Page 112 of Worth the Shot

“Been better,” he says, and his friends snicker from the doorway. I shoot them a look that shuts that down immediately before turning my attention back to him.

“Yeah, I’d imagine getting body-slammed by the ocean will do that,” I mutter, already slipping into autopilot as I start my assessment. I check his vitals first, eyes flicking over the monitor, heart rate elevated but not alarming, oxygen holding steady. Good. “Alright, Lenny, I’m going to take a look at you, okay? Let me know if anything I do hurts.”

“Everything hurts,” he grumbles.

“Helpful,” I say dryly, gently pressing along his ribs anyway, watching his face more than anything else. He winces hard on the left side. “Okay, ribs are definitely angry,” I note, more to myself than anyone else. “We’ll get imaging to confirm, but I’m guessing you didn’t win that fight.” I move up to his shoulder next, careful, testing range just enough to confirm what I already suspect. “Yep. That’s not where that’s supposed to be,” I say, nodding. “We’ll get that reduced once we have imaging and pain control on board.”

“Please,” he groans.

“Working on it.” I grab a penlight and lean in slightly. “Look at me.” He does, pupils reacting evenly. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Lose consciousness when you hit?”

“Everything went black for a second,” he admits.

“Okay,” I say, filing that away. “We’re going to keep a close eye on you for a head injury, just to be safe.”

I straighten, already reaching for supplies. “I’m going to get you something for pain and get you set up for scans. Try not to move, which I know is a big ask considering your current life choices.”

That earns me a weak laugh. Behind me, one of his friends starts to say something, and I don’t even turn around this time. “If you’re not the patient,” I say calmly, “please keep the noises to a minimum.”

The room falls silent. Perfect. I turn back to Lenny, softening just slightly. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.” I readjust his blanket and this time, when I look at his arm, I notice a tattoo. It’s a Mountaineers logo with the dates 1999 and 2012 etched under it. One for every year we’ve won the cup.

“Big Mountaineers fan, huh?” I ask, keeping my tone light as I adjust his IV and recheck his vitals, eyes flicking between him and the monitor.

“Hoping to add another date under there this year,” he mutters.

“Yeah right,” one of his friends cut in from behind me. “Not after that puck Hale took to the face. I’m sure he’ll be garbage coming back. I heard a couple of people talking after an open practice the other day. Said they wouldn’t even want him on their pond hockey team.” The room erupts in laughter as they all agree.

My entire body goes still, instantly, like something in me locks up before I can stop it. My grip tightens around the tubing in my hand, knuckles whitening as heat rushes up my neck, spreading across my face. My mouth goes dry, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. I focus on the monitor, the steady rhythm of his heart rate, and anything else that keeps me from turning around. I force my shoulders to relax, even as my chest tightens, even as my hands threaten to give me away. I take a slow breath in through my nose, willing myself back into place. I do my best to keep it professional.

“Let’s keep the commentary to a minimum,” I say, my voice calm as I secure the line and check his pulse again, like I didn’t feel every word of that deep inside every part of my body.

I keep my eyes on Lenny, softening my tone again as I finish the assessment. “We’re going to get you down for imaging shortly, okay? Try to stay as still as you can.”

He nods, a little more subdued now. I jot something down on the chart, my movements controlled and precise, even as my thoughts start to spiral somewhere just out of reach.

I know how hard Brennan’s pushing, I see what this is doing to him, and hearing someone say that like it’s already decided? My jaw tightens. Not a fucking chance. I know exactly what I need to do.

As soon as my shift ends, I race home and collapse into a power nap that was definitely supposed to be thirty minutes and not five hours. When I wake up, it’s one in the afternoon.

“Perfect,” I mutter, staring at the ceiling. I should’ve set an alarm. I scramble out of bed, throw myself together in record time, and head straight to Emma and Shayne’s.

“You need what?” Shayne asks, staring at me like I just grew five heads.

“I said,” I repeat, planting my hands on my hips, “I need some gear.”

He blinks. “You can barely skate, Laney. You’re not exactly equipped for…whatever this is.”

“I’m aware.”

“Can you even hold a stick while you skate?” he continues, already spiraling. “You’re gonna need more than gear. You’re gonna need a bubble. Maybe a full-body cast. Possibly a priest⁠—”

“Stop,” I cut in, flat. “Just give me the gear.”

He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to decide if this is a joke.

“Alright,” he mutters finally, shaking his head as he turns and starts digging through a massive bin labeled HOCKEY. “This should fit you.” He tosses something over his shoulder. “It’s from when I played in middle school.” He laughs like something is funny, and I ignore him with every power of my being.

I catch the pads, eyeing them for half a second before grabbing the helmet too. Everything’s worn in, a little too soft in places it probably shouldn’t be, and smells faintly like sweat and body order, but I push through.