Faking It With The Hockey Star

Justin’s POV

The nurse was still checking my vitals when I opened my eyes again. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic, reassuring beeping of the monitor beside me. Harper stood close to the bed, one hand tightly wrapped around mine. She hadn’t let go since I woke up.

The nurse checked my blood pressure, adjusted something on the machine, and glanced at the numbers. "Everything looks good."

Harper exhaled a long breath. "Good."

I squeezed her hand. "I’m fine."

She gave me an incredulous look. "You passed out during a hockey game."

"I said I’m fine."

"You are currently attached to three different machines."

I glanced down at the wires taped to my skin. "Okay. Maybe I’m a little fine."

She rolled her eyes, but a soft smile threatened to break across her face. Before she could say anything else, the door clicked open and the doctor walked in with another nurse.

"Good. You’re awake," the doctor said warmly.

"Apparently."

The doctor smiled. "How are you feeling, Justin?"

"Tired."

"Any dizziness?"

"A little."

"Headache?"

"Yeah."

"Any nausea? Blurred vision? Confusion?"

"No."

The doctor nodded, moving closer to inspect the monitors. "Good. We’re going to keep monitoring you for a little while longer. Your tests look reassuring so far, but because you lost consciousness after a physically demanding game, we want to make sure there isn’t any delayed complication."

Harper tightened her grip around my hand. I could feel her worry radiating through her touch without even looking up.

The doctor continued explaining what they were checking for, and I tried to listen, but my brain was still foggy. Three days. I had apparently been out cold for three days. The sheer thought was surreal.

Harper suddenly glanced toward the door. "I’m going to get some water."

I looked up at her. "You just got back."

"I know," she said, pointing a stern finger at me. "Stay here."

I almost laughed. "Where exactly do you think I’m going?"

She ignored my mouthy response. "I’m getting you something too."

"I’m not thirsty."

"You’re drinking it anyway."

The doctor chuckled quietly. "She’s right, Justin."

Harper smiled triumphantly. "See?" She squeezed my hand once more. "I’ll be right back."

I watched her hurry through the door, leaving a lingering sense of quiet behind. The doctor continued his examination while my father remained sitting near the window. I hadn’t paid much attention to him since waking up—I hadn’t wanted to—but I could feel his heavy gaze fixed on me.

The doctor checked my pupils, asked a few more routine questions, and then turned to the monitor. "Everything is looking good."

My father finally spoke up, his voice hesitant. "So he’s okay?"

The doctor turned toward him. "Yes. He’s okay."

"There’s no brain swelling?"

"Nothing suggests that at the moment."

"And his blood pressure?"

"It was dangerously high when he came in, but it’s coming down nicely."

My father nodded slowly, rubbing his jaw. "So what happened?"

"His body essentially forced him to stop," the doctor sighed, his expression turning serious. "From everything we’ve seen, he was severely exhausted. Lack of sleep, dehydration, extreme physical exertion, and stress all played a major role."

My father’s face fell, the color draining slightly. "Stress?"

There was something about the way he repeated that word, a subtle weight of realization in his voice, as if he already knew exactly what kind of stress had driven me over the edge.

"He needs rest," the doctor continued firmly. "Real rest. Not studying until three in the morning and then going to practice. Not pushing through when his body is screaming at him to stop."

My father nodded numbly. "I understand."

The doctor gave me one last reassuring look. "We’ll continue monitoring him for a little while. If everything remains stable, we’ll discuss the next step."

"Thank you, Doctor."

With a brief nod, the doctor and nurse left the room. The door clicked shut, leaving a dense silence behind.

I stared up at the ceiling, refusing to turn my head. My father stayed where he was for a few long seconds before I heard the scrape of his chair against the tile. He stood up.

"I..." His voice sounded rough, scraped raw. I didn’t look at him. "I’m sorry."

I said nothing.

He took a slow step closer to the bed. "I know that doesn’t fix anything."

Still, I offered no response.

"I was scared," he whispered, his jaw tightening. He stopped right beside my bed. "You scared me."

I finally turned my head to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin pale and worn down. He looked older than I had ever seen him.

"I’ve aged about twenty years in three days," he admitted softly.

I looked back up at the ceiling. He was speaking as if he had earned the right to worry about me, and maybe, biologically, he had. He was my father. But a sudden medical crisis didn’t erase years of distance, mistrust, and harsh words.

"I know I’ve made mistakes," he said quietly, his voice cracking slightly. "I know I’ve hurt you. I don’t expect you to forgive me. Not now."

Good, because I wasn’t ready.

"I just want you to know that I’m here," he added. "Anytime you need me. I mean that."

The door swung open, shattering the heavy moment. Harper walked back in carrying a bottle of water and a can of Sprite. She froze when she saw my father standing so close to my bed, her eyes darting between the two of us.

My father immediately took a step back. "Harper."

She nodded politely, her guard instantly up. "Mr. Callahan."

"I’m going to leave," he said quietly, looking down at me one last time. "I’m glad you’re awake." He walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "I mean what I said, Justin."

I didn’t answer, and after a brief pause, he slipped out into the hallway.

Harper walked over and placed the drinks on the bedside table, her eyes searching mine. "What happened?"

I kept my eyes fixed on the closed door. "So... my father and you are best buddies now?"

A small, breathless laugh escaped her. "No," she said, sitting down in the chair beside me. "We were probably just bored and needed someone to talk to."

I turned to look at her. "That’s your explanation?"

"Yes." She smiled softly, picking up the water and handing it to me. "But don’t worry. I’m still all yours."

I took the bottle from her, feeling the cold condensation against my palm. "Good."

She leaned down, brushing her lips gently against my forehead. And for the first time since opening my eyes into this nightmare, a real, genuine smile broke across my face.

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