Page 50 of The Goalie in Room 1

“What if he did have someone?” The words left my mouth before I even realized I’d thought them.

He looked at me, brow climbing his forehead. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, what if he did?”

I shrugged. “Just what I said. What if he did have someone?”

Michael’s eyebrows rose farther. “You got something to tell me, Doc?”

“No,” I hedged. Of course I didn’t have something to tell him. I couldn’t tell anyone anything. The two of us flirting was inappropriate enough.

He smirked. “But he doesn’t have those things, does he? And even if⁠—”

My head shifted left and right. “No, he doesn’t, but he does have a doctor who gives a shit about him. His recovery.”

“His recovery? Right. So you’re suggesting he go home with you? That’s a little hands-on, don’t you think?”

I scrubbed a hand through my hair, scratching the back of my head. “I’m just suggesting that nobody wants to spend time in the hospital because they’re having a reaction to medicine that could be managed at home with the right caretaker.”

“Well, a world-renowned surgeon would definitely be capable of managing the patient’s recovery at home. And I’m sure…this same renowned surgeon has a swanky-ass house that would provide the perfect place for a hockey player who…needs to recover from his fourth knee surgery in the last year?” Michael’s voice ended on the uptake.

And a smile.

“I hate you.”

He laughed. “He’s not dischargeable right now. I’ll keep an eye on him. Give him some naloxone …”

My eyes rounded until they stretched. “That could negate all the pain meds in his system.”

“I’m not an idiot. I’ll titrate it and work to find something that works for him without the depressant⁠—”

“Hurts.” The slurred, garbled word stopped our banter.

Michael leaned over Cash again. “Cash⁠—”

And Cash puked, covering himself.

“Yeah…he’s not going anywhere anytime soon,” Michael said, dropping the head of the bed as I grabbed Cash’s shoulder and knee, pushing him away from me and onto his good side while supporting his knee.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I muttered.

Cash vomited several more times before the medication Michael and I ordered took hold. The clock, when I finally had a moment to glance at it, showed several hours had passed. I dropped into a sleeping recliner Davina had rolled into the room. My eyes closed before the blanket she shook out dropped over me.

11

CASH

“Doc?” I asked, cotton-mouthed and fuzzy-headed, vision swimming and stomach churning.

“I’m right here.” His voice, rough as if he’d been asleep, came to me through the fog.

My head followed his voice, but all I found was a fuzzy blob, my eyes not able to bring him into focus. Closing them, I swallowed, but the lump in my throat didn’t move.

“Cash? You still with me?” he asked, a hand gripping my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding softly to keep the headache I felt brewing at bay. “I’m here. Just tired.”

“Open your eyes.”

“No.”