Broken Ice

Chapter 5

Brady

The doctor. The sweet vision in front of me is apparently the doctor. I admit I was a bit taken aback at first. I guess I was expecting someone who looked a little more like Dr. Reinhardt with his bushy eyebrows and beard. Before me stands a petite woman, a striking contrast to the familiar figure of the team doctor. Her oversized dark glasses stand out against her porcelain skin, highlighting its delicate quality. Those captivating green eyes appear to shimmer, almost magnified behind the large frames. I find myself mesmerized by her perfect Cupid's bow lips, tinted with a hint of crimson, creating a vivid contrast to her pale complexion.

I watch those beautiful lips move but for some reason, I can't seem to process what she is saying to me. The swift punch to my left arm is startling but bruises my ego more than my arm, so I whip my head to glare at Nick.

Subtle. Thanks, asshole.

He must be able to hear my thoughts because he gives me a sheepish grin and looks again toward the doctor.

"I'm sorry," I utter, my voice halting slightly as she inches closer to the edge of the bed. Her piercing emerald eyes bore into me. "I was distracted."

It's undeniable- she's incredibly distracting. To be honest, I didn't catch a single word she just said. Her expression is a charming mix of confusion and concern at first. I can't really blame her, I must look like a complete fool. For a brief moment, her eyebrows seem to raise slightly, before her nurse offers her a pair of gloves.

She clears her throat and focuses her gaze back on me. Dr. Travis, I believe that was her name, isn't clad in the typical white coat adorned with the prominent lettering of her name. I squint, attempting to decipher the badge pinned to her shirt, but it's of no use. That's when I noticed her attire. Aren't all hospital doctors supposed to wear those loose blue scrubs like we see on television? Apparently, the TV lies, because she is certainly not dressed in any baggy pajamas. Instead, her black fitted scrubs leave little to the imagination, accentuating all the curves of the stunning woman in front of me.

She starts talking to me about my pain and moves to the side of the bed. For what feels like the millionth time, I tell her where the pain is. I also stress that I feel fine and think the team is just overreacting.

"Really," she gives me a polite smile. "Well, I guess they wanted to be sure. I was also told that you took a hit in practice on your right side."

I groan in embarrassment.

Great, now she thinks I'm a wuss and can't take a hit.

I shake my head. "It wasn't so much a hit as it was a moment of losing my balance. I have taken harder hits before, so it's really nothing to worry about. Hockey players are tough, we can handle the pain." To protect my pride, I start recounting all the impressive hockey injuries I've endured that never required a trip to the hospital. "Doc," I figure that's a safe moniker, "I was feeling a little something before practice but I just assumed it was a muscle strain. We push through that kind of thing all the time. Maybe I just aggravated it more in practice."

She offers me a placating smile. Her face is so close to me that I can see the delicate freckles that are scattered across the bridge of her nose onto her cheeks. In that moment, I catch a hint of her subtle, sweet vanilla scent, a refreshing change from the overpowering dirty diaper and bleach smell I typically associate with these places.

As she begins her examination, she reaches out with her arms. It's then that I notice the intricate tattoos adorning her right arm. Because I am trying to decipher the words intermixed with the pattern extending down her arm ending just above the wrist, I was unprepared when she pushed on the right side of my stomach.