“Visiting hours were over at six,” she says.
I shake my head, turning my eyes to what I hope is a pleading look. “No. Listen. I’ve been in the car for hours. I’m the only family here. His parents can’t come and his sisters live in a different province. I need to know he’s okay.” My voice cracks on the last part. That sentence is true. All I want tonight is to see him with my own eyes. If I know he’s awake and alive, then I can ignore the accusations that keep swirling around in my head. The ones that say I’m responsible. The race was a bad idea. Thetrail was too narrow and I should have known that. We were too tired to stand up, much less have the reflexes needed to make it to the bottom of the run safely. If I can see him, I will put the questions to bed, even if I can’t sleep myself. Maybe I’ll give him a hard time about the lengths he’s gone to in order to avoid a second round with me tonight. It was his suggestion after all. He could have told me he’d changed his mind.
The nurse gives me a weary stare, but finally she says, “He’ll be in the ICU. Talk to the nurse up there. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
I get a little lost. Hospitals are like that. When I finally find the ICU, the nurse is already waiting for me in the hall. I puff up, getting ready to bring on my overwrought boyfriend routine again, but it seems I don’t need to.
“You’re here for Austin Grimm?” the nurse asks. He’s in green scrubs with a grey zip-up hoodie. His wire-framed glasses are what I think social media is referring to as “slutty” these days, though nerds have never done much for me.
Blond athletes with thighs like tree trunks and a thing for hickeys, however...
“Yes, is he okay?”
“I’m glad you’re here,” the nurse says. “He’s stable, but he’s in rough shape. Broken ribs, collapsed lung, concussion, hairline fracture on his jaw, broken collarbone, ankle and wrist.”
My stomach twists at the list. Some of them I guessed while we were sitting in the snow and mud. Others, though...a collapsed lung? Holy shit.
“But he’s alive, right?”
His mouth twists right along with my guts. “We don’t keep them if they’re dead.”
Maybe that’s supposed to make me feel better? I know a big part of coping in the medical field is dark humour. But now I’mhaving visions of Austin’s cold body in a vinyl bag or with a tag tied to one toe, and I want to start crying all over again.
The nurse walks me down the hall. The doors to each room are all closed. Austin’s is at the end, and I have to take a breath before I enter. Boyfriend or no, the idea of what I’m about to see is uncomfortable.
The nurse puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’ll need a lot of rest to heal. They’ll be doing surgery to pin his leg and collarbone tomorrow. There’s a tube in his chest to make sure he keeps breathing and his lung doesn’t collapse again, and the swelling around his jaw means he won’t be able to talk much, but you can speak to him. Let him know you’re here.”
He must give that speech a lot to frightened family members. He finishes with one more smile, this one a little more comforting than before, then he leaves.
The room is dark, with the curtains pulled. I expect beeping monitors or something, but all I get is a rasp of Grimm’s breathing. His leg is propped up on several pillows and his arm is covered in bandages or a cast that’s been wrapped in something. There’s a bandage around his head too, and when I turn on a small light above his bed, the neck of his hospital gown has been pulled to one side, revealing a misshapen bruise so dark it’s practically black over his collarbone. I’m almost afraid to breathe on him, much less touch him, but finally I pull the chair by the edge of the bed a little closer. Tentatively, I take his good hand, the one that isn’t covered in a cast, and rub my thumb over his knuckles. It’s the first time I’ve touched his skin since last night and the difference between now and then—between bone-deep fear and desperate hunger—is almost painful.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, voice scratchy in my throat. “It’s me. Zed. I mean, it’s Bear. I mean...”
My face crumples as I start to cry. At least I’m by myself. The nurse has gone to look after other patients. My sobs are born from relief and sadness. Terror and regret, but also the tiniest amount of comfort. Despite the braces and casts, the tubes and IVs, he’s okay. Alive at least. He’s going to be okay.
Austin stirs, eyelids fluttering as he squints up at the overhead light. I remember the thing the nurse said about the concussion and turn it out again. He’s not supposed to have bright lights, right? Instead, we sit in the dim room, with only faraway light from the hallway helping to illuminate us.
“Hey,” I say again, running my hand across his knuckles, trying to reassure myself. He stares up at the ceiling for a long time. “It’s okay. We got help. See? I told you. It’s okay. I’m here.”
He shifts in the bed, face contorting in pain. His soft moan is nothing like the ones he made last night. People say there can be a fine line between pleasure and pain, but in this case, the difference is clear.
I stand, getting ready to find the nurse and ask about medication. This isn’t the time to be precious about drug tests and performance enhancements. The season is over for all of us, and even if it wasn’t, it’s definitely over for Austin. I glance at him, battered and broken, weighed down by casts and the pain of his injuries. For a minute, something in my chest feels like it’s about to tear into pieces. An echo of fear that it may not just be his season that’s over but maybe his career. I’ve seen competitors come back from injury before, but this?
Let him take all the drugs he wants if it keeps him comfortable. The rest are questions for days when he can do things like sit up or breathe unassisted.
But as I go back to the door, looking for the nurse, a surprisingly strong hand grabs hold of my wrist. I have to bite down a yelp, but when I turn back, Austin’s gaze is asdetermined as his grip on my arm. He shakes his head, the movement small so he doesn’t upset his injuries.
“You want me to stay?” I ask.
He makes a jerky little nod.
“Do you need the nurse? More medication?”
Austin blinks a few times, but finally he makes another little shake of his head, though this one is followed by a wince.
I clasp my hand around his, licking my lips and trying to think what to say.
“You okay? Do you need anything? Morphine? An orgasm?” The questions tumble out in a barrage of nervous word vomit and I immediately feel like an idiot. A hand job is the last thing he needs right now; we both know that. I’m afraid to make him laugh. But even a small smile would help the lead weight that’s tugging at my heart.
