In Your Wildest Dreams (Wildcat Hockey Book 4)

I hurry out of the break room, pulling my hair back and securing it with a clip.

My coworker Hannah falls into step beside me. Her brows lift and a playful smile tugs at her lips when she scans my face. “You look tired. Did you get any sleep today?”

If it were anyone else commenting on my appearance, I’d be offended, but Hannah’s words and scrutinizing gaze isn’t her being mean, she’s just one of those people who tells it like it is. And sadly, she’s right. I do look tired, but I guess there’s no hiding the fact I only got three hours of sleep.

“I slept,” I say with a hint of defensiveness in my tone.

“Oh yeah? How many hours?”

A small laugh escapes. “Hopefully enough to make it through another night.”

We slow our pace as we approach the nurses’ station to begin our shift.

I work nights as a registered nurse on the orthopedic floor of the hospital. I got placed here a month ago after six months working on the cardiac floor and a short stint on the psychiatric wing. I’m going to school to get my bachelor’s degree in nursing. Once I have my BSN, I want to be a pediatric nurse. I fell in love with peds during my RN clinicals, but so far, a spot hasn’t opened up.

For now, I’m bouncing around different areas of the hospital, getting experience and filling in wherever I’m needed. Moving around in the hospital means I haven’t stayed in one spot long enough to form many friendships with my coworkers, but Hannah is one of my favorites.

She offers a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know how you manage it all. Working all night and then going to school all day. You need more rest.”

“I got a nap in at lunch, and I slept a couple more hours this evening.”

Her mouth falls in a straight line, silently communicating her disapproving thoughts on my schedule.

Back-to-back night shifts during the week are the worst. I get off work at seven in the morning, head to my place for a quick shower, then go to a full day of classes. When I’m done, it’s basically time to be back at work. Despite the lack of sleep, I love my job. Totally worth the bags under my eyes.

“I’m fine. Let’s just hope it’s busy tonight or I might fall asleep on my feet.”

“You haven’t heard?” she asks as we stop to look at the board.

“Heard what?”

“We’ve got a VIP.” Her lips curve into a smile.

My brows lift at her excited expression. “That’s good news?”

“Ask me who it is.” She nudges me with an elbow, and her smile widens.

“I don’t care who it is.”

“Just ask me,” she insists, practically vibrating next to me.

“Okay, fine. Who is it?”

Before she can answer, the charge nurse on the day shift shouts my name. Sandy is a frightening woman who has worked at the hospital longer than I’ve been alive. Her patients love her, but everyone that works with her gives her a wide berth. One of her jobs is to create the schedule for the nightshift. We had a new hire last month that talked back to her and barely lived to regret it. She quit on day two.

I happen to like Sandy’s no-nonsense, slightly prickly personality. She still scares me, but I like her.

After startling, I aim a wobbly smile at her. “Yes?”

“I’m assigning you the VIP in 601 tonight.”

“Lucky,” Hannah hisses and then leaves me to start her shift.

Lucky? Is she joking? I once overheard a nurse trade two vacation days to avoid taking a VIP patient. No one wants to get stuck with a VIP.

All I’ve heard since I started working here is how management hovers nearby VIP rooms, popping in and out unexpectedly and scrutinizing care decisions, and that the patients are often more demanding. Sometimes it’s a doctor’s family member or a loved one of someone in administration, or it could be a donor who gives large sums of money to the hospital each year. The criteria for who makes a VIP is broad and not clearly defined.

But as I look around, I notice a few more jealous gazes turned in my direction, which makes no sense to me.

Sandy brings both hands up to rest on either end of the stethoscope around her neck. “Let’s do the bedside report for 601 first.”

Nodding my agreement, I follow her toward the room of who I’m sure is going to be the most stressful patient of the night. On the plus side, I probably won’t be bored enough to realize how tired I am.

The hospital is laid out in an L-shape. One long hallway with patient rooms extends out from the nurses’ station, and on the other side are four more patient rooms—though these are bigger, nicer, and often reserved for cases the hospital deems a higher priority. Room 601 is one of the nicer rooms. Maybe the nicest since it sits at the end of the hallway. Every floor has one room at the very end of the short hallway with windows that look out onto the city. The executive offices are on the top floor on this side of the building for that very reason.

“So, who is the patient?” I ask her as we pass by empty rooms, trying to shake any negative thoughts. Whoever it is, they’re just another person that needs the same empathy and care.

She stops in front of the supply closet and hands me two extra pillows and a blanket. “Are you a hockey fan?”

“Hockey?”

She nods.

“No. Not really. Why?” As I ask the question, my throat goes dry.

“I never really cared for it either, but my husband is a diehard. We always go to a couple of Wildcat games each season. He’ll be so jealous when I tell him I got to meet one of his favorite players.”

The implication of her words hits me with force. A Wildcat hockey player is here?

I can’t seem to find my voice to ask her which player. Besides, there are a dozen other guys it could be. There’s no way it’s him. It can’t be.

Without another word, she shuts the closet door and continues down the hallway toward the last room. I follow behind her, heart racing even as I repeatedly tell myself I’m overreacting for no reason.

The door for Room 601 is open a crack. Light seeps out along with muted voices. Memories of the last time I was face to face with a Wildcat player swirl through my mind and my fingers tremble.

“Sandy! Wait up.”

We both turn to find Hannah jogging toward us. She stops in front of Sandy. “Someone from administration needs to see you.”

“Tell them I’ll be there as soon as we do the handoff on 601.”

“She said it can’t wait. They have a question on some paperwork for him.” She tips her head in the direction of our VIP.

“Maybe I should go,” I offer.

“No. You go ahead and check on your patient,” Sandy says with a sigh. “I’ll deal with administration and then hopefully they’ll leave you to do your job the rest of the night. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

As soon as Sandy is gone, Hannah latches on to my forearm with a firm grip and pulls me over to the wall where we’re partially hidden behind a crash cart. “Did you see him yet?”

“No, not yet. Who is it?”

Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him.

“Ash Kelly!”

My heart drops and a high pitch ring drowns out the background noise of the hospital. It’s been a month since Ash Kelly hit on me in front of an entire arena and then almost got into a fight with Gabe outside of Wild’s bar. A whole month and that night still haunts me.

“Can you believe it?” Hannah asks.

I can’t, but I can’t seem to form words to reply either.

When I still don’t respond, she adds, “Ash Kelly? The hockey player. He plays for the Wildcats.”

“Right.” My voice comes out tight, but I do my best to force my body to appear calm and relaxed. “I’ve heard of him. Why’s he here?”

He’s hurt obviously, but just…How? How can this be happening? And how do I avoid going in there and facing him?

“He got injured in the game tonight. Concussion and shoulder separation. Dr. Weston was on her way to the hospital for an emergency ankle repair, so they sent him here.”

Despite my shock at finding out who our VIP patient is, the nurse in me wants more details. “AC joint? Does he need surgery?”

“Yes, and I don’t know. They just brought him up a few minutes ago.” Her smile gets impossibly bigger. “God, you’re so lucky.”

“We could switch.” I try to hand her the pillows and blanket. I cannot walk in there and be Ash Kelly’s nurse. My face flames hotter at just the thought. I have no desire to relive any part of that night.

“And face the wrath of Sandy? No way. Besides, Weston’s letting me help on the ankle repair.”

“And you think I’m the lucky one?” Though to be fair, there are few things that sound less humiliating than walking in Room 601 and facing Ash again. I can still see his expression as he watched me walk off with an angry Gabe. He seemed so confused and a little concerned. It’s the concern that surprised me the most. It was genuine.

“Ash Kelly or a surgery with the best doctor in this hospital?” She moves her hands in front of her like she’s weighing the options, then drops them with a laugh. “I’ll tell you about the surgery if you promise you’ll tell me what he’s like?”

I manage a small nod.

“Have fun,” she chirps before taking off in the other direction.

“You too,” I mutter back, too quiet and too late for her to hear.

I pace in front of the door, hugging the bedding to my chest. Flashes from that night play in a loop. Ash skating around the ice with women screaming his name. His cocky smile as he tossed me the puck. And that puzzled expression as I left him on the sidewalk.

Part of me wonders if I’m being silly. There’s no way Ash Kelly remembers me. I’m certain that I am one of many, many women he’s charmed with his little pre-game warmup. But on the off chance he does recognize me, I’d prefer not to have a conversation about what happened outside of Wild’s that night. Especially here in my place of employment.

I’ve just about talked myself into going into the room, keeping my head down, and faking an accent, when the door opens. A guy with gray hair wearing a white polo shirt with the Wildcat hockey logo embroidered over his chest steps out, then pauses when he sees me loitering in the hallway.

A practiced, closed mouth smile falls into place. “Hello.”

“Hey.” The man steps to the side to allow me to enter. “Can we get some more water?”

“Absolutely.” I nod with more confidence than I feel. I really wish I could shove the pillows and blanket at him and run off, but I am a professional, dammit. Holding my head high, I walk over to deposit the extra bedding on the far chair. Normally the first thing I’d do is make eye contact with the patient, but I avoid staring at Ash until it’s nearly uncomfortable.

Looking up and directly into his blue eyes, I hold my breath as I wait for his reaction. Immediately, I know he recognizes me. I can’t even begin to think about how that’s possible, but I know it’s true. The corners of his lips pull up on either side and he opens his mouth to say something, but I’m saved by Dr. Weston as she enters the room. She’s a badass orthopedic surgeon that just transferred here from Virginia. She’s one of the best in the country. The Wildcats scooped her up this season as a team doctor, so it’s not all that surprising that a Wildcat player would be here, I guess, but it’s the first time I know of that it’s happened.

She stops at the side of his bed. “How’s your pain? Better or worse since they checked you at the arena?”

“Fine. Same.” His gaze flicks back to me for a second, then returns to the doctor.

While they go over his pain and the tests that have already been run, I take the opportunity to get more water and then see what else the room needs. I check all the closets for supplies and even make sure that he has fresh batteries in the TV remote. Busy tasks so I don’t have to look at him.

“But I won’t need surgery, right?” A hint of fear in his voice beckons me to finally redirect my attention his way.

He’s wearing only black athletic pants with his jersey number stitched in green on the left hip. I’ve successfully managed not to gawk at his bare chest since I walked in, but all that restraint goes up in a plume of smoke now. And dammit, his body is just as spectacular as I remember from the stunt he pulled at the game, whipping off his jersey to give to a little girl in the crowd. He’s quite the charmer, I’ll give him that. The fans love him.

Light hair along his chest is trimmed short and trails down his washboard abs before disappearing into the band of his pants. He’s lean and cut and his muscles are defined even in the awful fluorescent lighting overhead. His left arm is covered with a sling, keeping it close to his body and elevated.

I spot two tattoos—a butterfly on his left bicep, and script on the right side of his chest that I can’t quite read without giving away that I’m checking him out.

“I don’t think so, but we can go over all of that tomorrow when you’re feeling better. For tonight, I think you should stay here where we can keep an eye on you. It’ll be easier for everyone, considering your limited mobility with your shoulder and the concussion. Any more nausea or vomiting?”

“No,” he answers quickly.

Doctor Weston pauses, giving him a chance to change his answer.

“A little nausea, but it’s better. No vomiting.”

“Good,” she says. “Blurry vision? Problems walking or talking?”

“No.” His voice is more assured this time.

She nods, but still pulls out her penlight and checks his eyes. When she’s satisfied, she turns it off and stands tall. “All right. I’ll check back in a couple of hours, but for now, the best thing you can do is rest and let your body start to recover. Your pain level will likely increase as the adrenaline from the night starts to wear off.” For the first time, she looks at the other gentleman in the room. “Any questions?”

They’re both quiet, and with another nod, she takes a step toward the door.

“Thanks,” he calls after her.

I feel Ash’s gaze immediately switch to me, but the man in the polo shirt speaks first. “I should get home to the wife and let you rest up. If you need anything, give me a call. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

While Ash says goodbye to him, I finish reading his chart. Ash Kelly, twenty-nine years old, no allergies, shoulder separation and concussion, just as Hannah said. They didn’t list his six pack or panty-melting smile. An obvious oversight.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Ash says when we’re alone.

My heart skips and I shuffle awkwardly, having no idea how to respond.

“It is you, right? I’m not hallucinating, am I? You’re the girl from the game last month?”

“Bridget,” I say, not directly answering his question.

“Bridget.” The way he says my name sends a shot of unprofessional heat climbing up my neck.

I should tell him I’m his nurse for tonight, but maybe I can still get someone to switch with me. I settle for smiling and asking, “Can I get you anything, Mr. Kelly?”

“Mr. Kelly?” He quirks a brow, then lets out a soft laugh. “Nah. Only thing I need right now is a shower.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, I can tell he came straight from the game. His hair is a little messy, though still somehow sexy. The dusty brown locks fall just below his chin, and he has it tucked behind his ears to keep it out of his face and covered with a backward hat.

His wrists are still taped, something I noticed at the game that a lot of the guys do. It’s a wonder he isn’t still in pads and skates.

“Sure.” I walk over to the bathroom and open the door wide. “Everything you need should be in there.”

His stunning blue eyes sparkle with excitement and disbelief. “I can’t get over it. You’re really here.”

I can’t get over it either. My stomach is doing a series of somersaults that make it hard to catch my breath.

“I’ve looked for you at every home game.”

Thrown off guard by that comment, but eager to guide us back to a more professional topic, I decide to take this moment to go through my usual spiel when entering a patient’s room. As much as my coworkers would love to trade me places, no one would dare go above Sandy’s head.

“I’m taking over as your nurse tonight. The room is all stocked, and I’ll put in a request for a late dinner tray. Any food preferences or dietary restrictions not noted on your chart?”

“I’m not hungry,” he says.

“Okay. Well, if there’s anything else you need, press the red call button on the side of your bed.”

I’d usually go show him, but stepping any closer feels like a terrible idea. Even six feet apart he can probably see the impact he’s having on me. “I’ll bring in a dinner tray anyway in case you’re hungry later. Do you need any help with the shower?” My face heats. “I mean getting out of the sling or getting undressed? I can ask a male nurse to assist.”

Do not think of him naked. Do not think of him naked.

His lips twitch at the corners like he knows exactly what I’m trying not to think about. “I can manage.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t move and his gaze stays locked on me. “This is such a trip! Wow. I think I’m in shock. A nurse, huh?”

“Yep.” I smile at him. It’s a little forced, but hopefully convincing and doesn’t show how much I’m inwardly freaking out.

“Nurse Bridget.” His smile widens. “How long have you worked here?”

“Not that long, but I promise you’re in good hands.” God, why does everything I say suddenly sound so dirty? I back up toward the door. I need to get out of here and regroup. “I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.”

“I look forward to it, Bridget.” Ash swings his legs to the side of the bed and stands. He winces a little as the movement pulls at his shoulder. He takes a step, then sways and wobbles as he takes another. My instincts kick in and I’m at his side quickly, aiding him like I would any other patient. His skin is warm and my fingers tingle as I steady him on the right side. I glance up to meet his gaze. He’s taller than I realized. I’m five foot five, but my chin barely reaches his shoulder and I have to tip my head back to look at him.

“Are you okay?”

He looks first at where my fingers wrap around his bicep before answering. His voice is gruff. “Yeah. Shit. Guess I’m still a little unsteady on my feet. I got it now.”

Stepping away from him, I wait while he crosses the room. He’s almost to the bathroom when he stops and asks, “Do you still have the puck I gave you? Maybe sleep with it under your pillow at night?”

I resist rolling my eyes. I’d say he’s going to be just fine if he’s feeling good enough to hit on me. “Sorry to disappoint, but I gave it away.”

“You wound me, Bridget.”

I swallow hard. His teasing and flirty demeanor is disarming, even if I think he’s full of crap. “No, I think you did that all on your own.”

“Me and the guy that rammed into me,” he mutters, all traces of that playfulness gone.

I wince. Crap. The guy might be a total flirt and egomaniac, but he’s hurt and under my care. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

My reaction to him has my guard flying up in defense. I will not fall for another guy who uses charm like a weapon.

His lips pull into a half-smile that’s cocky and endearing. “It’s okay, Nurse Bridget. You have all night to make it up to me.”