-ONGOING-
*mature content*
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Sloane Casey's life takes an unexpected turn when she becomes the new physical therapy assistant for the college ice hockey team. Needing the credits for her physiology studies, she is prepared to handle bruises and sp...
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Malachi
Fuck.
I knew immediately, that I might be in a tiny bit of trouble as soon as I heard the crack. The last thing I remember clearly is the crunch of my helmet against the ice. I didn't think much of it until a jolt of agony erupted along my head and down my spine so intense it drove all the air from my lungs. Now, what seems like only moments later, the world comes and goes in fragments, each piece disjointed and fading before I can grasp it.
Okay yeah I'm beginning to think something might be wrong with me.
Everything is a blur—a chaotic swirl of noise, light, and pain that feels like it's ripping my skull apart.
I blink slowly, fighting to open my eyes, but the light overhead is blinding, stabbing into my skull like a thousand tiny needles. Holy shit this is not a great sign so far. I groan, trying to move, but my body feels heavy, unresponsive. Voices murmur around me, low and indistinct, like I'm underwater, and I can't make out the words.
"What is going on..." my voice is barely a whisper, swallowed by the thick fog in my mind. I feel a pressure on my hand, something warm and firm, grounding me in the chaos. It takes me a moment to realize it's a hand, gripping mine tightly, as if it's afraid I'll slip away if it lets go.
"Sloane," I try again, this time managing to force the word out, but it's still weak, barely more than a breath. I can't see her, my vision swimming too much to focus, but I know she's there. Her presence is the only thing that feels real in this nightmare.
"Malachi, I'm here," her voice cuts through the fog, clear and steady, though I can hear the strain underneath. "We're in an ambulance. You're going to be alright."
I want to believe her, to cling to the certainty in her voice, but the pain is too much. It's like my brain is being squeezed in a hydraulic press, each pulse of my heart sending another wave of agony crashing through me. I try to nod, to acknowledge her, but the effort is too much, and I feel myself slipping away again.
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When I wake up next, it feels like only moments have passed, but the light outside the ambulance windows is different—darker, more muted. I can hear the wail of the sirens in the distance, the rumble of the engine beneath me. My head is still pounding, a relentless ache that refuses to let up, but the fog in my mind has cleared just enough for me to piece together what's happening.
I'm on a stretcher, strapped down with belts across my chest and legs and I quickly realise that my head is immobilised by a thick collar. The restraints feel like lead, weighing me down, and every breath is a struggle, like there's a weight on my chest. The interior of the ambulance is cold, sterile, and the smell of antiseptic stings my nose.
Sloane is beside me, her hand still clutching mine, her face etched with worry. She's speaking to the paramedic—a tall guy with a buzz cut who's adjusting the IV in my arm—but I can't make out what they're saying. Their words blend together, a jumble of sound that makes my head throb even harder.
