A confirmation follows.
“Now you have a voice-activated texting system,” Ivy comments cheerily. “You can also ask it to read aloud messages you receive by saying ‘hey Siri, read messages’ or ‘hey Siri, read messages from Em the Bulldog’ if you want a specific person.”
“Thanks, Ivy,” I say, turning my head toward her with an appreciative smile. It feels small for all the help, but it’s better than nothing.
“You’re welcome.”
I set the little rectangle against my leg. It used to connect me to everything, but is now unfamiliar, like learning to skate as a kid. Maybe this is how it begins: one new trick at a time until the rest of the world stops feeling so out of reach. At least I’m not cut off completely. But the thought I shared with Em yesterday gnaws at me. I can’t face my teammates right now, not like this.
“I don’t want visitors. Not my teammates or our coaches. I can’t let them see me like this. Not yet.” I hope Ivy doesn’t ask me to explain my reasons, because I can’t. I don’t want to tell her that if they’re here, I’ll feel less like myself and more of a shell of the person they all knew. “But I still want to keep in touch with them. I don’t want them thinking I’m shutting them out completely.”
“That makes sense. I’m sure they miss you, too.”
A humorless laugh scrapes out of me. “Knowing Foster, he’s tried to sneak past security. Lance would’ve dragged him back by the collar. Jensen’s probably sending me plays I can’t read right now. They’re idiots.Myidiots.”
“You really care about them.”
“They’re my family,” I admit, my chest tightening until it hurts. “The good kind. Speaking of which, do me a favor: ignore anything from my parents. I don’t want to hear from them.”
“Alright. I heard that Em updated the list of approved visitors yesterday.”
“That’s right.” I nod, relieved that she already knew the information. “If you have time, can you read me a few messages from the guys?”
“You should try the read aloud feature.”
“I’ll do that later. There must be hundreds of texts and it would take too fucking long.”
“Are you sure? It’s rather, um, private.”
I shrug. “Whatever’s in there, you’ll survive. Just don’t judge. I promise our team group chat is more stupid than scandalous.”
“If you say so.” There’s a faint hitch in her voice, that little tell she’s fighting a smile. “Who should I start with?”
“Jasper.”
She takes in a sharp breath, almost a gasp. “You mean Åkerman?”
“That would be the one. You a fan of him too?” I tease.
“Are you kidding me? I’m a fan ofallof you. It still sucks that he was traded. The team hasn’t been the same without him, even if the stats say otherwise.”
Her voice carries that note of starstruck awe I’ve heard from thousands of fans, the one that usually leaves me overwhelmed. But coming from her, it lands differently, giving me this ridiculous flutter in my chest.Strange.
“Should I ask Em to help me when she comes to visit,” I ask dryly, arching a brow, “or can you handle the task without fainting?”
“I can handle it,” she fires back quickly, then adds, a touch sheepishly, “Even if this is kind of surreal. Especially since you, Åkerman and Jensen are basically my all-time favorites—but I’m also a professional who wants to help a patient.”
I chortle. “Fair enough. Well, what does Jasper say?”
“Okay, um, he texted a lot. There are over forty messages from him alone.”
I fight down the ache behind my ribs.Over forty messages.That’s Jasper waiting for any scrap of news about me, replaying the hit in his mind. That’s him trying to reach me again and again, each unanswered message probably pushing him further into panic. And I wasn’t answering. I couldn’t. Fuck!
“I’m not surprised,” I force a lightness into my voice, masking the rush of emotion building underneath. “He’s like a brother to me.”
“Are you sure I should be doing this? I could leave and give you space,” she suggests hesitantly.
“Don’t go.”
