“That can’t be right,” I argue gently, my brow furrowed. “Inferior dislocations frequently occur in patients who fall and grasp for an object overhead, hyperabducting the humeral neck against the acromion which forces the humeral head out of the socket.”
My coach, the team doctor, and my teammate Nolan Duggan all stare at me like I’ve lost my mind. Nolan looks up at the doctor. “Can a concussion knock sense into you instead of out?”
“Ha. Ha,” I mutter, but I’m scrambling to cover for my burst of intelligence. “My mom is an orthopedic surgeon. You remember junk when you’ve heard it repeatedly for twenty-five years.”
Is that a good enough cover?
“Well, what your mom says is usually true,” Doc says without questioning me. “But your arm did go up to try and brace your impact, and I guess that’s all it took. It was quite the impact.”
I don’t remember any of it. Not lifting my arm, not even seeing Bradley coming at me on the ice.
“That asshole Bradley got away with it. The referees were blind as bats,” Nolan snarls. He’s now sporting five stitches by his left temple because he defended my honor. I hear Bradley’s got seven stitches and a broken nose.
“And now we might lose you and Waller,” Coach grumbles. “But I don’t blame you for stepping in.”
“You’re not losing me. A dislocation is nothing.” They injected me with something to numb it and popped it back in, but this is the worst of the three types of dislocation. At the very least, I should rest my arm for a week and get re-assessed.
The doctor smiles at me sympathetically like I'm a dumb but lovable puppy. I get that a lot, and I'm all for it. It's why I act stupid. "Jeremiah," he says softly but firmly the way only a doctor can. I know. I've got a family full of them. "This isn't nothing. It's the rarest of all dislocations, and we have to be careful with your recovery. You are out for four weeks at minimum. Likely six. And, that's without factoring in any complications from the concussion."
"There won't be complications from that," I promise even though it feels like someone dropped a pail of bricks on my head, and that's even after the painkillers have kicked in.
“Duggan, I’ll see you at practice unless a suspension comes through,” Coach says as he walks to the door of the medical room. “Waller. Make plans for follow-up appointments with the doc, and tomorrow, make therapy appointments with Baxter, and we will take it from there. But I don’t expect you back on the ice until the new year.”
Mother-ever-loving-fucker.
I nod because what the hell else can I do? He leaves, and Doc dismisses me and Nolan, telling me my new best friend is an arm sling. “You might need help showering and dressing,” he warns me. “I want that arm to be as immobile as possible for the first week.”
I glance at Nolan, and he raises his hands with wide eyes. “Do not look at me, kid.”
"I live alone," I tell the doctor, which shouldn't make me feel like a loser. I'm a twenty-five-year-old hockey player. I should live alone. I just wish I didn’t.
"Loose-fitting sweatshirts, pullovers, and get one of those sponges on a stick for showering," he advises. "Also, do not lift your arm over your head for any reason whatsoever."
I nod.
Nolan and I make our way to the dressing room, which is empty. The game is long over. The team has left. Most of them stopped by the medical room to check on us too, which was nice. I can't help but note that Jayden Diaz, our new captain, did not. If Nolan noticed, he doesn't seem bothered by it.
“Felicity is waiting for me,” Nolan says as we strip off our gear. Him easier than me because he has two arms and isn’t woozy. Luckily, I’m already naked from the waist up and just have the bottom gear, sans skates, to deal with. “We can drive you home.”
“No. It’s okay,” I mutter.
"You can't drive with concussion symptoms, Wall," Nolan replies, his voice no-nonsense, but that's nothing new. He's Mr. Serious and also a total grump-ass on most days. I thought when he started dating Felicity, the Community Outreach Director for the team, he would be softer, but nope. He's still Mr. Growly Face unless she's in the room. "We'll drive you home, and you can get your car tomorrow once doc clears you."
“Sure. Whatever.” I give up.
“But I ain’t scrubbing your back, so you’ll have to figure that out yourself,” Nolan warns with a stern glare.
“Dude, I love ya but honestly, I wouldn’t let you scrub my back if both arms were severed,” I reply, and he chuckles.
We head to the showers. I make it there a few minutes later and can barely scrub myself because of the arm situation and the fact that if I move a lot I get dizzy. So I mostly just stand under the hot water and hope that it gets the stench of two periods of hockey off me.
Back in the dressing room, Nolan is almost fully clothed again. I stick my arm back in the sling and stare at my clothes. I wore a suit, as one does, to the arena, and there's no way I'm getting a button-down shirt back on. I reach for the workout gear I keep here. A team hoodie and sweats. I manage to get it on, mostly but struggle with yanking the hoodie down. It kind of is stuck on my head. And now I can't see and I'm getting even dizzier and I start to lilt.
I hear Nolan swear and then feel him touch my sides, righting me before I can tip over. He gently but firmly pulls the sweatshirt down until my head pops out and the hem is at my waist. “Thanks.”
I’m red-faced with humiliation. I see a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. “You really don’t have a female friend that can help you over the next week or so?” He asks. “A bed buddy? Friends-with-benefits? A girl who is a friend who wouldn’t mind seeing you naked? Anything?”
I shake my head. “This is the price I pay for not being that type of hockey jock.”
Nolan shoots me an uncharacteristically kind smile. “I wasn’t that type either, dude. I get it. How about a relative?”
“Fuck no,” I blurt out so sharply he looks startled. “All my family is back in New York. They all have full-time jobs or whatever.”
And they would be the last people I would count on for this.
Nolan runs his hair through his dark, damp hair, raking it down into place. I glance in the small mirror in my cubby and the hair wax on the shelf and sigh. My hair is short on the sides, but shaggy and long on the top and a bloody bird’s nest without styler, but I’m gonna have to live with it for now. Maybe I’ll just get a damn buzzcut tomorrow.
“No exes that you are still talking to, that wouldn’t mind helping you shower?”
I shake my head at him because my last ex, Jenna, moved to Montreal. That’s why we broke up. I liked her but not enough to do long distance. And she didn’t ask me to either. I had a misguided fling with Ellery, the owner’s daughter, but no one knows about that. We’re still good friends, but people would talk if I called on her. Besides, she’s been preoccupied the last few months, and I think she’s involved with someone else.
“I’ll figure it out. I’m sure single people have dealt with a shoulder injury before without dying or becoming disgusting troll-like humans,” I say, but I don’t sound hopeful. I’m not worried about my hygiene challenges, I’m just frustrated about the break from hockey. And this situation reminds me that I’m lonely.
We head out of the dressing room together, and Felicity is at the end of the hall by the elevators. She's got her long, dark hair up and her big blue eyes are sympathetic as she looks at me like you would an abandoned kitten. "Hey, Jeremiah. I'm so sorry."
She’s about the only person associated with hockey that calls me by my first name. The team calls me The Wall or Wall. Not just because it’s a shorter version of my last name but because I’m the size of a wall. It’s weird to hear my real name now. “Thanks. Me too.”
We get into the elevator, and Felicity kisses Nolan hello as soon as the doors close. It’s chaste, but she runs her hands over the back of his hair too, her hand coming to rest and the back of his neck. “You are a very naughty boy.”
"I'm not letting anyone fuck up my players," Nolan growls, not at her but about the situation. Even if it was at her, Felicity could handle it. She and Nolan were mortal enemies at one point, so animosity for them seems to turn into attraction.
“I get the whole bro code that exists in hockey,” Felicity sighs. “I just hope they don’t lose you too.”
“I wasn’t the only one who threw a punch.”
“I know, but you were the first,” Felicity says, and I feel a wave of gratitude.
“Thanks for defending my honor or whatever,” I say to Nolan, and when he glances at me, I grin as best I can in this foul mood. “I feel loved.”
“You’re liked. Love might be a stretch,” Nolan quips with a flash of an acerbic smile. “Are you allergic to cats?”
“Nope. Why? You want me to sit Max while you guys go on your next road trip, after Christmas?” I ask, referring to his cat. A few years ago, Nolan found this mangy kitten behind a dumpster and fostered it. So he says. I don’t think he ever had any intention of letting someone else adopt it, he just couldn’t admit it to himself or anyone else. “I was actually thinking tonight,” he says. “You shouldn’t be alone the first night with a head injury.”
I know he’s right. “I was going to ask Finch to call me every hour. Make sure I answer and I’m not a babbling idiot. Not more than normal anyway.”
Nolan snickers at that, and Felicity shoots me a smile. We get out of the elevator on the private parking level, where staff and players park. "Just spend the night at our place," Felicity insists. "I trust Nolan and I to wake you up over Finch who might fall face first into a woman or a bottle of Jack and forget."
“Or both,” Nolan adds.
They're joking. Mostly. But Ryder Finch is definitely an advocate for the Playboy lifestyle. "If it's not too much trouble."
“It isn’t,” Felicity insists. “The guest room is ready to go.”
“It is?” Nolan blinks as he hits a button and unlocks his Range Rover parks a few feet away.
"Always," Felicity says. "I change the sheets after every guest, put fresh towels on the dresser, and make sure the toilet paper is full in the ensuite."
“What would I do without you?” He kisses her cheek again.
“You would be a grumpy, sad old man with a cat and disheveled guest room,” she announces and smacks his ass before walking to the other side of the car to get in.
I’m already climbing in the back, but she stops me. “Concussions and back seats aren’t a good mix. Motion sickness is heightened.”
“Okay. I should have known that,” I mutter and walk around her to the front seat.
“Why would you know that?” Felicity asks.
“Because his mom’s a freaking doctor,” Nolan says as we all climb into the car. “A surgeon.”
I can see Felicity's eyes grow in the side mirror. It's almost amusing how surprised people get by that tidbit when they find out. I mean, I know it's because they don't know my real history, but still. It's like they're finding out Joey Tribbiani is the son of Sherlock Holmes. I try not to take it personally. I made my bed, and I don't mind lying in it. In fact, I prefer it.
I don’t say much on the ride to Nolan and Felicity’s penthouse apartment in Yaletown. I just listen to them as they banter back and forth. They have a chemistry you can feel. Always have, even when they were at each other’s throats over the fact that she loved Christmas and he hated it.
It feels like a million years ago when Felicity was decorating the office with tinsel and blow-up Santas like an over-eager elf and Nolan was grumbling around like the Grinch. But it was only three years ago. Now, Nolan willingly volunteers to play Santa at our community Christmas event. And they’ve been madly in love ever since.
I want that, I think as I close my eyes and fight a wave of nausea.