“Name and patient you’re here to see?” The receiving nurse on the sixth floor says when I step out of the elevator.
“Oh, I’m not staying. This is for Mattias Falkenberg. Could you make sure he gets it?” I offer her the basket.
Her face brightens. “Oh, Mattias. He’s in room 614. You can drop it off yourself, just be quiet. He’s sleeping.”
Is that what they’re calling medically-induced comas these days? Sounds like a line from a Ryan Murphy show. I don’t really want to see him, conscious or not, but the nurse is looking at me like I’m an angel for bringing him a basket.
“Thank you,” I say and head for his room.
I stop outside his door. It’s open, but the lights are off and there’s no sound except the occasional beep of medical equipment. With a grimace, I hold my breath and go inside.
He’s lying completely still in bed, breathing slowly, his eyes closed. It’s a weirdly peaceful sight, considering the cables and patches attached to his head and chest. Without looking away from him, I set the basket down on the recliner in the corner and slowly move towards the bed. HisIV arm lays palm-up at his side, and it makes me ache to see him like this when he should be padding up for tonight’s game.
I reach out and take his hand, and it feels like his fingers twitch. I freeze, horrified, but then I remember he’s sedated. A reflex, probably.
“I’m so sorry, Mattias,” I whisper, tracing the sharp edge of his jaw with my eyes, up to where brown lashes fan out over high cheekbones and the relaxed slant of his mouth. Even like this, he’s handsome.
“I’m sure I’m the last person you want visiting you. I get it. I wouldn’t want to see me, either, but I want to make things right.” My eyes trace the shape of his hand encased in mine, wondering what it would be like to hold it for real. I guess I'll never know. “I’m hosting a premier of the documentary at the rink at the end of next week and I’ve left a copy for you in the basket since I’m sure you’ll have no desire to attend. I hope you’re out by then, at least. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, but I thought maybe I could show you.”
I give his hand one final squeeze.
“You never have to talk to me again. Just watch it. Please. Oh, and just so you know, Poirier’s gonna beat the shit out of Armstrong for you,” I add.
With that, I slowly tear my fingers from his, stopping in the doorway to cast him one last glance before leaving the room.
Chapter 53
Mattias
I don’t open my eyes until I’m sure she’s gone. My fingers curl against my palm, the ghost of her touch an electric current lingering over my skin. Her hand was so soft and gentle, and for a brief moment I floated away to a different life, where I was just a man and she was just a woman who cared about me.
I glance at the basket she left and my mouth turns downward. I don’t know what she’s getting at, leaving me gifts. I didn’t want her to come here.
Reality pulls me down like a weight, dragging me back to Earth. She lied to me. She’s planning to profit off the destruction of my career. I don’t know what she could possibly say or show me that would erase that fact. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all water under the bridge at this point.
She shouldn’t have come.
I glance at my phone on the bedside table and see several missed texts from Micke. I vaguely recall speaking to him earlier this morning when they took me off the sedative, but I was too delirious to talk. I told him I would call him back when the medication wore off, but I must have passed out. I shoot him a quick text telling him I’m alright, and no I haven’t slipped into a coma, and that he can call me when he wakes up even if it’s early.
Sighing, I lean my head back against the hospital bed and look at the clock. It’s nearly evening. I’ve slept all day. I reach for the remote and turn on the TV. It doesn’t take me long to find the Monarchs’ game. A deep, lonely sadness fills me as I tune in to the first period. It’s a fast game against the New York Dutchmen, tied one to one. Moreau is playing my string. It’s a glimpse into the Monarchs’ future that might have been, were the team not being liquidated.
I turn off the game. I don’t think I can stomach watching it.
The doctor told me this morning that the swelling in my brain has gone down and I’ll be released in the next few days. Unfortunately, she mandated eight more weeks of bench time to give me ample time to recover. Armstrong did a number on me.
If we don’t make the playoffs, I have eight weeks left in my career. I might never play on professional ice again. The thought makes my hands curl, and I have to push the thought out of my mind, because I can hear my heart rate accelerating on the monitor beside my bed. I need to contact my real estate broker and see about listing my condo, among other loose ends. I’ll need to be back in Sweden by June if Micke and Astrid are expecting in July.
Poirier, Häkkänen, and for some reason, Fontenot come to pick me up on the day I’m discharged from the hospital. I don’t realize how many get well cards have been left for me until it’s time to gather them all. The team, Coach Marshall, even the fans—it feels like everybody’s left me something.
“Who’s this from?” Poirier lifts the basket—the one I’ve been avoiding looking at since it was dropped off.
“I don’t know.”
“Uh-huh.”
I close my eyes. It’s not like I can tell him what’s happened, so I settle for my classic, “Fuck off, Poirier.”
“I’ll remember you said that the next time you need someone to come pick your sorry ass up from the hospital.”
