"Something like that."
"You boys and your fists." She shakes her head. "Take a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly."
But “shortly” ends up meaning forty-five minutes.
Sutton sits beside me the whole time, looking miserable.
"Stop it," I tell her.
"Stop what?"
"Stop blaming yourself. I can see it all over your face."
"I can't help it. You broke your hand because of me."
"I broke my hand because I punched an asshole who deserved it. And it was worth it."
"How can you say that?"
"Because no one gets to put their hands on you. No one gets to harass you. And if defending you means sitting out a game or two, then that's fine."
A nurse calls my name.
The doctor is a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense attitude.
"Let's see what we're dealing with." She examines my hand carefully. "Can you move it?"
I try. Pain shoots through my finger.
"Nope."
"Didn't think so." She orders an X-ray.
Twenty minutes later, we're looking at the images on a screen.
"Small fracture," the doctor says, pointing to a barely visible line. "Right here at the base of your middle finger."
"How long until he can play?" Sutton asks.
The doctor looks at me. "Hockey player?"
"Yeah."
"You need to sit out for at least two weeks. Maybe three. Depends on how it heals."
"Okay," I say.
"Okay?" Sutton stares at me. "That's all you have to say?"
"What else is there to say?"
The doctor smiles slightly. "I'm going to tape it to your ring finger for stability. Buddy taping. Keep it immobilized for now. Ice it regularly. Take ibuprofen for the pain." She starts wrapping my fingers together.
When we're finally discharged, it's after midnight. Sutton orders another Uber, and we ride home in silence.
My hand is throbbing despite the painkillers they gave me.
"I'm sorry," Sutton says again.
