Chapter 109: Nursing the Captain

NORA’S POV

Doc Campbell and Marty walked back into the exam room with a clipboard and a handful of discharge papers.

"Here’s the deal, Nora," Doc Campbell said, handing me the paperwork. "He has a mild concussion and a deep shoulder contusion. No screens, no bright lights, lots of water, and ice that shoulder every two hours."

"Understood," I said, folding the paper into my coat pocket.

Marty pulled a set of car keys out of his jacket pocket and dropped them into my open palm. "Take his truck. He can’t drive for at least forty-eight hours."

Knox sat up a little on the table, wincing as he looked at the keys in my hand. "You’re letting her drive my truck?"

I looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Unless you want to steer with one arm and a concussed brain, Sheridan, you’re sitting in the passenger seat," I said. "Now put your sweatpants on so we can get out of here."

Marty chuckled, patting Knox’s good knee. "Listen to your girl, Captain. She’s running the show tonight."

We snuck out through the arena’s back loading dock.

Out front, thousands of students were still chanting and celebrating Briar’s 3–2 win over Boston, but the cold alley behind the rink was completely quiet.

I guided Knox into the passenger seat of his big black truck. He climbed up slowly, his jaw set tight against the pain. Once he was in, he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes to block out the glare of the parking lot lights.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirrors, and started the engine.

The drive across town was quiet.

The streetlights shone on the wet asphalt, and the heater hummed softly on low. Knox kept his eyes shut the entire ride, but halfway back to campus, his right hand reached across the center console and gently covered mine where it rested on the gear shift.

His palm was warm and rough, his fingers lightly lacing through mine.

Neither of us said anything, but the tight knot of panic in my chest finally began to loosen.

When we pulled into the gravel driveway of the SinBin, the entire house was dark.

"Where is everybody?" I asked, putting the truck in park and killing the engine.

"The boys went to the diner on Main Street to celebrate the win," Knox murmured, slowly opening his eyes. "House is empty."

"Good," I said. "You need quiet."

I helped him out of the truck and walked him up the front steps, our boots crunching against the frosty wood. Once we made it upstairs into his bedroom, Knox slumped down onto the edge of the mattress with a soft groan.

"My head feels like someone took a hammer to it," he muttered, resting his elbows on his knees.

"And your stomach is probably empty," I said, taking off my coat and hanging it over his desk chair. "When was the last time you ate?"

Knox frowned, thinking. "Three o’clock. Pre-game chicken and rice."

"That was almost seven hours ago, Knox. You played twenty-four minutes of violent hockey and got knocked out cold. You need food."

"I’m starving," he admitted, rubbing his eyes. "But looking at my phone screen makes me want to puke."

"Then don’t look at it," I said, pulling my phone from my back pocket. "I’m ordering pizza. Pepperoni?"

A small, tired smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "Half pepperoni, half cheese. And garlic knots."

"Done."

I placed the order with the local pizza place two blocks off campus.

While we waited for the food, I walked over to the bed and knelt in front of him. "Let’s get this compression shirt off," I said softly. "You need fresh ice."

Knox tried to lift his left arm to pull the shirt over his head, but a sharp hiss of pain cut through his teeth, and his arm dropped.

"Stop moving," I scolded gently. "Let me do it."

I reached up and grabbed the hem of his tight grey shirt. Moving slowly, I rolled it up his torso, then gently guided the sleeve down his injured left arm without jostling his shoulder.

When the shirt came off, I took in a sharp breath.

Across his left collarbone and ribs, the skin was already swollen and blooming into a deep, ugly purple. My fingers hovered over the bruise, careful not to touch the tender skin.

"Does it look that bad?" Knox asked, watching my face.

"It looks awful," I admitted. "You’re lucky Colin Oliver didn’t break your shoulder into pieces."

"I’ve taken worse hits," he muttered with typical hockey pride.

"Right. Because lying unconscious on the ice is a regular Friday night for you."

I went down to the kitchen, filled a ziplock bag with crushed ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a clean dish towel, and grabbed a large glass of water.

When I came back upstairs, Knox had managed to kick off his sneakers and pull on a pair of loose grey sweatpants.

I set the ice pack gently over his collarbone and handed him two ibuprofen tablets with the water. He swallowed the pills in one gulp and drained half the glass.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell buzzed downstairs.

I jogged down, paid the delivery driver, and carried the steaming cardboard pizza box and a brown paper bag of garlic knots up to Knox’s room.

I set the box down on his low coffee table and pulled up two floor cushions.

Knox slid off the bed and sat on the cushion across from me, his back propped against the bed frame. Using his good right hand, he grabbed a slice of pepperoni pizza and took a massive bite, closing his eyes in pure relief.

"This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted," he said around a mouthful of crust.

"That’s because you were running on fumes," I said, smiling as I took a slice of cheese pizza for myself.

"You did pretty good with my truck, Bennett," Knox said, wiping sauce from his thumb with a paper napkin. "Except for that turn onto Elm Street. Pretty sure you drove over the curb."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "There was a pothole, Sheridan. I was saving your precious suspension."

"You took it like you were driving a tractor."

"Next time, I’ll leave you at the rink to walk home in your skates."

"You wouldn’t," Knox murmured, his eyes locking onto mine with that warm, knowing intensity that always made my pulse skip. "You like taking care of me too much."

"Don’t flatter yourself," I said, though the heat rising in my cheeks gave me away.

We finished four slices and half the garlic knots in comfortable silence.

By the time we packed up the leftovers, Knox was visibly fading. The painkillers and the exhaustion were finally catching up to him, his eyelids drooping as he sat against the bed.

I gathered the empty box, placed the half-full glass of water on his nightstand, and picked up my wool coat from the desk chair.

"The boys should be back from the diner soon," I said softly, smoothing down my sweater. "I’m going to head back to the dorm so you can actually sleep."

I turned toward the door.

Before I could take a single step, Knox’s right hand shot out, his fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. ℴ

I stopped, looking down at him.

He was sitting on the edge of the mattress now, looking up at me through the dim room. His jaw was set, and his voice was dead serious.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Knox asked.

"Back to my dorm," I said, my heart starting to beat a little faster. "You need to rest, Knox. You have a concussion."

Knox tugged my arm gently, pulling me forward until my knees brushed against the edge of the mattress right between his legs.

"You think I let you drive my truck, nurse my shoulder, and feed me pizza just so you could walk across campus in the cold at midnight?" he asked, his voice dropping low and rough.

"Knox..."

"You’re not leaving, Nora," he said firmly, his eyes holding mine without a single trace of doubt. "Get in the bed."