“Hawk, you need?—”
“Goddamn it!” He finally focused on the medical trainer who was kneeling in front of him. “Gage, make it work for the next ten minutes, and then I’m all yours.”
“Okay, okay!” The medical team went to work, wrapping and bracing, and it was Harrow and Labieau who got him out on the ice again to accept the handshake and to heft the cup, kissing it before handing it off to his alternate captain, Labieu, for a victory lap.
By the time he got off the ice again, a medic on either side, supporting him all the way back through the tunnel, Hawk felt like a zombie. His ears were ringing, and his breath was heaving in his lungs.
“I think it’s fucked-up, guys,” he murmured. “Like bad.”
“I think you’re right.” Gage helped ease him down on a massage table. “We need to get you out of your gear, but you’re going to the hospital ASAP.”
“Fuck.” This was supposed to be a triumph. They’d won the series. He’d won his third Stanley cup, his second as team captain.
He was supposed to be celebrating with his team.
“Okay, don’t move it. Sit right there.”
He nodded, waiting as patiently as he could. His coach would be out there, the guys would all be loving on their families… God, his mom and dad were here somewhere. He looked around, trying to find his stall, trying to get his bearings.
But the pain in his leg was crushing all of that, and Hawk drifted until they came to put him on a rolling stretcher and haul him to the ambulance.
When he got a shot of painkiller, the relief was so great that he just went to sleep.
He would deal with all this shit when he woke up.
Hawk layin his hospital bed, his brain totally fuzzy and groggy, his body heavy.
He’d gone into surgery within forty-eight hours of the final game of the series, the doctors telling him he had multiple ligament tears and a shattered kneecap. He now had pins and screws and wires in there, and they were saying rehab would take three to six months.
For normal activities.
He knew the orthopedic surgeon and the hospitalists were waiting for the team doctors to tell him the rest of the news.
Thank God for his mom, who was never going to blow smoke up his ass. As soon as he’d come out of the surgery anesthesia, swinging like he was in a fight on the ice because whatever they’d given him for pain had made him wildly paranoid, she’d been right there, telling him what had happened, what they’d done to fix it, and how it would probably affect him.
She repeated it until he could understand it. Mom didn’t believe in surprises.
He loved her for it.
They’d given him something for pain again a few hours ago, and he’d fallen asleep, but now he was coming out of it, staring at the ceiling, his knee throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
He blinked hard, then turned his head, searching the room to see if he was alone.
His dad sat on the fold-out bed couch, head back, dozing. His mom was in the little desk chair, gently rolling back and forth as she tapped away on her laptop.
He cleared his throat, and his mom turned to glance at him. She smiled when she saw he was awake, rising to come and kiss his forehead.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like crap.” He tried to shake off the fuzziness. “Is there water?”
“Of course there is. Hold on.” She got the cup with the straw and held it up for him.
“Thanks.” He took a sip, then lay back with a groan. “So, I guess that’s it, huh?”
She titled her head. “You mean playing hockey?”
“Yeah.” He was… numb. Hawk was sure he would go through the whole gamut of emotions over the next… however long. But for now, he was numb.