“That’ll be the doc,” he says grimly.
I grab his heavy winter coat and drape it over his shoulders like a cape so he doesn’t have to struggle with the sleeves. My knuckles brush his throat as I zip it up, and his pulse is thumping, fast and anxious.
He looks at me, his confident mask slipping for a second, giving me a glimpse if the terrified man underneath it.
Dr. Kendall is waiting a few feet away, checking his watch. “Morning, gentlemen. How are we feeling?” he asks as Louis grabs his phone and steps into the hallway.
“About as well as expected,” he answers.
“Well, this is the first step in getting you back up and running, so let’s get to it,” Doc Kendall says with an encouraging smile. “Your chariot awaits, sir.” He winks at Lou as they turn toward the elevator.
“Hey, Lou,” I call, my voice embarrassingly creaky.
They both look at me. “Just, um—wanted to say good luck.”
He manages a crooked, half-assed version of his trademark smirk. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “See you at naptime, Rook.”
He walks down the hall without looking back.
I make it through morning skate, and even through the team lunch with the guys in the hotel restaurant without anything terrible happening, but I still haven’t heard a word from Louis. When I get to our room, the blackout curtains are drawn tight, strangling the watery afternoon sun that’s trying to creep in. It feels less like a hotel room and more like a cave.
Louis is lying on his back in his pillow nest. His eyes are open, but he’s just staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t move when I drop my bag.
“Well?” I ask. My voice is loud in the quiet room. “What’s the verdict?”
He turns his head slowly to look at me, and even in the dim light, he looks wrecked.
“It’s a grade 3,” he says. His tone is flat, like it’s been stripped of all his usual emotion. “Surgery at the end of the week. Out four to six months.”
The words hit me like a gut punch.Four to six months.That’s the rest of the regular season and the playoffs, if we make them. Plus part of the off-season.
I walk over to the bed. “Lou…”
“Don’t,” he croaks, turning. He looks back up at the ceiling. “Don’t give me the ‘we’ll get through this’ speech. I can’t hear it again. I swear to god, if you tell me to keep my chin up, I might actually punch you with my bad arm.”
I huff out a chuckle. “Okay.” I kick off my shoes. My normal game-day schedule tells me I should be meditating right now, visualizing the crease and seeing myself stopping every puck thatcomes my way. Instead, I’m climbing onto the bed beside him. “No speeches.”
I lie down facing him, careful of his left side, stealing a slice of the pillow nest. The antiseptic scent of the doctor’s office clings to his clothes, mixed with his own coffee-and-sandalwood warmth.
He turns his head toward me, and the expression on his face hits me right in the solar plexus. His eyes are almost haunted, blown wide with something that looks like panic. He’s terrified. His funny, optimistic joker mask is gone, and the guy underneath is staring directly into the abyss.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I have no idea who I am without hockey.” My heart breaks for him. His pain is so raw and real, and the only thing I can think about is taking it away.
I reach out, cupping his jaw with my hand. His stubble is rough against my palm. My thumb brushes his cheekbone, tracing the tension there.
“You’re gonna figure it out,” I whisper, and I mean it with my entire soul. He will. But he can’t see that right now.
I don’t think about it. Acting on pure instinct, I move toward him. I don’t ask for permission. I crush my mouth to his.
He doesn’t hesitate, returning the kiss with all the coiled-up energy inside him. It’s not soft or gentle or romantic. It's frantic and urgent. He makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat and grabs the back of my head with his good arm, pulling me down and deepening the kiss.
He’s drifting out to sea right now, but I can be his anchor. I can do this for him. I angle my head, drinking down his panic and swallowing his moans. He tastes like coffee and sadness, but it’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Tanner,” he gasps when we finally break apart for air.
“I got you,” I murmur, moving my mouth to his neck and drawing a slow, hot line of kisses along it.
“Fuck, yes. God, yes,” he groans, urging me on.
