The guy nods, and a quick pop later, the nose is reset, and Mel is placing a cold pack on the man’s swollen face.
“He’s a little blue,” I say. “He was wheezing when they brought him in.”
The doctor feels around and then places his stethoscope on the man’s chest, asking him to take deep breaths.
He can’t, and the rattling wheeze gets worse when he tries.
“I think his lung is punctured,” he says. “He’ll need a chest tube for his pneumothorax.”
Mel cuts away the man’s shirt, and I nearly stop breathing. He has a tattoo on his chest. A shield with the number nineteen on it. A familiar tattoo.
Too familiar.
It can’t be.
I don’t know how long I stare before the doctor’s voice snaps me out of it.
“Iodine. Scalpel,” he barks. “I know it’s the end of shift, but stay with me, please.”
“Sorry, Doc.” My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I scramble to hand him what he needs.
We work fast. Mel is steady at his side while I provide traction. The doctor makes a small incision and slides the chest tube in, air hissing as it escapes—the monitor steadies. The line flattens into rhythm.
Once he’s stabilized, we wheel him off for X-rays and further testing. I strip off my gloves, toss them in the bin, and head to the nurses’ station, still half in a daze.
I look over Maureen’s shoulder as she completes the man’s admissions paperwork.
My eyes go straight to the name at the top of her intake sheet, and my hand automatically covers my mouth. It takes all my self-control not to let out an audible gasp of surprise.
The man’s name? Liam Callaghan.
Every cell in my body goes cold.
I knew, though.
I knew the second I saw that tattoo.
Liam Callaghan.
The love of my life.
The man I left heartbroken more than six years ago.
3
LIAM
“Oooff—”
The sound rips out of me, low and awful, as it travels from somewhere rather than my own body.
The first thing I notice is the pain. Bone deep all over.
I feel like I got hit by a truck—a big one.
What the hell happened?
What kind of rough game did we play?
