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The hit is unexpected.
Hannah is in the stands like normal, Allie at her side and Beau on the other side. They were talking about the newest drama—some puck bunny was throwing herself at Logan at the last party and he didn't even seem to notice one bit.
Hannah is focused on them, half paying attention to Garrett leaning down for the face-off, so she doesn't notice the commotion until the incessant shrill ringing of the ref whistles echo around the rink and the whole crowd seems to drop to a deadly, deafening silence.
Allie gasps.
Beau makes a grunting noise, partly choked off.
Hannah can't see anything past the mash up of agitated Hawks circling around…someone on the ice.
Someone laying on the ice.
Someone not moving on the ice.
Casting her eyes around the blue jerseys, she clocks the numbers; 22—Logan, 66—Di Laurentis, 46—Tucker,—so many. Too many to count.
But, that doesn’t make sense. Why would they all be on the ice? Isn't that against the rules?
She scans the crowd again, looking for 44, or the C, the block letters of Graham, something, anything.
The medics rush out onto the ice them, parting through the crowd of anxious hockey players like judas and the red sea, and then she sees him—
—Garrett.
Garrett is the one laying on the ice. His helmet isn't off, his arm is resting at a slightly off angle, and, most importantly, he's not fucking moving.
“Hans, hey.” Allie clutches at her hand, nails almost digging into the delicate skin, sharp and grounding. “Hannah. Look at me.”
She can't. Garrett is hurt. He's not moving, why can't she see that? Didn't she see that? “Garrett—”
Allie doesn’t let her step away, grip strong on her biceps. “Hannah. He will be okay. But you have to breathe—c’mon babe, you can do this.”
“Al—” Hannah stutters, throat closing with panic. Allie has planted herself between Hannah’s eyesight and the rink, and she’s trying hard to move to catch a glimpse of what’s going on. She needs to know what’s going on. What if Garrett is— “What if he’s—”
Allie squeezes her cheeks. “Don’t.” Her curls ruffle as she shakes her head. “Don’t do that to yourself. Okay?”
“I need to go.”
Beau is right at her side then. “D says the medics are taking him right now. He’s requesting you.”
Allie frowns. “I don’t—”
“Allie. I can’t— I need to go.” Hannah turns to Beau then, hands shaking. “Let’s go.”
Allie sighs, falling into step with them as they push through the crowds watching and down the steps. “Fine. But I’m coming with you.”
That’s fine.
The walk down to the ice takes forever, even when people notice that it’s her. There’s phones shoved in her face, someone asking her a question she can’t hear, and all she can think about is will Garrett be able to play hockey still?
Jensen nods at her when they get to the boards, waving her over to the bench and Logan helps her get over onto the bench's side. She looks up at him with wide, worried eyes and he looks…scared. Spooked. Like he’s seen a ghost, sweaty face pallor making the ruddy cheeks seem even brighter.
She has to ask, even if it hurts. “Is he..?”
Logan's brows pinch together, lips thin. “They think he has a concussion.”
Oh. That's pretty normal, all things considered. Hockey is a high contact sport, and, though she wasn't here to witness the hit, she definitely heard about the rough knock Birdie took during the St. A's game. Concussions are standard, pretty normal.
But Logan still looks upset.
“What? What else?” Hannah recalls the slight twist to Garrett's arm while he was sprawled on the ice. Is it broken? God, she hopes not.
Logan sighs, running a hand through his wet hair. “He wasn’t conscious for a few minutes, and when he came to he was pretty out of it.”
Oh.
“What uh, what does that mean?” A flurry of thoughts run through her mind then; is he confused? Did he lose his memory? No, he asked for Hannah already, so he at least remembers her.
“I dunno Wellsy.”
“Hannah Wells?” A sharp voice comes from down the tunnel, cutting through the tension.
Hannah jerks her attention that way, eyes wide. “Yes. That’s me.”
It’s a medic, hands resting on what looks like the bottom rail of the stretcher. “Are you coming?”
Coming? Oh shit. Right. She jumps into gear, tearing down the tunnel without looking back to see if Allie or Logan are following. “Yes, yeah. I’m here.” When she gets around the corner though she pauses, because Garrett is sprawled on the stretcher and he looks—he doesn’t look good.
Garrett’s face is pale and beads of sweat are covering his forehead, brows pinched tight like he’s in pain. His eyes are hooded low, like the lights are bothering him and Hannah has the inane thought that she should go back and grab his sunglasses from his duffle. There’s a bruise already forming on his temple, spreading up into his hairline and mottling his pretty face with purples and blues.
“Keep him awake and talking.” The medic who called her over requests.
“Wellsy?” Garrett rasps. His arm moves, fingers twitching like he’s trying to reach up but it makes his face pinch up more in pain.
“Hey, don’t.” Hannah steps right up to his side and, as gingerly as possible, she wraps her fingers around Garrett’s wrist. The feeling of his pulse against her fingertips helps soothe something that has been turbulent and vicious since she spotted Graham sprawled flat on the ice. “How’re you feeling?” Her voice shakes a bit, but the medics start pushing the stretcher through the halls and she has to focus on keeping up instead of that. “That was one helluva hit.”
She doesn’t tell him she wasn’t watching—and that she’s thankful for that tiny detail. Because if she had to actually witness her boyfriend going down like a sack of bricks? To not move after the fact? Probably would’ve sent her further into a spiral.
Garrett grunts, wincing at the growing sounds of the speakers as they get closer to the end of the tunnel. “C-cheap hit.” He frowns harder, head lolling to the side and then his eyes open a little wider, falling on her.
Then he grins, wide and beautiful, the same one he has when Hannah teases him. “Hey, Wellsy. You’re so—so pretty.”
Hannah chokes, cheeks heating slightly. She glances up at the medics, asking quietly, “how strong are the drugs he’s on?”
The medic at the head of the stretcher, a kind looking black woman who chuckles and shakes her head. “Nothing, girl. He didn’t want anything.”
Oh.
Well.
“Wellsy. Weeeeeeellsy.” Garrett’s voice dips into whining territory, pink lip jutting out in a pout.
She sighs, accepting her fate of a clingy boyfriend. “Yes, Graham?”
Garrett lights up again when she glances down at him, and Hannah can’t help the flutter in her chest at the sight of his relieved, relaxed face—even if it is sporting a nasty looking bruise. “Will you go…on a date with me?”
Blinking down at her concussed boyfriend, Hannah can’t help the incredulous laugh that bubbles up and escapes. “Really? Right now?”
Garrett nods then immediately flinches at the movement. “Uh, maybe later?” He pauses, thinking, then grins and winks. “Yeah, later.”
Good lord, what is she gonna do with him? Her smile softens, eyes crinkling slightly. “Yeah, okay Mr. Invincible. Let’s see how you feel when that headache gets worse.”
“Yees.”
(Garrett ends up having a grade 2 concussion, and does end up accepting some pain meds, if only because his sprained wrist is more of an annoyance that he keeps bumping into things. Hannah teases him relentlessly for it, as does the others, and Garrett’s grumbling is the cutest ever.)