A good portion of the crowd boos as the whistle is blown. Coach and half the team are screaming, the noise dulled by my earplugs, as if in a faraway tunnel.
“Illegal hit!”
“Dangerous play!”
“Throw him out!”
Noise fades even further until I only hear my pulse. My nails dig into my palms as I stare at Ren’s immobile body. Anxiety, my old familiar friend, creeps up my spine, making my legs weak. I drop onto the end of the bench, my eyes glued to Ren.
My breath echoes in my ears. I use yoga breathing, long, slow inhales and exhales through my nose. The pound of my heart slows marginally, but my hands are shaking badly. I shove them between my knees and focus on my breathing some more.
He’s okay. He’ll be all right.
Anger chases anxiety, tearing through my system. I squeeze my phone, flagrantly ignoring my job for the moment. I don’t want to tweet or reassure fans. I want to run out on that ice and punch 27 right in the face.
The ref’s bent over Ren, who’s out cold, his body splayed helplessly while his arm juts at an unnatural angle. Amy heads out on the ice and is soon hovering over him, too. He doesn’t move. There’s no sigh of relief or consciousness. Just ringing, frightening silence.
Then comes the thing I hate to see. The stretcher on wheels. EMTs shuffle out, quickly stabilizing Ren’s neck while leaving his helmet on, and carefully transferring his massive body to the stretcher. Everyone stands in the arena and claps as he’s wheeled out. As Amy passes by with him, I see his eyes are shut, his mouth slack. I wipe my nose and feel wetness on my cheeks. When I lick my lips, I taste salt.
Fucking fish sticks. I’m crying. I don’t cry. Well, not often. Never publicly.
Andy pats my shoulder gently, and I rip out an earplug. “What?” I say sharply.
He’s used to my prickly delivery, so he simply pats my shoulder once again and says, “Don’t worry, Frankie. Ren’s unbustable. He’ll be fine.”
I watch Ren’s skates disappear from view as he’s wheeled away. “I hope so.”
I’ll be the first one to admit that for the rest of the game, I do a rare shitty job at in-game social media. I’m distracted, my fingers slower than normal. I keep fucking up tweets, and my pictures are shit. I use the wrong hashtags, and I can’t stop glancing over my shoulder, hoping Amy comes out and ends my worry before I give myself an ulcer.
She doesn’t.
Though I’m worried about Ren, this isn’t my first season up close with professional hockey, and I know that in all likelihood, he’s going to be okay. If something unthinkable happened, I’d know by now. I comfort myself with that bit of rationality as I focus on the post-game necessities. We won, though only because of the goals Ren gave us.
“Frankie,” Rob calls from his side of the locker room.
I weave my way through the guys, careful not to catch my cane on a rogue skate lace or piece of clothing. When I get to Rob, I feel winded with anxiety. This has to be about Ren. At least I hope it is. “Yes?”
“He woke up,” Rob says.
“Concussion?”
He sighs. “Seems so, yeah.”
“Shit.” That means Ren’s out for the next few games, at least.
“Hurt his shoulder, too, but he’s okay.”
“His shoulder? Does he need surgery? Is he—”
“Hey. Take a breath. He’s all right.” Rob gently squeezes my arm. “See? Behind that grumpy front is a soft heart that cares about us.”
I scowl at him. “Don’t let word get around.”
Rob grins. “Your secret’s safe with me.” When I make to turn away, Rob stops me. “I actually called you over because he asked for you.”
“What?” Ren asked for me?
“Just go see him. Humor the guy. He’s with Amy, and he’s comically disoriented.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
He chuckles as he yanks off his jersey. “Come on. He’s always so well-behaved. Ren unfiltered is a rare treat. You should be thanking me.”
Grumbling, I stroll down the hall, take a few turns, and find my way. Ren’s propped up on an angled mattress, an IV, which I hope is just saline, in his arm. Amy’s chatting with Coach. They don’t notice when I walk in. But Ren does.
“Francesca.” He flashes a big, wide grin. Like a Loony Tunes big, wide grin. Holding up the arm that’s not bound in a sling, he waves.
Okay, then. There’s clearly something else in that IV drip.
“Francesca,” he says again, his eyes tracking me as I walk up to him. Nobody has the balls to call me by my full name. I made it very clear to everyone that my name is Frankie. But if anyone could get away with it, it’s concussed, delirious Ren. It helps that I have his full name to wield in retribution, too.
“Søren.” God, I love his name. It’s more Swedish than IKEA. Rather fun fact, his spelling is actually Danish. Being a bit of a foreign languages and linguistics lover—it’s a special interest of mine—I can tell you that ø is not in the Swedish alphabet. On one of our many flights, Ren told me its spelling was debated extensively between his Swedish mother’s preference for Sören and his American father’s love of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard.
Obviously, no one’s wondering where Ren gets his dorkdom. Ren’s naming process involved an existentialist theologian and multilingual debate. Pretty sure my parents just pulled an Italian name out of a hat and threw it at me.
“Got yourself good and banged up, there, huh?” I ask.
His eyes dart over my face. “Uh-huh. But I didn’t piss myself, and I know my birthday, so Amy said I’ll be okay.”
At hearing her name, Amy breaks her conversation with Coach and smiles at Ren. “Oh, he’s in rare form right now. Had to give him Percocet for his shoulder.”
“No social media!” Coach warns.
I lift my hands, demonstrating my innocence. “Not a camera in sight, I promise.” I glance at Ren. “You needed a narcotic for a bruised shoulder?”
“Give him some credit,” Amy says gently. “It’s slightly separated, and that hurts like hell.” She leans in and grins. “He also passed out when I inserted his IV.”
“Wow, Judas.” He narrows his eyes at her, then turns back toward me. “Redheads have been scientifically proven to need higher doses of pain relief, Francesca. We’re sensitive.”
“I’m teasing you, Ren the Red. I can’t imagine how much it hurts. That check was dangerously late and high.”
Coach grunts in agreement as he swigs from his water bottle. “Absolute bullshit. Glad they threw him out.” Patting Ren’s good shoulder, he tosses his water bottle in the recycling bin. “Time to round up the boys. Take it easy, Bergman. You did good, as always.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
When the door bangs shut, Ren clasps my hand suddenly, fingers curling around it. “Francesca, pay attention. This is important.”
He’s like a kid right now. Wide-eyed and deeply sincere. I let myself stare at his features, knowing he probably won’t remember. His hand holding mine feels oddly familiar. It’s warm and heavy, the scrape of his callouses soothing my skin.