Page 14 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

"Mr. Walker." He does not look up.

"Almost." His bare feet search for the floor.

The monitor cord pulls tight. His face goes gray. "Nope." His right hand grips the mattress. "I just need to stand."

"You need to not fall," I call as I’m dashing around the bed.

He starts to argue. His body votes first. The second his weight shifts, his knees buckle.

I catch him by the shoulders and brace my hip against the bed. He is solid muscle, six feet plus of professional athlete, and for one alarming second, I feel the full weight of what would have happened if I had arrived ten seconds later.

Pain flashes across his face. He tries to hide it. He fails.

"Back," I say.

"I can-"

"Back!"

This time he listens. Barely.

I guide him down slowly, keeping his left side supported while he clenches his jaw hard enough to crack teeth.

By the time he is upright against the pillows, a thin sheen of sweat has broken across his forehead.

He takes one shallow breath. Then another. Not enough.

"I'm fine."

I reach for the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger and glance at the monitor.

"No. You're determined. There's a difference."

His eyes shift to mine. Blue. Tired. Still sharp beneath the medication and pain.

"You always this direct?"

"Only with patients trying to face-plant before breakfast."

"I wasn't going to face-plant."

I look at the floor. Then at his bare feet. Then at the tubing now looped around his ankle.

He follows my gaze and a faint crease appears between his brows.

"That was temporary."

"Gravity usually is not."

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

Almost. Good. Almost is better than gray and sweating.

I move the tubing away from his leg and check the dressing along his clavicle. No obvious bleeding. His sling is slightly twisted because he clearly tried to escape while wearing it.

"Any dizziness?"

"No."