“Me? Why would he name me?”
“Hopefully you’ll get to ask him that. He also made you Natalia’s guardian.”
“Holy fuck. I—Vi, I need you to get Bea on the phone. Now.”
“Terrifying momentsfrom New Haven during a regular-season hockey game last night. Near the end of the game, Las Vegas forward Aris Andrasick took a shot on The Midnight goal, striking goaltender Nikita Baladin in the chest. The puck was traveling at an estimated speed of between ninety-one and ninety-three miles-per-hour, the impact of which should have been completely normal for Baladin to absorb.
“Baladin, in his third season with the team and a talented goalie, didn’t react when struck. He managed to skate forward as play continued around him for a moment, Andrasick’s teammates capitalizing on the chaos and rebound to score. Then, Baladin collapsed on the ice, lying motionless. He was attended to by coaching staff and the team’s doctor on the ice. Fans watched on as his gear was cut away and CPR was administered. Several minutes passed before medical personnel could move him into the tunnel and transport him to a local hospital.
“The Midnight issued a statement at the conclusion of the game—which did not resume: ‘Nikita Baladin suffered a cardiac event during the course of the game tonight. Thanks to the extraordinary effort of staff and emergency services, he was transferred to Yale New Haven Hospital for furthercare. The full team extends our thoughts and prayers for a full recovery.’ Baladin is listed in critical condition.”
My hand is warm. It feels like love brushes over my skin, except I can’t feel my skin. I can’t feel anything about my body. I just know I have one—a body. I don’t know how I know that when I’m not even sure where I am.
I just feel that overwhelming love again. Back and forth it slides before stilling and growing.
A voice. The words are tender, the rapid Russian softened by their speaker. I want to lean closer. Crawl into their care. They slip through me…
I’m here.
I just found you. I can’t lose you.
Please, Nicky, please.
“Without that tubein his mouth, it looks less scary in here. Now he just looks like he’s sleeping.”
“Yeah, most of the wires for the monitors are under the gown, and he’s down to one IV. They’ve left the other in for access, but the nurse said that’s just a precaution.”
“This still doesn’t seem real. Two days ago, he was?—”
“I know. But he’s not now, and the doctors are incredibly optimistic about his recovery. They’re going to start weaning off the sedation tomorrow.”
I have legs. A torso. Arms and hands. A neck. A head. I know what these things are. I know that I’m lying down and everything feels heavy. Pressed into the mattress in an unmoving, solid way.
Everything hurts.
Everything is too bright.
Slowly, painfully, the world comes back into focus.
I know without any prompting that I am looking at doctors—several of them—and nurses. I’m in a hospital. I’m hooked up to machines and monitors and wearing a thin cotton gown. My lower half is covered by a cotton blanket, not soft but worn from too many washes.
“Nikita?” an unfamiliar voice calls from a woman in a white coat, her face half-covered by a mask. She has kind hazel eyes, focused completely on me. “I’m Dr. Knowles. You’re in the ICU of Yale New Haven Hospital.”
I blink. Hopefully, she knows that means I understand.
“You’re recovering from cardiac arrest,” Dr. Knowles continues gently. The medical team moves around her, checking and hovering at my bedside.
My whole body feels like I was buried under the Zamboni, and it’s so fuckingbrightin here.
“Could we get the lights lowered, please?” she asks and pulls her mask down so I can see the kind smile she offers. I merely wince, but the pain lessens a fraction when the room darkens.
Why am I so tired? Didn’t they just wake me up?
“Your heart stopped during a game. We were able to get it started again. It’s held steady and strong since. It’s been three days. You’ve been in a medically induced coma to give your body a chance to begin healing. There are a lot of people who have been checking up on you.”
My mind focuses on that, tumbling over faces and names. Clawing through the sludge of tipping back into unconsciousness and the fiery discomfort in my throat, I part my lips. The words are at the front of my brain, clear and concise, but physically trying to wrap my tongue around them is clunky. It takes more than one try, but Dr. Knowles is patient during my effort.
“Where are my girls?”
