Page 10 of In Your Wildest Dreams
While they go over his pain and the tests that have already been run, I take the opportunity to get more water and then see what else the room needs. I check all the closets for supplies and even make sure that he has fresh batteries in the TV remote. Busy tasks so I don’t have to look at him.
“But I won’t need surgery, right?” A hint of fear in his voice beckons me to finally redirect my attention his way.
He’s wearing only black athletic pants with his jersey number stitched in green on the left hip. I’ve successfully managed not to gawk at his bare chest since I walked in, but all that restraint goes up in a plume of smoke now. And dammit, his body is just as spectacular as I remember from the stunt he pulled at the game, whipping off his jersey to give to a little girl in the crowd. He’s quite the charmer, I’ll give him that. The fans love him.
Light hair along his chest is trimmed short and trails down his washboard abs before disappearing into the band of his pants. He’s lean and cut and his muscles are defined even in the awful fluorescent lighting overhead. His left arm is covered with a sling, keeping it close to his body and elevated.
I spot two tattoos—a butterfly on his left bicep, and script on the right side of his chest that I can’t quite read without giving away that I’m checking him out.
“I don’t think so, but we can go over all of that tomorrow when you’re feeling better. For tonight, I think you should stay here where we can keep an eye on you. It’ll be easier for everyone, considering your limited mobility with your shoulder and the concussion. Any more nausea or vomiting?”
“No,” he answers quickly.
Doctor Weston pauses, giving him a chance to change his answer.
“A little nausea, but it’s better. No vomiting.”
“Good,” she says. “Blurry vision? Problems walking or talking?”
“No.” His voice is more assured this time.
She nods, but still pulls out her penlight and checks his eyes. When she’s satisfied, she turns it off and stands tall. “All right. I’ll check back in a couple of hours, but for now, the best thing you can do is rest and let your body start to recover. Your pain level will likely increase as the adrenaline from the night starts to wear off.” For the first time, she looks at the other gentleman in the room. “Any questions?”
They’re both quiet, and with another nod, she takes a step toward the door.
“Thanks,” he calls after her.
I feel Ash’s gaze immediately switch to me, but the man in the polo shirt speaks first. “I should get home to the wife and let you rest up. If you need anything, give me a call. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
While Ash says goodbye to him, I finish reading his chart. Ash Kelly, twenty-nine years old, no allergies, shoulder separation and concussion, just as Hannah said. They didn’t list his six pack or panty-melting smile. An obvious oversight.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Ash says when we’re alone.
My heart skips and I shuffle awkwardly, having no idea how to respond.
“It is you, right? I’m not hallucinating, am I? You’re the girl from the game last month?”
“Bridget,” I say, not directly answering his question.
“Bridget.” The way he says my name sends a shot of unprofessional heat climbing up my neck.
I should tell him I’m his nurse for tonight, but maybe I can still get someone to switch with me. I settle for smiling and asking, “Can I get you anything, Mr. Kelly?”
“Mr. Kelly?” He quirks a brow, then lets out a soft laugh. “Nah. Only thing I need right now is a shower.”
Now that he’s mentioned it, I can tell he came straight from the game. His hair is a little messy, though still somehow sexy. The dusty brown locks fall just below his chin, and he has it tucked behind his ears to keep it out of his face and covered with a backward hat.
His wrists are still taped, something I noticed at the game that a lot of the guys do. It’s a wonder he isn’t still in pads and skates.
“Sure.” I walk over to the bathroom and open the door wide. “Everything you need should be in there.”
His stunning blue eyes sparkle with excitement and disbelief. “I can’t get over it. You’re really here.”
I can’t get over it either. My stomach is doing a series of somersaults that make it hard to catch my breath.
“I’ve looked for you at every home game.”
Thrown off guard by that comment, but eager to guide us back to a more professional topic, I decide to take this moment to go through my usual spiel when entering a patient’s room. As much as my coworkers would love to trade me places, no one would dare go above Sandy’s head.
