Page 93 of The Sin Bin

"Awake. Stabilized." Kane ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "He's pretty banged up. They're keeping him for observation because of the concussion, but expect to release him to us later today."

Lauren took a steadying breath, preparing herself for whatever awaited beyond the hospital room door. "Can I see him?"

Kane nodded, stepping aside. "He's been asking for you. Just...be prepared. The injuries look worse than they are."

Lauren paused at the door, gathering herself before pushing it open. Nothing could have fully prepared her for the sight that greeted her—Jax in a hospital bed, his face swollen and discolored, the left side particularly distorted around his eye. A laceration above his eyebrow had been neatly stitched, and monitors beeped steadily beside him.

His eyes were closed, but opened at the sound of the door—the right one fully, the left limited by swelling.

"You came," he said, his voice rougher than usual.

"Of course I did," Lauren replied, moving to his side. She reached for his hand, finding it bandaged—the knuckles clearly split from impact. The physical evidence of the fight sent her stomach lurching. She gently squeezed his fingers where they peeked out from the gauze, needing the contact to ground herself. "How bad is the headache?"

"Six out of ten. Eight, maybe nine when I move."

Lauren nodded, her thumb brushing softly across his palm in slow, soothing strokes.

"I'm okay. It looks worse than it is."

A strangled laugh escaped her at the obvious understatement, given his significantly distorted facial features and confirmed fractures. "That doesn't exactly reassure me, Jax."

"So much for my GQ photoshoot," he said.

Lauren wrapped her arms around herself. "Did they catch the guys who did this?"

He gave a nasty smile. "Yeah, they were on the floor around me."

"Oh god."

"All five of them."

She was not going to throw up.

The door opened, admitting a doctor in surgical scrubs and a white coat, tablet in hand. "Mr. Thompson," he said. "I'm Dr. Levine, the attending physician. I see you have a visitor."

"My girlfriend," Jax said. "Dr. Lauren Mackenzie."

Despite the circumstances, her heart still jolted in happiness at being called that.

"Dr. Mackenzie," the physician acknowledged with professional courtesy. "Would you like to step out while I discuss Mr. Thompson's condition and treatment plan?"

"She stays," Jax stated before Lauren could respond. His hand turned in hers, fingers weakly interlacing. "Anything you need to tell me, she can hear."

Dr. Levine nodded. "Very well. You have a clean orbital fracture, which is fortunate. No surgical intervention is required at this time, though we'll want follow-up imaging in seven to ten days to confirm proper healing progression. The concussion is mild based on our assessment protocols, but with your history of previous head injuries, we're being cautious."

Lauren listened with focused attention as the doctor continued detailing treatment protocols, medication schedules, and follow-up requirements. Throughout the clinical discussion, Jax's fingers remained tangled with hers, his thumb occasionally brushing against her wrist in small, grounding movements.

"From a purely medical standpoint," Dr. Levine concluded, "you could potentially return to play in a week or so if the healing progresses well and concussion symptoms fully resolve. However, I would strongly advise against it. The orbital bone needs proper time to heal, and another impact could cause significant complications."

"I understand," Jax said after a moment, his voice steady. "Thank you, doctor."

After Levine departed, silence hung heavy in the room—the weight of playoffs, career impact, and their unresolved tension was uncomfortable.

"You're thinking about playing," Lauren said finally, the realization dawning with cold certainty. It wasn't a question.

Jax didn't deny it. "The team needs me. Especially now. All we have to do is win two more games."

"Even if it risks permanent damage?" Lauren said.

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