“No.”
“You remember the hit?”
“Remember, Dingy being an idiot, if that counts.”
He prods the cut again. Pain zings sharply. I grit my teeth.
“Very mild concussion,” he announces, casual like he’s calling the weather. “Lucky.”
“Feels real lucky.”
“No contact drills. No scrimmage. No games. Two more days off the ice then check in with me in Utah.”
“What if I feel fine?”
He lifts his brows, slow and deadly. “We’ll see.”
“So, you’re saying there’s hope.”
“I’m saying if you try to be a hero, I’ll bench you harder than the last time you mouthed off during rehab.”
I bite back a laugh. “One time.”
“One time too many.” He opens a drawer. “Should have had a stitch or two. Gonna glue it up. Which means I have to clear the area.”
“Shave away,” I grumble.
“Just a little, nothing too terribly noticeable.”
When he finishes, he opens a drawer, hands me two cold packs and a bottle of electrolytes. “Hydrate. Rest. Monitor symptoms. Stay away from screens, wear sunglasses. If you get dizzy, throw up, or start crying at dog commercials, come back.”
“I don’t cry.”
“Any dizziness right now?” He asks.
“Just when Dash talks.”
“Normal side effect.”
He scribbles notes. “And Moretti?—”
I pause at the door.
“No fights for at least twenty four hours.”
I snort. “Planning to avoid Dingy anyway.”
“Good.” Then he adds without looking up. “Kids an asshole always has been.”
I smirk, “Tell me he’s any worse than Johnson.”
He doesn’t say a damn word.
Dean is waiting in the hall. “You cleared?”
“Two days down, then he’ll check me on the road.” I arch a brow and decide fuck it. “Johnson’s going to sink this team. He’s all but hitting it in the net for them.”
Unlike most owners, he doesn’t get pissed, and I know damn well it’s because he was a player first.
