Page 164 of Let You Love Me

I don’t want to remember.

I want to go back to sleep. To forget.

The ache in my chest intensifies, wrapping around me like a vise, five times worse than the hammering in my head or the daggers in my spine.

I squeeze my eyelids tighter and my thoughts scatter.

I can’t think about this right now, so I allow the grogginess to take over and dream.

The next time I wake, the pain in my head is merely a dull throb, background noise to the real pain in my back.

I inhale and open my eyes, glancing around at the hospital room, far more conscious of my surroundings and everything that happened to me at the game than I was the first time I woke.

Sadness sweeps over me, but I have no time to dwell on it because a nurse chooses this exact moment to appear at my bedside, eyes bright, tone soft as she says, “I called for the doctor since you’re awake. He’ll be here in a minute to explain everything. Also, you’ve been cleared for visitors and you have quite the crowd waiting for you. I hope you don’t mind, but yourcoach is here.” She steps aside to reveal Coach, his face slack and pale as he sits in a chair by the window.

He rises and my thoughts immediately go to Lane, but I block them out. I can’t think about her right now. It’s too much.

“My parents?” I ask, turning back to the nurse.

“Mr. Turner called them as soon as it happened and we’ve also been in touch with them. They know that you’re okay, but they’re on their way here.”

I nod, and try to tell her thanks, but all I can muster is unintelligible mumbling.

“Water?” the nurse asks, and I nod again suddenly realizing the fire in my throat is thirst.

She turns to the little bedside tray where a pitcher of water sits, waiting for me to wake I guess, and pours me a cup, then hands it to me.

I take huge gulps, drinking until I drain the cup, then set it back down on the tray at the same time the door to my room opens and the doctor—or at least, I assume it’s the doctor—walks inside, dressed in green scrubs and a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck.

“Mr. Nichols,” he says, his tone far more chipper than I feel, “glad to see you awake.”

“How long have I been out?” I ask, my voice slightly garbled, but stronger than a moment ago.

“Just a few hours in and out.”

Fuck. It felt like a century.

“Do you want privacy for this, or—” the doctor’s gaze flickers meaningfully to my coach and back.

I shake my head. What the fuck do I care? He was there. He saw what happened.

“It’s fine.” It’ll save me from an update.

“You suffered a Grade II concussion. That and the pain is what had you going in and out of consciousness, but there’sno swelling or anything to be concerned with as far as your head goes. Still, we’d like to keep you for observation overnight, seeing that you did lose consciousness.”

A concussion. That’s nothing.

“Is that all?”

He spears me a look, and I stiffen, waiting for whatever else he’s about to say. “You had a pretty good fall, and the impact to your spine was severe enough that you have a compression fracture in your back, your T2 to be exact.”

I straighten at the news, shocked as I push myself up with my hands.

Wrong move.

A knife twists in my back, and I hiss.Fuck.

The doctor holds his hands out, and his calm expression alone alleviates some of my fears. “I know it sounds scary,” he tells me. “When people hear they broke their back, they immediately think of paralysis, but that’s not the case with this kind of injury. You’ll be fine with some care and rest. No heavy lifting for at least eight weeks. No sports. Mobility will be limited, and you’ll have to wear a back brace for two months. Even small tasks will be painful. Putting on a shirt, brushing your teeth, but overall, the pain shouldn’t be severe. It will be annoying and frustrating for an active man like you, but it should heal up on its own. No surgery. No PT. If you’re going to break your back, this is the way to do it.”