Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
My brain is a machine of useless facts and anxiety, but in this moment, it churns up only one very important memory: the player intake paperwork, which I totally skimmed because most of it was boring. Somewhere in that form, Trent had an allergy listed. Something…what was it? Fruit? Tree nuts? Mold spores? No, not that. Something…
Bees.
Trent is allergic to bees and all things associated.
"Shit," I whisper, my heart sinking. "Oh, shit."
I substituted half of the sugar for raw honey.
Trent looks at me, confused, still smiling, but his eyes are a little glazed now. "Whash up?" he says, his voice already going raspy.
Liz, who has perfect timing only when it involves disaster, pops her head in the room at that exact second. She must see the look on my face because her eyes widen. "Is everything okay?"
"No!" I yell. "I mean, yes! But also no! He's allergic! I just poisoned him. Oh my god, I just poisoned my favorite hockey player."
Liz's face does that thing where all the blood drains out of it. "What? What's he allergic to?"
"Bees and honey," I say, running to the counter for the med kit. "There's honey in the fudge, and the internet said raw was bes–" I break off as Trent coughs again. It's more of a wheeze, really.
Now, as a rule, I don't panic in emergencies. I panic after. Apparently, today is an exception because I'm on the verge of losing my shit.
"Are you feeling okay?" I ask Trent, even though he looks like a lobster having a stroke as he struggles to stand up.
"Feelin' weird," he slurs, and then starts scratching at his arms. Where, of course, angry red hives are springing up at an alarming rate.
"Sit!" I order, shoving him back down on the table. He nearly topples off, so I clamp a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him in place. "Liz, go find Alex."
"Doc isn't here today, Dani," she informs me, her voice soft.
Of course he isn't. He probably called in with a fake flu to spend the week with his family like a sane person.
"Are you gonna die?" Ryan yells from outside the room, ever so helpfully. "If so, can I have your locker?"
"He isn't going to die," I growl. "Liz, get the EpiPen out of the crash kit. The good one, not one that expired during the Obama administration."
"Already on it," Liz says, but she's white-knuckled and nervous.
Trent tries to laugh, but it comes out as a gurgle. "Well, this isn't what I planned for the day," he says, and then his lips go a little blue.
I am never making fudge again.
I grab his elbow and haul him to his feet before steering him out into the main PT suite. Usually, hockey players are strong, but I guess hockey players having an allergic reaction are the exception. Trent is floppy as hell, like one of those wind puppets at car lots. He leans on me, taller by almost a foot, so it's like giving a piggyback ride to a freaking Christmas tree.
"Move!" I yell, and the rest of the team scatters like pigeons. I hear one of the trainers shouting about calling 911, but I'm already rushing him out into the hallway.
He's barely coherent by the time we hit the double doors.
Liz races out after us, waving the EpiPen.
We fumble with it and then stab it into his thigh, all while I'm praying we didn't just hit his femoral artery.
Trent gasps, then blinks hard. The color starts to come back to his face, but now he's sweating buckets, and his words are all scrambled.
"We're going to the ER," I tell Liz.
She nods, still white as a sheet. "I'll let Coach know what's happening."
"I can drivesh," Trent offers, even though he very clearly can't drive. He can't even speak.
"I'll get you there," I tell him firmly. "Just don't die. If you die, I'm going to be the PT who fudged a hockey player to death for the rest of my life."
He tries to grin, but his lips are puffy, so it looks more like a Muppet impression than a smile.
I drag him through the cold, past the loading dock, and into the backseat of my car. He's too big to fit comfortably, so I sort of fold him in half like an Ikea futon and slam the door.
"Stay awake!" I order, running to the driver's side while praying the thing starts, because of course I left the headlights on last night. The engine catches on the second try, miracle of miracles.
I pull out onto the icy street, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for Trent's clammy wrist to check his pulse.
He opens one eye, looking at me in the rearview. "Am I dead? You looksh like an angel."
"Not yet," I say, trying like hell not to read into his comment. He's delirious. A hockey stick probably resembles an angel to him right now. "But you will be if you puke in my car. This is a lease."