Page 6 of Afterglow (Ottawa Regents #3)
He’s Not Dead
Behraz
Oh, my God, I’ve killed Fletcher Donovan.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck !
“Help! Someone call 9-1-1!” I cry and search for my phone. My bicycle lies sideways in the middle of the road, rose bouquet all but destroyed, the contents of my briefcase strewn down the block.
I can’t move from here. I can’t leave him. He’s out cold, and besides, his grip still clings to my hands.
“Please wake up. Please, please, please wake up.” My ear sinks to his chest. His heart beats rapidly. The short, quick exhalations from his nose cool my sweat-dotted forehead.
Okay, he’s not dead. Thank God.
“Now, you’ve gone and done it, Bea. You fucked up royally,” I mutter to myself.
A woman with her puppy taps me from behind. “The ambulance is on the way.”
“Thank you so much—I don’t know where my phone is, and…” Manic sobs pour from me over his stilled form.
I don’t want to let him go when it arrives but am forced to when the paramedic straps Fletcher to a stretcher and loads him into the back.
“Can I go with him?” I ask as they place an oxygen mask on his face.
“If you’d like.”
“Ma’am?” A police officer stands behind me with my dinged-up bike and scraped-up belongings. “Is this yours?”
“Yes.” I collect my things from him before turning back to the ambulance.
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“But I’m going with them to the hospital. Can we do that when we get there?” My voice shakes as I lock the bike to a sturdy signpost nearby and throw my bag over my shoulder. “I’m not leaving him.”
“You know one another?” the policeman asks.
Who in this town doesn’t know Ottawa’s redheaded sweetheart? Landon and Wade are fun and charming, but they’re also very taken.
Fletcher Donovan, on the other hand, is the most beautiful man I’ve ever set eyes on. Millions of single women across Canada would agree.
“He plays for the Regents.”
“Miss, I meant, do you know him personally?”
Honestly, I don’t. But I wish I did. I’d like nothing better than to know Fletcher Donovan.
“Sorta, it’s complicated.” I brush the question off as the paramedic helps me climb into the ambulance and seats me across from Fletcher.
The shock wanes, and my eyes brim with saltwater. As if he can sense it, his eyes roll open to look at me.
Fletcher looks terrified. His hand blooms open weakly. I reach for it.
“I’m so sorry,” I weep, sandwiching his hand between mine. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The corner of his full, ashen lips lifts into a frail smile before his heart monitor beeps wildly and he loses consciousness again.
I hug my arms, rubbing the goosebumps away in this freezing hallway of Ottawa Hospital General.
So much has happened in the past few hours. Fletcher woke up long enough to tell his side and graciously informed the police officer, named Owens, that he didn’t want to file charges.
Yet he doesn’t say a word to me.
Judging by how red his face is, I bet he’s furious. Concussions mean you can’t play. Maybe it doesn’t matter since the Regents are no longer in the playoffs. Still, he’s probably pissed that he won’t be able to do the things he usually does as a professional athlete.
Great job, Behraz. I mentally give myself a slow clap while checking the clock on the wall.
Sitting alone in a room in silence with Fletcher Donovan is insanely awkward. I need to get outta here, but the nurse said the doctor wants to speak to me about something. Not sure what it could be, but?—
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Fletcher answers quietly.
“Hi there, I’m Dr. Chhabra.” A balding middle-aged physician enters. “You look terrible.”
Everyone’s a comedian.
Fletcher returns a fake laugh. I recognize it’s fake because I’ve heard his real one on the team’s TikTok account. Usually forced out by Wade Boehner, their prankster goalie, or their social media manager trolling his teammates.
She once recorded their reactions to her calling them pookie, and the blush on Fletcher’s face had me fanning myself. I’d simply pass away if I could make him blush like that. And then I’d come back to life to do filthy, unspeakable things to him.
I blink errantly, bringing myself back to reality and Dr. Chhabra explaining concussion protocol.
“Is there anyone you can call to stay with you for the next two weeks while you recover? Family?”
“Not family,” Fletcher replies.
“Maybe a friend,” I interject, lowering my voice to a whisper when the golden hues of Fletcher’s eyes lock with mine. “Or a teammate.”
“It’s the offseason. They’re all on vacation.”
Oh, right. Landon and Indi are in India for Esha’s wedding and Akhila’s second-first birthday party. And Wade and Gabe went to Florida.
“There’s no one?” the doctor asks.
Fletcher shrugs, pushing an ache into my chest. Does he really have no one else?
“What about you?”
I gape at the doctor and rest a finger on my sternum. “Me?”
“Yeah. Officer Owens said you knew each other.”
“I mean, ‘know’ is pretty loosely defined here.” The thought of living with the man of my dreams catches me off guard.
And nervous. And when I’m nervous, I ramble.
“Like, yes, he’s my friend’s husband’s teammate, so ‘we know each other’”—my fingers form air-quotes—“but who really knows anyone in this vast ocean of life?”
Dr. Chhabra lifts a curious eyebrow. He’s speechless.
Fletcher pushes out a deep sigh, visibly exhausted. “She can stay with me.”
My eyes widen and widen further when he subsequently falls asleep.
“It’s settled then.”
“No offense, Doctor. But I have no idea how to care for someone in this…situation.”
“Absolutely no worries. He’s severely concussed, but he’s going to be fine. I’ll have a nurse go through the protocol with you. And can connect you with someone who can check on him at home.”
I guess it is settled then.
I’ll be living with Fletcher Donovan for two weeks.