Chapter 2
Someone gives a startled laugh, and the ref's eyebrows pinch together.
"That isn't funny," the man says, grabbing Caleb's shoulder in a firmer grip.
"Back to the bench, or it'll be a misconduct."
The medics are pulling Dmitri's jersey out of the way to get the neck brace on, and Dmitri's necklace glints in the harsh arena lights.
Caleb stares at the crucifix, at the ring lying next to it, at the shallow rise and fall of Dmitri's chest.
"I'm not joking," he says.
"I love him.
We're getting married."
The ref looks even more angry until Caleb manages to tug his own chain out from under his jersey with his free hand.
He holds it up and watches the ref's eyes jump between the two matching black and gold bands.
Confusion quickly replaces anger on the man's face.
Helpfully, at that moment, Dmitri says "Caleb?" again.
Caleb leans forward into his line of sight and says, "I'm here."
The ref still looks incredulous, but at least he's not trying to shove Caleb away any more.
"We have to get him off the ice," the young paramedic says, clearly done with the drama that's stopping her from doing her job.
"If you can let go for just a second..."
It nearly kills Caleb, but he releases Dmitri's hand long enough that the medics manage to get him onto the backboard.
When he's strapped to the stretcher, Caleb moves forward to grab Dmitri's hand again and the ref doesn't try to stop him.
There's noise all around them, voices that might be the crowd, their teammates, their coaches.
Caleb ignores it all, eyes locked on Dmitri's face as they leave the ice.
The trip to the ambulance is a blur of dull lights and back hallways.
When they make it to the parking bay, the young medic says, "You'll have to ride up front, Mr. WHITMORE." Caleb nods and reluctantly releases Dmitri's hand as the other medics load the stretcher into the back.
He starts towards the cab, but stops when he hears Dmitri's voice call out to him.
Caleb!"
And suddenly there's a loud thrashing inside of the ambulance, and the jumbled voices of several medics all at once.
"He's trying to sit up—"
"—VOLKOV, please hold still."
"Shit, he's going to pull out his IV—"
"I'm here!" Caleb says, turning back and leaning in through the open ambulance doors.
"Dmitri, I'm here."
The chaos calms, and Dmitri's voice, plaintive this time, says, "Caleb?"
"Alright," the young medic says.
"Looks like you're riding in the back with me." She gestures at one of the other EMTs who takes his cue and hops out.
The woman glances between Caleb's bulk and the small confines of the ambulance.
"Is there any way you could lose the pads?" she asks.
"There isn't a lot of room..."
Before she finishes her sentence, Caleb's pulling his jersey over his head, dropping it on the floor and wrenching off his gear.
Unconsciously, he's counting seconds.
Every moment he wastes here is another moment before Dmitri gets the help he needs.
Finally, he pries off his skates and leaves everything in a pile as he pulls himself into the back of the transport.
"Caleb?" Dmitri asks again as the young paramedic slides in beside him, slamming the door shut.
"I'm here," Caleb reassures him.
"Try to hold still." Then he glances at the woman.
"Can I hold his hand?"
"Yeah," she says, working efficiently to hook Dmitri up to the monitors as the ambulance's engine rumbles to life.
There's something soft in her voice when she adds, "He seems calmer when you do."
As the ambulance begins to move, Caleb takes Dmitri's hand in both of his own.
Some of the tension in Dmitri's face eases, but he still looks so pale, so pained.
Caleb exhales a shuddering breath and meets the medic's eyes.
"Is he going to be okay?"
"It was a hard hit.
They'll need to run tests at the hospital to assess his condition."
Caleb closes his eyes and bows forward, clenching Dmitri's hand in a grip that's probably too tight.
"Hey," the medic says, laying a hand on Caleb's shoulder.
"Listen.
I'm not a doctor.
I can't give you a diagnosis, but it's a good sign that he's talking, and that he clearly knows who you are."
"Right," Caleb answers, his eyes still closed.
He forces himself to loosen his fingers so at least he's not crushing Dmitri's hand.
"Thanks."
"Caleb?" Dmitri asks again, and Caleb's stomach clenches at how unsteady his voice sounds.
"Yeah," he says, opening his eyes to meet Dmitri's gaze.
"I'm here.
What do you need?"
Dmitri squints at him, his worry clear even through the pain in his expression.
"You okay?" he asks, squeezing Caleb's fingers.
It's so utterly ridiculous that his probably concussed, possibly broken boyfriend is asking after his wellbeing that Caleb barks out a semi-hysterical laugh.
"No," he answers honestly.
He doesn't know how to be anything else with this man.
He sniffs, the tears that have been prickling at the back of his eyes for a while now finally threatening to spill over.
"Not unless you are, so get your act together."
"Am trying," Dmitri says, sounding almost lucid for a second.
Caleb thinks he's maybe attempting to smile, but the ambulance hits a bump and it turns into a grimace.
"You will stay?" he asks, and he sounds so uncertain.
Caleb nods, blinks, and isn't surprised to feel hot tears streak down his cheeks.
"Yeah," he says, squeezing Dmitri's hand.
"I'm not going anywhere."
When they get to the hospital, Dmitri's wheeled away for testing, and Caleb's left on his own in a disused back waiting room.
Fortunately, by that point, whatever drugs they'd given Dmitri in the ambulance seem to have kicked in because he's clearly still disoriented, but far less frantic.
Caleb, on the other hand, wants to crawl out of his skin.
He's still wearing nothing but his sweaty base layers and socks.
The harsh fluorescent lights glint off of the shiny vinyl seats and glossy magazine covers.
The white walls feel sharp, somehow.
Everything's too bright and too close and it feels like an attack.
He knows it's not rational, just like he knows pacing won't help, but he can't stop striding from one side of the small room to the other.
Seven steps of his socked feet up and back, up and back, past the ten chairs and the small table and the slightly dusty artificial fern.
Maybe the medics should have given him some of Dmitri's drugs.
At least there's no one else in this miserable room, so Caleb's free to have his mental breakdown in peace.
His brain keeps replaying the hit, Dmitri's still form on the ice, the unfocused drift of his normally sharp gaze.
He forces himself to breathe, but there's some sort of vice around his chest that won't let his ribs fully expand.
And then there's the other thing.
The thing that makes Caleb's stomach twist whenever his thoughts brush it.
The part where Caleb held Dmitri's hand live on national television.
Where he told the ref and the medics that he loved Dmitri, that they were going to get married.
Where Caleb decided, on his own, to let their secret out.
Dmitri had said, "Don't go" but what if he'd been warning Caleb not to go to the hospital?
What if he'd been trying to protect their secret?
And even if he hadn't been, he'd been in pain and disoriented.
Caleb remembers the aftermath of his own concussion well enough to know there was no way Dmitri had been in the state of mind to make such a monumental decision.
Caleb stops pacing and closes his eyes.
The world knows now, at least part of the truth, and Dmitri didn't have a say.
What if he's mad?
What if he hates Caleb for this?
It was a betrayal of trust, no matter how Caleb looks at it.
He's given away part of Dmitri, a part Dmitri's desperately protected for years, without his permission.
And in the end, does it even matter?
Despite Caleb's best efforts, Dmitri is still alone in this fucking hospital and Caleb's stuck in this fucking room with a only a fucking fake fern for fucking company.
Fuck.
The door to the waiting room opens, and Caleb spins towards it, his ragged breathing stopping all together.
"Mr.
WHITMORE?" It's a short, kind-faced woman in blue scrubs.
"How is he?" Caleb demands, before she's even fully entered the room.
"I'm sorry, I don't have an update on Mr. VOLKOV," the orderly says, "but you have a phone call."
Caleb pats his thigh, and for the first time realizes he doesn't have his phone with him.
It's back in his stall at the arena, with his gear.
No, wait.
His gear's in a pile in some random back hallway.
Nothing's where it fucking belongs, and Caleb can't fucking think.
"Sir?" the orderly asks.
"Are you alright?"
What a stupid question.
Of course he's not alright.
Nothing is alright.
It is entirely possible that nothing will ever be alright again.