Page 57 of Pucking Curves

Neither of us speaks. I don’t think we can. It’s been so fucking long since they loaded her into the back of the ambulance and pulled away. She was breathing, but she wasn’t awake.

Christ, if she doesn’t wake up…

I choke on a groan, swaying on my feet.

“You should sit,” Nash says, clamping a steadying hand on my shoulder. “Before you collapse, Archer.”

“Don’t want to sit.” I shake him off. Resume pacing.

“Archer, you need to sit,” he tries again.

“Nash, fuck off and leave him alone,” Micah rasps.

I glance over, and our eyes meet. I see the fear I feel reflected in his gaze. For the first time since I married his sister, we’re in perfect accord. We’re both in hell. And it’s our own fault.

Had I just told her the truth, she wouldn’t be here now. Had he just bent a little, she wouldn’t be here now.

We fucked up, and we failed.

It feels like knives in my veins, tearing me apart.

Her brother knows exactly how I feel. He’s been here before, praying she survived. And now, he’s right back here again. Because of me. Because of us.

Everything we were arguing about seems so goddamn trivial with her somewhere behind those doors, hurt. She needed us, and we failed her. How the hell are we supposed to live with ourselves if she isn’t okay?

I can’t. God, I can’t.

She’s been the center of my world since the day I met her. Everything I’ve done has been to keep her close, to ensure some little piece of her world involved me. If this is how it ends, I’ll never forgive myself.

“I’m sorry,” I rasp, razorblades in my throat. “Christ, Micah, I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” His hands shake. His knee bounces up and down. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She does.”

I jerk my chin in a nod. He’s right. She’s the only thing that matters.

He slumps again.

I resume pacing.

No one else says anything.

One minute ticks by. Five. Fifteen. Half an hour.

A doctor finally—finally—steps into the waiting room, his eyes scanning the room. If he’s surprised to see a waiting room full of professional hockey players dressed in suits, I can’t tell. I can’t tell by his expression if the news is good or bad, either.

Fuck. Why can’t I breathe?

Micah is on his feet in an instant, crossing to my side.

“You’re all here for Wren Graves?” the doctor asks.

“I’m her brother,” Micah says, nodding. “He’s her husband.”

“H-how is she?” I ask, my voice shaking. I feel weak. Christ, so fucking weak. If she’s not okay, I already know I won’t be. I’m going to break and crumble into fucking pieces right here in this waiting room.

“She’s awake,” he says.

Micah chokes on an exhale, his shoulders shaking.

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