Due to being a clumsy kid, you came to know injuries and treatments very well. Even as you got older, you kept yourself familiar. Knowing injuries helped when you started dating an NHL player with a reputation for fighting. You didn’t expect to end up with a sports superstar, in fact, you didn’t like him much when you first met. However, you humored him and gave him your number, and one thing led to another, you two have been together for almost a year. Matt McQuaid, of the Denver Dragons.

You go to every game that you can, wearing Matt’s jersey and cheering him on as he dominates on the ice. This game started like any other, with the Dragons being introduced and skating out onto the ice, and then the anthem and the game. The other team was playing rougher than they needed to, and you could tell it was pissing Matt off, specifically their defense, number 67.

This anger, apparently, was mutual, because the two of them were bashing each other into the boards for the majority of the game. 67 was bigger than Matt by a good 150lbs, so when he crashed into him to knock him down out of anger, pinning him to the ice and punching him repeatedly, you were terrified. Like, screaming for the refs to separate them, for someone to stop them scared. When they finally pried 67 off Matt, he didn’t move, clearly knocked out.

He was taken from the arena in an ambulance, and you Ubered to the ER because you didn’t trust yourself to drive through tears. It took longer than it should have to get to the hospital because of the city traffic, and you panicked the whole time.

When you got to the ER, and the receptionist asked how she could help, you word spewed at her, and she stared, confused. She must have picked up ‘Girlfriend’ and ‘Matt McQuaid’ in your rant, because she told you a room number and you took off.

When you slip through the door, he’s lying in a hospital bed, hooked to machines and IVs. He looks like shit, stitches on his brow and cheek, one eye swollen shut. The lights are dim, the monitors the main light sources.