Page 11 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

Then she understands. A small smile touches her mouth.

"You."

I manage the tiniest shake of my head. "The game."

Her smile fades into something softer. "I don't know yet."

I close my eyes. Of course she doesn't know. Why would she?

Normal people don't get strapped into ambulances and worry about an empty-net faceoff.

"Find out please."

"My priority is your breathing."

"Multitask."

"You're bossy."

"Captain."

"Patient."

The word lands between us.

I don't like it. Not because she's wrong. Because she isn't.

Annette turns and speaks into her radio, her voice smooth and clipped.

"Riverton ED, this is arena medical transport with Jamie Walker, male, twenty-nine, professional hockey player. High-energy collision. Suspected displaced left clavicle fracture, probable multiple rib fractures, decreased breath sounds on the left. Concern for small pneumothorax. Vitals stable but guarded. Oxygen applied. ETA six minutes."

Six minutes.

That is nothing. That is forever.

The ambulance bumps over a rough patch of road and pain tears through me so fast my right hand grips the rail before I can stop it.

Annette notices. "Almost there."

I breathe through the mask. In. Out. Not deep. Not enough. But something.

The doors open too soon and not soon enough. Cold air rushes in again as hospital lights replace arena lights.

A sign slides above me as they wheel me through the entrance. Riverton Regional Medical Center EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT.

I stare at the letters until they blur.

The next hour breaks into pieces.

X-ray. CT. More hands. More questions.

Annette's voice cuts through it when everything else starts to smear.

A surgeon with tired eyes and a serious mouth stands at the end of my bed.

"Displaced clavicle fracture," he says. "Three cracked ribs. Small pneumothorax. We're taking you to surgery tonight."

Surgery.