Page 86 of Goalie Secrets

My phone buzzes, jolting me back to the present. It’s a text from Kyle.He’s heading to Columbus General for a few more tests, but nothing alarming.

Nothing alarming? Did he not see what I just watched? Did he not notice the way Jeremy’s leg twisted? The way he couldn’t move on his own?

I pick up my phone and stare at the message, my grip tightening. Jeremy didn’t even tell me himself. Instead, I find out like this. I force myself to take a deep breath, setting the phone back down with shaky hands.

The only thing that is clear to me is that I should go to the hospital. I should be there when he arrives, even if part of me is undeniably angry.

Angry that he keeps pushing himself like this.

Angry that he didn’t call me.

Angry that I feel more like a flustered girlfriend than a competent doctor.

I stay seated, my hands clenched into fists, trying to wrestle down the ache in my chest. Every corner of this office reminds me of him, so I leave.

“Sabrina, please cancel my appointments today,” I tell her steadily although the pressure behind my eyes threatens to burst.

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Are you checking on Jeremy?”

Unable to trust my voice, I nod vaguely.

I had meant to go home to wait for Kyle’s call but find myself nearing the hospital instead. Once parked, I sit in my car like a weirdo. Jeremy’s face floods my mind, his teasing grin, the way his hair sticks to his temple after he pulls off his mask. How he pretends he’s fine even when his body is screaming. I knew this would happen. Iknewit.

My palms slam on the steering wheel. The memory of our conversations surges, those heated exchanges where I’d warned him,beggedhim, to take his pain seriously. My frustration bubbles up, molten and scalding.

Pulling out my phone, I undergo my personally inflicted hell of watching the video on repeat and trolling the Mavericks hashtags. Sports analysts fill my head and drive me crazy. By the time I get out of my car, panic is eating my insides. I’m in a zombie state, walking through the parking garage and into the lobby. The acute, sterile smell of antiseptic, which always reminds me of late nights in med school, jars my senses.

He’s not even here and I’m already a useless mess. After walking aimlessly, I find myself in the cafeteria. The barista barely glances at me as I order. “Large black coffee, please. Extra hot.”

If I can’t stop the nerves, I might as well burn them out of my system.

I take a tentative sip while looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows facing a garden. A row of tulips, still tightly closed, lines the path. My finger traces the condensation on the window and, just beyond, wind stirs the budding leaves on the trees. From here, the spring scene looks surreal, gorgeous yet separate from the hospital’s cold, fluorescent reality.

The world keeps moving outside, but in here I’m paralyzed.

Waiting.

I sit and my leg starts bouncing uncontrollably.

Still waiting.

I walk in circles and stare at my phone. No calls, no texts.

Still fucking waiting.

I scroll to Kyle’s name for the tenth time in the last five minutes, hovering my thumb over the screen. It chimes and I swipe to answer.

“Is he here?” I don’t even say hello to Kyle.

“He just got checked into the hospital. Wait, are you alreadythere?”

“I, um, I’m on my way. Do you know the room he’s in?”

Kyle directs me to the third floor. The walk down the hallway feels longer than it should. Despite the boulder of anxiety growing in my chest, I attempt to keep my expression neutral. If Jeremy sees me upset, he’ll just deflect, crack a joke, and try to make me laugh.

And there is nothing, absolutelynothing,funny about this.

I’m floating in a fog. My head’s heavy, my limbs stiff, and everything feels like it’s happening beyond my reach. The drugs are working, too well maybe, so everything is in slow motion.