Page 112 of Bagging the Blueliner
“Get the fuck out before I kick your ass,” I grumbled.
“Cal, can you open your eyes?” the voice asked again.
“Look, you had your fun. Now, get out of my house!” I raised my voice and instantly regretted it, wincing with my eyes still squeezed tightly shut.
“Cal, you’re in the hospital. I need you to open your eyes so I can examine you.”
“The hospital?” I asked, confused.
“Yes, you took a nasty hit and sustained significant head trauma. It could have been a lot worse—you’re lucky to only have a concussion.”
What I could remember of last night flooded back to me.
The hit from behind after scoring the game-winner.
Being unable to stop myself as I was launched head-first into the boards.
Shit. Hannah. She needed to know I was all right.
“How long have I been out?” I needed answers before I would cooperate.
Sighing, the man who I assumed was a doctor, answered, “About three hours.”
Fuck.
“Can you call my girl? Let her know I’m awake?”
“I don’t need to. She’s been here waiting for news of your condition. Now, if you’ll let me examine you, I might be able to break the rules and let her in to see you.”
The tension left my body, knowing Hannah was nearby. I couldn’t begin to imagine how difficult the past few hours had been for her.
I longed for the comfort of her touch. Whatever strings needed to be pulled to gain her access to spend the night, I would pullthem. I knew a hospital bed was small, but I would hold her close all night. I didn’t care about being uncomfortable.
Taking a deep breath, I gritted my teeth and forced my eyes open slowly. The room was darkened, but I saw the source of bright light off to the side. The doctor held a small flashlight in his hand.
This wasn’t the first head injury I’d sustained during my career, but the first that had knocked me out cold. I knew the drill, but that knowledge didn’t help it hurt any less.
Bringing the light up to one eye and then the next, I grimaced against the pain. Clicking it off, seemingly satisfied, the doctor asked, “Can you tell me your full name?”
The sooner I got through his list of questions assessing my memory function, the sooner I could see Hannah.
Sighing, I replied, “My name is Callum Patrick Berg. I was born on March 24th, and I am thirty-five years old. If it’s past midnight, today is May 11th, and we just played the Indy Speed, winning 3-2 on an overtime goal scored by yours truly. Can you go get my girl now?”
Chuckling at the way I answered all the standard questions before he could ask them, he nodded. “I’ll have someone bring her down in a little bit.”
Relaxing as the doctor left me in peace, I closed my eyes. Hannah had to be so scared. I needed her to know I was okay.
“Cal.” The voice that spoke next wasn’t Hannah’s, but after the hit to the head, it took me a moment longer than it typically would have to place it.
“Coach?” Opening my eyes, I found him sitting in a chair I hadn’t noticed, squinting to see him in the darkness. The double vision after having my bell rung didn’t help either.
“It’s good to see you awake. Your teammates were worried about you.” There was an edge to his voice, a barely concealedrage. There was no doubt in my mind that he knew about me and Hannah.
“I’ll be right as rain soon enough. We have a trophy to win.”
“That’s not why I’m here tonight.” We both knew it was highly irregular for the head coach to sit by a player’s bedside in the middle of the night, regardless of the injury.
It was time to take accountability for my actions. “I take full responsibility for what’s going on between me and Hannah. Hiding our relationship was wrong. But what I feel for your daughter is real.”
