Chapter Text
Garrett Graham trudged up the stairs to his room. He had a singular mission of laying down and forgetting the world for the rest of the day.
Fuck classes. Fuck plans. Fuck icing his shoulder. Fuck anything that involved anything more than just laying there. It was a plan that was mired in future regrets, but that was a problem for future Garrett.
His thighs burned, his shoulder was sore as hell from practice today, but worse was the way everything was too bright, his head felt heavy, his body ached in a way that ran deeper than practice.
Garrett had been under the weather for a few days, but instead of slowly feeling better, he felt more and more drained.
Practice sucked. His body couldn’t quite remember, despite all the muscle memory he’s built, how to keep up. He found himself sucking wind after every drill. He got checked harder than he should have during scrimmage and his shoulder that always bothers him was making itself known Garrett had got caught up in the boards. His whole body ached in a way that ran deeper than the normal physical costs of playing hockey.
When they finally wrapped, Garrett sat down heavier than normal on the bench trying to get a handle on it. His shoulder wasn’t right, everything ached, and he felt like he was moving a step behind. He kept his head down trying to get a grip on it.
Dean noticed from his stall, “G, you alright man?”
I don’t actually know. “Fine,” but he was still breathing hard for sitting in the locker room.
The coach looked over, "Hell, Graham, you don’t look fine. Change and see the trainer.”
Garrett nodded, but internally he felt too seen. Sucking wind on the bench wasn't the shit he wanted to be noticed for. Fuck.
______________________________
The shoulder was typical: ice and rest before it turned into any actual situation. Normal shit.
The piece that was causing a tug of worry and aniexty to sit below his chest was the thing that felt not normal. The trainer caught his too warm skin. He actually caught it before her touched Garrett's stupid shoulder. His hand pausing and feeling the heat before he made contact. There was a face that involved raised eyebrows. Garrett, who had learned to watch and aniticpate people, did not particularly like the concern he saw there.
Garrett knew he was sick. We play sick. We don’t play as well as when we don’t feel like shit. But we play– that’s the job.
The fact they held a thermometer to my forehead in the training room was enough to make me want to disappear into the floor. The trainer’s face held a look of concern as he looked at the reading. Apparently my body had dipped into some weird gray zone of a too-high fever. He listened to his lungs, asking Garrett to breathe in and out. Then a bunch of other bullshit that made Garrett feel too seen as he was asked to follow a light with his eyes and the trainer felt the glands on his neck.
Shit. 0 outta 10 stars. Do not reccommend.
“Alright,” he said, “Graham, you’re off tonight and tomorrow morning practice. Rest, fluids, fever reducer. We’ll revisit in 24 hours. I need you medicated and hydrated.”
If Garrett had it in himself to be mortified he would have been, but laying in the medical table, being given ibuprofen to bring his fever down while he was stuck there icing his shoulder, he felt kind of tired that was bone deep. He decided he had left my dignity somewhere on the locker room bench when he was sucking wind for a little too long.
Ultimately, I kept my eyes on the clock and listened to the sounds of the locker room chatter, the trainer wrapping someone’s wrist, and the coach's no-bullshit-voice floated around the space as he waited for time to be up. He was dangerously close to taking a nap on the table and that would derail his master plan of the actual long term relationship he was looking to pursue with his own bed. The shoulder was starting to go numb, but the rest of my body felt achy. Not enough to mention, but enough that it was hard to get out of his own head about it.
Garrett laid there, trying to not think too hard, listening to the tick of the wall clock.
_________________________________________________
Eventually, coach popped his head in. He placed a bottle of electrolytes by my thigh, “Graham, you’re not driving. Tucker will take you in your car. Drink this before you go.”
I closed my eyes and nodded, “Heard.” I swallow around the feeling that I’m somehow failing some test and shifted to shit up.
Can’t even drive yourself home.
The room dipped for a second as I went from horizontal and vertical. I filed that away mentally and decided that Tuck driving wasn't a bad idea. I looked up and caught Jensen looking at me.
He looked both concerned and a little fed up with me. Well, fuck me.
He blew out his nose, “I need you to rest. No class. No ice. No weights. Twenty-four hours and we’ll revisit.”
I heard something more like, "How the fuck did you let this happen so close to game day?"
I nodded as I opened the bottle and started to sip it.
Seemingly satisfied, Coach Jensen stepped back out.
A quarter of the way through and my stomach rolled a little. Of course an unreliable digestive system would decide to weigh in. At this point though, the bottle was the goal post I had to reach to go home. I really, really wanted to go home.
The trainer came in and started to unwrap the ice around my shoulder. Gave me protocols to follow before my next session that my brain couldn’t quite hold on to. Checked my temp again and declared it was starting to go down with the meds so I was cleared to go. He squeezed my good shoulder and gestured to the drink in my hand, “Sip slow. Shouldn’t see you for at least five minutes.” He left me alone in the room.
Outside the office, I could hear Coach, the trainer, and Tuck. Not enough to make out what they were saying, but enough to know I was a topic of discussion.
I finished the drink, which felt like forever. Sipping slowly was the only option my stomach gave me. I was nauseous, but hadn’t actually reached the point of embarrassingly hugging a trashcan.
Small mercies.
Sliding off the table, pausing a second to make sure the floor didn’t dip, and I headed out to the locker room where Tuck was waiting. My gear was away and he had my bag by his feet. Most of the team had already cleared out.
I was torn between my pride and absolute relief of just being able to to get the fuck out of the arena.
Pride bristled, I can pack my own damn bag, but I told it to shut up because I was too tired and sore to make it a whole thing.
“Well, you look like you're dragging your ass there a little. Not bad for a guy who shouldn’t have been capable of skating with a fever of 103 degrees,” He tossed me a plain granola bar, “Eat something.”
I snagged it automatically. I didn’t feel very hungry. I had just duked it out with my stomach and water. Tuck clapped me on the shoulder and we walked out to the car. Once we were in, Tuck tapped the granola bar, “Just eat it whether you want to or not. Your fever is gonna burn all your fuel. You gotta feed it.”
“I thought you starved a fever.”
“Medically inaccurate saying. Manga.”
I do. Mostly to shut Tucker the hell up. It takes me the car ride to finish the bar as I find my jaw aching when I chew– although I do feel a little better. The fever reducer must be doing its thing. The nausea had given me a reprieve.
When we pull into the driveway, I have serious regrets about detaching my forehead from where it was resting on the cool glass of the car window. It was a small relief and I was clinging to it.
Tucker put the car in park and looked over. He sighed, “Are we arguing about the fact you’re going straight to bed…”
“Not even a little bit.”
Tucker nodded and we both headed inside.
__________________
My room is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen this morning. I strip off my hoodie and lay down just in sweats.
I call Wellsly to tell her to stay the fuck away until I feel better. The idea of her feeling like I do sounded awful. She said I should rest and she’ll check in after her shift at Malones.
I toss my phone on the night stand and roll over onto my stomache burying my head into my pillow.
I’m out as soon as my eyes close.