Page 95 of Worth the Shot

We move him onto our bed and his head lolls, unconscious. Blood is everywhere—his hair, his neck, pooled at the edge of the stretcher. His right eye is already swelling shut, grotesquely ballooned, and his nose…Jesus. It’s shifted sideways, the bridge pushed out of place like someone tried to fold it. EMS is giving a report but it’s all jumbled noise behind the roar in my ears.

“Took a puck, eighty-plus miles an hour…lost footing on impact…head hit ice hard…loss of consciousness…vomited once, airway compromised…BP dropping…some response to pain…”

Some. That’s better than none. My hands want to shake, so I press them tighter against his skin, pretending he’s holding them like he did last night. I hook up the monitor leads and the trauma surgeon leans in, his voice sharp. “He’s not protecting his airway. Suction. Prep for intubation.”

I’m already drawing up RSI meds and my fingers move so fast I don’t even feel them. Respiratory is suctioning blood from his mouth that’s thick and dark, but Brennan doesn’t even flinch.

“Pushing meds,” I say, and my voice sounds steady. Thank God something does.

The doctor intubates him in seconds. The tube slides in, and the vent takes over the breathing he can’t do for himself. His chest rises in mechanical, impersonal rhythm.

airway secure.

breathing mechanical but present.

circulation: pressure low, two large-bore IVs in, fluids running.

I’m talking out loud, but inside I’m screaming, trying to hold on for dear life.

His pupils are unequal, one blown, the other sluggish. Bad. That’s bad. That’s pressure and swelling, his brain saying something’s wrong. The surgeon mutters, “Possible intracranial involvement. Get CT ready.”

I can’t stop staring at his face. His eye is purple, swollen to the size of a golf ball. Blood is smeared across his cheek, soaking into the collar of his undershirt, and his skin is pale beneath it all.

And he’s not waking up.

“Delaney,” someone snaps.

I blink, pull myself back. “Secondary survey, yeah. I’ve got it.”

We cut off what’s left of his gear. His jersey, already sliced on the ice, falls open and the bruising creeps across his cheekbone so fast I can actually see it deepen. His eyelashes are stuck together with blood. His shoulder is bruised from the fall, no doubt taking the brunt of it after his head bounced against the ice. I move to his hands next—checking for injuries, checking for anything—and then I’m just…holding one. My fingers wrap around his instinctively, like I can keep him here with me. I give a small squeeze, the same way he always does for me when I’m the one who needs a little saving. A promise I don’t say out loud: I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.

His fingers twitch at the pressure and my voice kicks in before my brain does. “I’m getting movement in his left hand.”

The doctor looks up, nodding. “Good. Paralytic’s wearing off.”

For a second, just one measly second, it felt like he was reaching back for me.

The tech rolls in the portable X-ray, the machine humming low as I cradle his head in my hands. I’m trying to keep my breathing steady, trying not to fall apart while everyone else moves with practiced calm around me. When his body twitches under the sedation, even though it’s just a small, involuntary jerk, it nearly undoes me. He’s in there, fighting his way back up to the surface. Back to me.

“CT’s ready,” someone calls.

Radiology is already at the door, tense and waiting, eyes on him like he’s a grenade we’re all praying stays stable until we can move him. We repack his nose lightly to slow the bleeding. Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery and Neurosurgery have already been paged. He’ll need both, maybe immediately. His eyelid that isn’t sealed shut with dried blood flutters and my breath hitches in anticipation. A low groan rumbles out of the back of his throat, and even though it’s raw and struggling, it sounds like a fucking melody to me. My voice is out before I even think.

“He’s responding. I’m getting spontaneous movement and vocalization.” It feels like I’m calling it out for the team, but really? I’m calling it out because I need to believe he’s coming back to me. I try to breathe through it and be the nurse, not the girl who wished she could be wrapped up in his arms right now. Not the girl who knows exactly what his laugh sounds like when he’s trying not to smile. Not the girl who knows every notch of that gorgeous, crooked grin and the wink that could end wars. A part of me dies inside knowing that both probably won’t ever be the same.

I rub my thumb over the back of Brennan’s hand and wait for Neurosurgery to take him to the CT he desperately needs. Just as they get ready to wheel him, another groan tears out of his throat, louder this time, raw and pained. My heart physically aches to the point of nausea.

His hand jerks out of mine, eyes still closed, as his whole body twists in confusion. His head rocks weakly side to side, like the pain is rattling him from the inside out. Both of his hands go straight for the tube in his throat, but I catch them before he can get a grip, guiding them back down with every ounce of strength I have. I rub along his arms, grounding him, trying to reach whatever part of him is clawing its way back to consciousness.

“Brennan, it’s Laney,” I whisper, leaning close. “It’s me. You’re okay. I need you to stay calm. I need you to trust me.”

His breathing stutters; his eyelids flutter again.

The whole room watches me, because they know. They’ve seen him show up here on late nights and early mornings, even after away games and long flights. They’ve seen him bring me snacks because he knows I don’t stop to eat some days, and they’ve seen my face light up when someone mentions his name. They all know.

“He’s waking up,” I announce, voice steady as a tear threatens to break loose. Not yet, though. Not now. I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it. Even if the whole time it feels like my heart is bleeding out right there beside him.

Chapter Thirty-Nine