Heal the Heart

40.

Jitters racked my body. The reason for said jitters was inconclusive. Mostly. Jesus, I hoped I didn't come down with the flu. The dratted virus had already taken two physios and left us slightly understaffed.

I held onto the wall for support as I forced myself to make it to the break room before collapsing. Everything hurt. Even my teeth. It was like I had unleashed something rabid underneath my skin and it traversed the expanse up my arm to my jaw, making it physically impossible to concentrate on anything. Even walking. Once inside, I fell onto the worn out bench right underneath one of the vents. The cool air did little to relieve the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I wasn't necessarily feeling hot, but I was sweating. Yeah, the flu probably did me in too.

A wave of dizziness overtook me when I leaned back a little to rest my back on the wall behind. Slight nausea prickled at my throat. Fuck, I needed to get home before I showcased my lunch.

Lunch... I didn't have lunch. I had skipped my lunch hour to help a patient. Between making sure my patients stayed upright and staying upright myself, I had forgotten to eat. Hunger wasn't exactly gnawing at me, but fuel was required. At least for the two Tylenol I'd be popping within the hour, so that I'd get home without passing out in a corner.

The short walk to the fridge felt like a trek up the Kilimanjaro. I was panting—and warding off another dizzy spell—as I bent down to retrieve the burrito bowl I'd stashed in earlier, taking a pause to enjoy the frigid atmosphere. Only problem was I didn't quite find the bowl. Other than a carton of milk, that was probably expired, a foot long sub, that homed a unique culture of fungi, and the remaining slab of cake from a birthday we celebrated last month, the racks were clear. My fucking beans and chicken burrito bowl was missing.

A whine built up my throat that I didn't bother to squash.

I slammed the fridge door shut and turned toward the group of people crowded in front of the 32'' set up in the corner.

"Brij," I called and shuffled forward, just to slump against the edge of a locker.

His eyes were glued to the TV. "Yeah, one sec," he said without turning back.

My cheeks ballooned as I swallowed down the sudden onslaught of bile, which left behind an acrid taste on my tongue. "Did you steal my lunch?" I wanted to glare at him but my lids fluttered shut as the headache behind my eyeballs grew in intensity thanks to the sudden whoops coming from the mini crowd.

Brij didn't reply, and I probably should've waited till he finished whatever he was watching before demanding he take me home, but I really did need to get something to eat so I could take a stupid antipyretic that would rid me of all these debilitating symptoms.

Maybe I could hit the canteen before the dizziness returned. Then, I would conveniently just pass out on Brij and he'd have no choice but to take me home. That plan would've worked had I not paid attention to what they were watching. Because then, along with the nausea, a wave of heartache wouldn't have come for me.

A hockey match was playing on the screen.

Beck was playing.

More whoops and whoas swept like a wave over my coworkers as one of the players took a hit. The player with the bold 21 on his back, above which the letters BECKETT hung like an arc.

I couldn't look away. I couldn't blink.

I watched as a player from the other team stuck his hockey stick right under Beck's skates. Beck tripped and fell face first, skidding on the ice till he hit the barricade. He didn't take long to get back up. He didn't reach for his hockey stick that lay abandoned. Beck yanked off his helmet and sprinted, tackling the other player, the both of them landing on the ice.