Page 46 of Temptation On Ice

There’s a commotion outside the medical room, and I hear someone calling for Dr. Putnam. Josh, one of the equipment managers, sticks his head into the room and beckons to Collin when he sees Dr. Putnam with me.

“What’s going on? Does another player need medical help?” Dr. Putnam asks. I’m curious too, so I look up and wait for the answer. If LA took out another of my teammates, I'm gonna have a problem with them, and it won’t be good when we play them again this season.

“No, it’s the dog trainer,” Josh says with a wide-eyed look and a helpless shrug.

Tucker.

“What’s wrong with him, and why is he back here?” Dr. Putnam asks, sounding as confused as I am.

“He’s freaking the fuck out. I think he’s having a panic attack or something. He was struggling in the stands after Monty was hurt and taken off the ice. I guess someone tried to bring him back here, and now we might have to get the EMTs to sedate him.” Josh looks back when someone calls for him and ducks out of the PT room.

What the hell is going on out there? Is he worried about me? I’m fine.

But he wouldn't know that.

He’s never been to a hockey game before. He watched me get my ass handed to me and saw me lying out on the ice, unmoving. I was helped off by the medical staff. For all he knows, I could have some life-threatening injury.

Fuck, I need him to know I’m okay, that this isn’t an issue. Hockey players get hurt all the time. It’s part of the sport, and while I hate it and never want it to happen, it’s inevitable, and I expect it.

I have to go to him.

“Sorry, Doc, I gotta go see about a guy,” I say, gingerly standing and moving away before he can stop me.

“Monty, don't do anything to fuck up that shoulder any more than it already is!” he calls after me, knowing full well he couldn’t get me to stay in the room if he wanted to.

I burst out of the medical PT room into the hallway and follow the commotion and noise to where I hope I’ll find Tucker. I turn a corner and there he is, my hot flannel daddy on his knees, hands in his hair as he makes a keening noise and curves in on himself, gasping for breath every few seconds. His sister is kneeling next to him, holding the puppy in her arms, trying to talk to him, but it seems like nothing exists around him.

He’s in a world of his own making that’s full of pain and fear. His face is red as tears track down his cheeks and drip onto his bent knees. The people gathered in the hallway stare like he’s a sideshow, when he’s just going through something heavy they’ll never understand or experience. Good for fucking them. They should feel so lucky and have a shred of empathy for someone who isn’t as fortunate to have it so easy.

“Get the hell away from him!” I yell as I walk up, still in my skates and the bottom half of my uniform. Interns, med staff, and even a reporter or two look up with shocked expressions. “Get the fuck away from my guy, right now, or I’ll have you thrown out of the building,” I snarl, moving between Tucker and the assembly of people, blocking him from their intrusive stares.

I want to rip their eyes out, beat their heads against walls until their memories are so muddled they’ll never remember this even happened. I want Tucker to have his dignity and be able to get through whatever he’s experiencing without people judging him. He’s fine and just needs time. And me.

I get puzzled looks as the group starts to disperse. The reporters go back to the media room with curious and observant eyes. I’m sure there will be reports of the unusual incident with the half-dressed team captain and the man crying in a back hallway in the after-game reports, but I don't fucking care. The interns scurry away without a backward glance, and the med staff stand just far enough away to be helpful if needed. Cami looks up with a scared face, her lips trembling and eyes red.

“I can't get through to him. He won't listen. Help him,” she says, voice warbling.

I drop to my knees in front of Tucker and with my good hand I cup his cheek, my fingers sliding through the soft beard I like so much and tilting his chin until our foreheads touch.

“Hey, baby, I’m right here. I need you to breathe for me,” I say quietly, in the calmest tone I can muster when my heart is racing, and seeing him like this threatens to break me. “I’m okay, see?”

I reach up and take one of the hands gripping his hair and slowly pry his fingers open so I can slide it down and place it against my bare chest, right over my heart. I will my heart to slow, taking my own even, deep breaths that I’ve learned through years of physical training can bring my pulse down quickly during a session, and feel the effects take root. My pulse calms from a racing staccato beat full of adrenaline and anxiety to a slower thump that feels more normal.

“You’re alright, too. We’re at Olympus Arena in downtown Atlanta. You were watching the first game of the season, and I took a bad hit, but I’m fine. I bruised my shoulder, and I’m mad as hell about it, but I get to play again, so it’s going to be okay. What I’m really worried about is you. I need to know you’re okay.”

Leaving his hand pressed to my chest, I bring my palm back to his face and use my thumb to wipe the tears from one cheek, then the other. His lips are quivering, but he’s stopped the soul-shattering keening noise, and tears aren't actively coursing down his face. I cup the back of his neck and hold him even tighter, wishing I had both arms and could hug him for real.

“Talk to me, baby. I need to hear you say something and know you’re with me,” I beg, my voice hoarse from pain and struggle.

“Sebastian,” he croaks, my name both beautiful and heartbreaking as he grapples with his internal fight against his demons to make it to the clarity of the present. He’s still struggling to breathe, his chest heaving with uneven gasps.

“Yeah, baby, that’s it. I’m right here. We’re in an ugly ass hallway in the back of the arena, on the concrete floor that’s probably hurting your knees. It’s cold back here, but you’re warm as usual and feel so good next to me. I just want to be wrapped in your arms right now and feel you around me ‘cause I only have one good arm and it’s a bitch trying to hold you without both.”

The hand in his hair releases, and both arms shakily move around my waist to hold me tightly, his head dropping to my good shoulder as I keep my hand on his neck and press my lips into the back of his head. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale that sounds like the first full breath he’s had in minutes.

“That’s right, just breathe deep for me, Country Boy. I got you,” I say in his ear as we hold each other on our knees, both broken, but somehow whole and safe together.

We cling to each other like this until he’s breathing normally. All the while, I tell him he’s brave, it’s fine to be scared, we’re both okay, and we’ll get through this together. I have no idea what I’m doing or if this is the way to help someone through a panic attack. If he suffers from these often, I’ll have to look into ways to help him that are better suited. For now, meeting him where he’s at and holding on tight while reminding him of the present is the best I can do.