Page 14 of Puck Me Thrice
"Moderate concussion," the doctor said. "He's out for the rest of the game."
"But he's okay?" Logan pressed.
"He'll be fine with proper monitoring."
Nolan showed up minutes later, still in full gear, his face flushed from the game. He took one look at Blake lying on the examination table and then at me hovering nearby, and something in his expression softened.
"You ran onto the ice during an active game," Nolan said to me.
"He was hurt."
They crowded into the small medical room, ostensibly to check on their teammate, but I noticed the way they seemed to be checking on me too. Their eyes tracked my shaking hands, the way my breath hadn't quite steadied, the protective fury that was still coursing through my veins.
"I'm fine," Blake said, his words clearer now. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" I demanded.
"Like you're about to commit murder on my behalf."
"I'm not ruling it out," I muttered.
Logan snorted. Nolan tried to hide a smile. Blake's expression went soft in a way that made my chest tight.
The doctor cleared his throat. "He needs neurological monitoring for the next twenty-four hours. Standard concussion protocol."
"I'll do it," I said immediately.
"Miss Torres, that's not necessary—"
"I have training in concussion management. I'm monitoring him."
The doctor looked at Blake, who shrugged as much as his neck brace allowed. "She's monitoring me."
"Fine," the doctor sighed. "But follow the protocol exactly. Hourly checks, no sleeping for the first four hours, if symptoms worsen—"
"I know the protocol," I said firmly.
The team won without Blake, and on the bus ride home, I sat beside him in the dark, monitoring his condition with professional vigilance while trying not to think about how my reaction to his injury had revealed far more than I'd intended.
Across the aisle, Logan and Nolan pretended to sleep. But I could feel their awareness, their attention, the shift in dynamic that had happened the moment I'd run onto that ice without thinking.
Everything was getting more complicated. And I had a horrible feeling it was only going to get worse.
Chapter 6: Blake
My head hurt. Like, legitimately hurt—the kind of throbbing, persistent pain that made thinking require conscious effort. But I was definitely not as hurt as I was pretending to be.
When Mira insisted on monitoring me overnight for concussion symptoms, overruling the team doctor's assessment that standard athletic trainer protocol would suffice, I did not mention that my symptoms were already improving. I did not point out that my vision had cleared up, my coordination was returning, and the nausea had mostly faded.
I was not proud of this deception.
But I was also not ready to give up having Mira this close, this concerned, this present in my space without the usual barriers of team dynamics and professional distance.
She'd set up camp in my room like she was preparing for a military operation. Medical kit that looked comprehensive enough for field surgery? Check. Laptop balanced on her knees for performance analyses between concussion checks? Check.
She was wearing athletic shorts and a Northbridge sweatshirt that was definitely mine—I'd left it in the common room and now it smelled like vanilla and determination. Her hair was down for once, falling past her shoulders in dark waves that made my fingers itch to touch.
She looked softer like this. More approachable. Less like the severe professional who made hockey players do ballet and more like... just Mira.
