Page 56 of The Goalie in Room 1

Ignoring his snarly attitude, I walked to the end of the bed and examined his leg, specifically his foot. The color and temperature were perfect, and when I touched it, it wiggled.

He lifted to his elbow, staring at me. The amber bottle was still clutched in his hand as he gasped, “That tickles, dammit.”

“Good to know. Any numbness? Burning? Pins and needles?”

“Fucking all of it!” he shouted, dragging a hand over his face as he fell back into the pillows. “Feels like someone stuck a hot poker through my damn knee.”

Glancing at the clock, I sighed. “You’re behind the pain.”

“No shit. I figured that out when the pain of a dozen blistering hot knives stabbed through my knee.”

I ignored his pissy attitude. I’d be more worried if he weren’t pissed off and growling at me. “I’m going to help you sit⁠—”

“I can do that my damn self.”

I stood back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Dr. Vale is going to say some shit now.”

He glared at me but said nothing.

“I am going to help you sit up,” I said, emphasizing the words by pointing at first myself and then him. “I’m going to give you a pain shot to catch you up to the pain as much as possible. Then I’m going to check your dressings, and once I reposition your leg, I’m turning the cold-therapy unit on.”

He glared at me, but then he nodded. The fight left him when I stepped forward and slid an arm behind his back. “Ready?” I asked.

“Do it,” he growled, sucking in a deep, harsh breath. His finger nails dug into my forearm, leaving deep indentations.

“Easy,” I whispered.

“That’s like waving a red flag in a bull’s face, Doc.”

“Noted,” I replied, instead of arguing with him.

His head fell to my shoulder as he gasped and panted. His fingernails were really digging now, tearing the flesh of my bicep and forearm. The pain must really have a hold of him because his respiratory rate increased as if he were trying to get ahead of the pain through sheer force of will.

“Cash…breathe with me. You’re going to hyperventilate.”

“Stop fucking doctoring me.”

“Then stop behaving like one of my patients.”

“I am one of your patients.”

“Not in this house and not in this room. Here, I’m the man taking care of you. Who wants you more than I want my next breath. And you are the asshole who refused to wake me up when you needed me.”

He sucked in a deep breath, and his head whipped around so our gazes met. His eyes narrowed, but his breathing settled into a more sedate rhythm.

“There you are.”

“If you’re not my doctor here, then I don’t want the shot.”

The other meds wouldn’t touch this. “What we have on hand might not be enough.”

“I know, but I want to try.”

I nodded, handing Cash the pills. He’d lost enough control since Michael knocked him out. And that didn’t account for the last eleven months, when everything he knew and loved had been ripped from him savagely, leaving behind a bloody wound still trying to scab over.

Cash took a deep breath and swallowed the pills before gulping down several mouthfuls of water. I laid him back against the pillows.

“I need to check your leg. Make sure nothing shifted when you tried sitting up.”