Page 79 of Playing the Player

The breath I’ve been holding all evening leaves my lungs in one shaky breath as the weight lifts off of my chest.

“And what is the recovery time?” The coach asks immediately.

“The shoulder itself should heal in around four to six weeks. Returning to full contact hockey is a different story. We’d estimate six to eight months before he’s back in training.”

Coach mutters something under his breath as he scrubs a hand down his face.

“That time may be cut by a month or two, depending on his healing status and if he keeps up with his physical therapy.”

Coach puffs his cheeks, blowing out a long breath. Losing one of his best players until the middle of the season is obviously a huge blow.

But I know Conor. He’s going to take it even harder. Hockey isn’t just his job. It’s his escape. It’s the one place where the noise in his head finally goes quiet.

“Can I see him?” I ask before I can stop it. Please say yes. I need to see him. I won’t believe that he’s okay until I see it with my own eyes.

“I don’t see why not.” Relief floods through me. “He was put under for surgery and is starting to come around but he’s on a high dose of pain relief.” The doctor warns with a smile. “He wasn’t making much sense when I left the room.”

Coach snorts. “He doesn’t make sense on most days.”

“He keeps asking for his guardian angel, or something along those lines.” I freeze and then a smile slowly spreads across my face. Even drugged up after surgery… He’s still asking for me.

"There's my angel.” Conor’s smile stretches across his face the second I step into the room, the doctor following closely behind me. His eyes are glassy, unfocused around the edges, and he looks like he’s just woken up from the deepest sleep. Which, I guess he has.

The tears I’ve spent the last few hours holding back finally spill over at the sight of him. His shoulder is wrapped in thick bandages, his arm secured tightly in a sling. Wires trail beneath the blankets to machines beside the bed, their steady beeps filling the quiet room. He looks exhausted and pale, but he’s here.

He’s okay.

“See what I’m talking about?” The doctor says to me as she moves around the bed to check Conor’s vitals.

Conor frowns. “What?”

“I told her that the drugs haven't worn off yet because you keep asking for your angel.”

He looks at me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “She is my angel.” He points at me with his good hand. “This woman right here saved my life.”

I can feel my cheeks heat as I scoff. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Nope.” He gives me his signature cheeky smile and adds a wink for good measure. Well, I think it was supposed to be a wink. Both of his eyes squeezed shut, but paired with the smirk he’s currently wearing, it’s not hard to assume it was a wink. “I’ve been worried about you.”

I blink at him for a moment. “You were worried about me?” He has to be kidding right? He’s lying in this bed just after having surgery, hooked up to machines, and he was worried about me?

“Of course. I knew you were waiting out there this whole time. That worried me.”

I soften my eyes at his words as I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “I was worried about you.”

“Oh please, I’m basically made of steel.”

“I'm serious, Conor. When I saw you get hit into the boards like that…” I pause, searching for the right words. “It scared me. And then I saw all those medics coming onto the ice, I knew it was bad. Ask Olivia, I was like a raging bull when I couldn't get to you.”

Conor bites back a smile. “A raging bull or more like a barking chihuahua?”

“It’s nice to know your sense of humor didn't get knocked out of you when you took that hit.” I deadpan but it’s hard to fight the slight tilt of my lips as amusement dances in my eyes.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a bit.” The doctor says as she makes her way back to the door with a smile on her face. “Visiting ends in one hour. I’ll be back to check on you then.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Conor calls as she leaves the room.

Silence settles over the room again. I sit carefully on the edge of the hospital bed, still holding his hand. “So…” I ask quietly, running my thumb along his bruised knuckles. “How are you feeling?”