Chapter Text
Hard hits and the subsequent injuries that accompany them are the nature of the game. Garrett knows that better than most. Between his dads career and his own foray into hockey from the time he could walk, Garrett has both watched and taken enough to be pretty much unphased by most of them at this point. You get up, you shake it off, and you power through with hot showers and Advil after the game.
On the other hand, he’s both watched and taken enough hits to know immediately when it crosses the line into oh shit territory.
They’re halfway through the third period against Saint Anthony’s, a team notorious for their physicality, when one of their defencemen cross checks Logan into the boards. The initial thud is bad, a collective gasp passes through the crowd, but the crack of his helmet against the ice that follows as Logan collapses like a sack of potatoes is so, so, much worse. The referee's sharp whistle calls a stop to the game, a hushed silence falls over the stands, and from the corner of his eye Garrett catches sight of Dean and Birdie going toe to toe with the visiting team in a fight that’s almost certainly going to result in some hefty penalties.
He can worry about that later though, because as Garrett peels across the ice the only thing he’s remotely focused on is the fact that Logan’s crumpled body is still laying there unmoving.
“Logan? Logan, can you hear me?”
He reaches his friend before the trainers do, bile raising in his throat as for a terrible moment Logan doesn’t respond. “C’mon man, talk to me.”
Logan moans.
On any given day the sound that just escaped him would cause all sorts of alarm bells to start ringing in Garrett’s head, but right now he’s so damn grateful to get any sort of acknowledgment from the other man that he breathes a sigh of relief. “Alright, let’s get you off the ice. They gotta check you out.”
He extends a hand, and Logan takes it sluggishly, eyes slightly unfocused. Fuck, Garrett knows a concussion when he sees one. “Nice and slow.”
The crowd begins to clap, relief pouring over them as Logan is helped to his feet by Garrett on one side and one of the trainers on another. It’s a slow process, Logan’s coordination is all but gone, but they succeed in getting him upright. He takes a step forward, determined to at least try to make it to the locker room even slightly under his own power, and just seconds too late Garrett realizes what’s about to happen, but is powerless to stop it.
Logan puts weight on his left leg, screams, and topples back over nearly taking Garrett and their trainer with him. Back on the ground, curling into what is approaching the fetal position he actually whimpers, and Garrett feels his own heart rate spike.
“Stretcher. Now.” He hisses to the trainer. His tone leaves no room for argument, not that he thinks he’d get one anyway. They’re all painfully aware just how bad this is. Gradually the rest of the team skates over, silently forming a protective circle around the young forward. Coach Jensen is on the ice himself, face hard with worry as he takes a knee, hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Medics are going to take care of you, John. Just let them do their job.”
Logan nods, face several shades paler than Garrett has ever seen, and he suspects the sweat pouring from Logan’s forehead has far more to do with his level of pain than exertion from the game.
They stand shoulder to shoulder as the medics cart Logan off the ice, Jensen by his side, and it takes every ounce of self control Garrett has not to follow.
He doesn’t, mainly because he knows he’d get an earful from the captain, the coach, and Logan himself. Not to mention his dad. Still, staying in the game is the hardest thing he’s had to do so far in his college career.
Garrett has always been popular. Having an NHL legend as a dad kind of guaranteed that from the moment his classmates were old enough to understand what it meant. Being a star athlete in his own right, while also rather friendly and relatively good looking? That just cemented his status. Until six months ago though, he’d never really had a best friend.
There were guys he’d considered close to it at one point or another, buddies from hockey and from high school he stayed in touch with. Despite that, it wasn’t until John Logan sat down beside him on the first day of training camp with an easy grin and wicked sense of humour that Garrett had someone who just…got him.
Now, six months later, Garrett can’t deny it. They’ve been joined at the hip all year, and he wouldn’t change it for a second.
Logan is, without a doubt, his best friend.
Fiddling with the hem of his jersey, Garrett does his best to turn his attention back to the huddle where their captain is barking instructions. “Graham, you’re with me. Move the puck, skate fast. Birdie, Dean, for the love of god do not let anyone else take a hit like Logan’s.”
Sticks clatter against the ice, voices rumble in agreement, and the ref blows his whistle once more, signalling the start to the last nine minutes of the game.
Garrett gives staying focused a valiant effort, but he’s painfully aware neither his head or his heart are in it. Dean on the other hand is playing with a fire unlike anything Garrett has seen from him yet - apparently he doesn’t respond well to his friend and teammate going down.
They lose 2-1, but nobody really seems to care.
Poor sportsmanship or not, Garrett doesn’t stick around to shake hands with the opposing team. He stalks down the tunnel, yanking off his helmet as he does, tossing open the door of the dressing room and zeroing in on the medics who are examining Logan. “What’s going on?”
Coach Jensen is at his side before Garrett knows it, voice quiet but steady. “They’re taking him to the ER. He’s got a definite concussion, and they need to do some imaging of his knee.”
The concussion isn’t a shock, Garrett had diagnosed that himself with one look at Logan’s eyes. He knew the knee was fucked too, but he’d still dared to hope that maybe it wasn’t as bad as he was worried about. Unfortunately, if Jensen is sending Logan to the ER, it’s probably worse.
Logan’s face is grey, beads of sweat still dripping from his hair, and his eyes are squeezed shut in pain as the medics help remove his gear. “I’m good, G.”
Jensen scoffs, vocalizing Garrett’s own feelings. “Yeah, right. Graham, you’d better get undressed. Ambulance is going to be here soon.”
“I can go with him?”
“Not that I think there’d be any stopping you either way,” Jensen remarks wryly, “but you are his emergency contact.”
Pausing, Garrett gives his head a shake, certain he’s misheard what his coach just said. “Sorry, what?”
Arching an eyebrow, Jensen looks between Garrett and Logan with a sigh. “Usually, we let people know when we do things like add them to our paperwork.”
Cracking open an eye, Logan has the good grace to look sheepish. “My bad?”
It’s the most like himself he’s been since he went down, and that in itself makes Garrett grin. “It’s all good, man. I’ve got you.”
Jensen mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like idiots, but shaking his head points at Garrett. “I wasn’t kidding. Get ready to go. I want updates from the hospital, and I’ll send DiLaurentis to pick you two up.”
Knowing better than to argue, Garrett starts unbuckling his own uniform. “Yes sir.”
—
The ambulance ride is brutal.
The paramedics themselves are great, taking as much care as they can not to jostle Logan as they move him from the team stretcher, to theirs, into the back of the ambulance. The female EMT who stays with them in the rear hands both Logan and Garrett a bottle of water with strict instructions to rehydrate themselves, but Logan doesn’t seem to be able to undo the cap himself, and that sends panic rushing back through Garrett’s veins. That panic increases tenfold when after only two small sips Logan makes an unmistakable gagging noise, twists to the side, and vomits on the floor.
“Fuck,” Garrett breathes.
He’s not sure if Logan’s stomach rebelling is a result of the concussion or the pain, but neither option is good. There’s tears forming in the corner of his friend's eyes now, likely a combination of pain and embarrassment, so Garrett reaches over and squeezes his bicep. “You’re okay bud, we’ve got you.”
“It fucking hurts,” Logan replies, his voice cracking on the last word, and Garrett nods.
“I know. We’re almost there. They’ll get you all fixed up.”
The paramedic runs another set of vitals, frowning as she checks his blood pressure. “Your BP is a little high. Nothing too concerning, probably from pain. We’re seven minutes out from the hospital. I can start an IV of pain meds now if you want.”
Garrett thinks that’s an excellent idea, especially as Logan whimpers with every bump they hit, but somehow his friend shakes his head, eyes steely with determination. “I’ll wait.”
There’s something in his expression Garrett can’t place, something he hasn’t seen from Logan before, and it leaves him uneasy. If Logan wants to wait though, that’s what they’ll do. If he trusts Garrett enough to put him down as his emergency contact, Garrett trusts him enough to know what is in his best interest. His gut tells him it’s a bad idea, but Garrett nods. “Alright, we’ll wait.”