She doesn’t look happy, though. I’ve failed this test. I had a habit of doing that in high school. Thank God I get to play hockey.
Dr. Novak goes through the rest of the concussion protocol.
It’s not the first time I’ve gone through concussion protocol, but all the other times I was with a player. It’s never been me before.
I hate it.
I hate this room and the scent of antiseptic and sweat that would probably send my cologne maker straight to his grave.
Dr. Novak steps back. “All done.”
“I’m fine?” My voice rises, and I hate the note of vulnerability. Vulnerability is so not my thing.
“You have a concussion,” Dr. Novak says in her most professional voice, the same voice she used when I hurt my shoulder two years ago.
I groan.
“Do you have someone who can watch you?” she asks.
“Uh—” My parents usually watch Stella, but they’re on a cruise this week. That’s why the WAGs were watching Stella tonight.
Dr. Novak’s brow furrows. God, this is one of our rare weekends off. Everyone has plans. She’s probably worried she has to give up her plans for me.
“Sorry. It, um, hurts to think.”
Footsteps patter outside, and my heart leaps.
“Stella! Your daddy’s busy,” a female voice, either Francesca or Jasmine, says.
I snort.
Then the door swings open, and Stella rushes toward me, a blob of blue and white clothes, and caramel pigtails.
Jasmine’s curly black hair glows under the lights as she follows Stella apologetically. “I’m sorry, Evan.”
I shrug, my gaze fixed on the love of my life.
Stella eyes the room skeptically. “Why are you here?”
“I have to check your daddy for booboos,” Dr. Novak says.
Stella wrinkles her nose. “Injuries. I’m not a baby.”
“I know, baby,” I say.
She gives me an affronted look, and I don’t resist the urge to smile.
“Sorry, Stella.”
“Are you okay?” Her voice wobbles, and I hate it. I hate that I’ve worried my brave, confident daughter.
“Just a little headache, honey.”
Stella appraises the computer and desk and assorted medical equipment.
“I don’t like this room.”
“I don’t either.”
