Now I’m here, and I have no idea what I’m walking into. Ollie wasn’t in a good place the last time I spoke with him, and I’m praying he’ll be okay.
Please let him be okay.
The waiting room is packed when I enter. Most of the team is here, their hair damp from post-game showers. Knox sits stoically among them, his knuckles raw and split open from the fight with the Flyers’ captain. I want to go to him, to offer comfort, but it’ll have to wait.
Soon.
I turn my attention to Adam. He stands in the corner, talking to a man who can only be Ollie’s father.
He’s an older version of the forward with the same bright eyes and square jaw, but where Ollie’s hair is sandy blond, his father’s is steel gray. He looks absolutely wrecked—shoulders hunched, face pale and drawn as he speaks to Coach.
My heart breaks for him.
The poor man is dealing with the stress of his wife’s declining health, and now this.
When it rains, it pours.
I make my way across the waiting room, weaving between players. Dvorak catches my eye and gives me a solemn nod. McGinnis looks like he’s been crying. Even Harding’s usual smirk is nowhere to be found.
When I reach Coach, he turns and his expression softens slightly. “Ava. I’m glad you’re here.”
“How is he?” I ask, the question barely above a whisper.
Coach exchanges a glance with Ollie’s father before answering. “He’s in surgery. They’re working on him now.”
Surgery? That’s bad. Really freaking bad.
It’s a trauma center. What did you expect?
I ignore the snarky little voice in my head. It has no place here.
“What happened?”
“According to the police, Ollie ran a red light.” Coach’s voice is carefully neutral. “He was speeding, but there were no signsof drug or alcohol use. Right now, it looks like an extremely unfortunate accident.”
Is this my fault? Was Ollie so upset—so distracted—that he didn’t see the red light?
Don’t catastrophize. It could’ve been anything. For all you know, he was texting while driving.
Maybe, but somehow I doubt it.
Ollie was in distress. He came to me for help because he was struggling to manage the stress of his mother’s Alzheimer’s, his re-injured shoulder, and the big, sucky weight of it all.
I warned Banks. I told him that Ollie needed help, but he couldn’t be bothered to follow up.
Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.
“The doctors said he was unconscious when they brought him in,” Coach continues. “He likely has a concussion, as well as internal bleeding, cracked ribs, and a fractured leg.”
Internal bleeding. Cracked ribs. Fractured leg.
The words hit me like physical blows, each one harder than the last.
“Jesus,” I breathe.
Coach places a hand on my shoulder, and the gesture is so unexpectedly paternal that tears prick at my eyes. “He’s strong. He’ll pull through.”
I want to believe him. No, Ineedto believe him.