe moved behind Croft, while Eden stepped closer and held out a hand. “Mr. Croft, you need to—”

He swayed, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went lax. All in the span of two seconds.

Eden got ahold of his forearms just as he pitched sideways and backward. She wasn’t able to do much more than guide him toward Gabe’s arms. The other men in the room jumped in, adding support to get Croft onto the floor and saving him from another crack to his skull—though Eden thought that might have helped knock some of Croft’s stupid loose. On the upside, this took the decision of whether or not to go to the emergency room out of Croft’s hands.

Eden took a quick pulse at Croft’s wrist while the team doctor hovered and the other men in the room twittered with concern. When she found Croft’s heartbeat steady and strong, she nodded at Gabe, who worked the C-collar into place around Croft’s neck.

“Doc,” someone called behind them. “Looks like Kristoff’s going to need stitches.”