She couldn't stop moving.

Emma was certain she'd walked the same path eighty-six times now, short little steps that weren't doing much for her balance, but might have been doing something for her nerves and she felt like she was drowning a little.

Or suffocating.

Neither one of those things were particularly good options.

But the walls in that doctor's were getting closer, she was positive, and oxygen was apparently some kind of irregular commodity on the Upper East Side that afternoon.

Suffocating.

It was definitely suffocating.

Emma took another step, spinning on her heels and marching out to a rhythm she'd apparently decided on at some point, and she kept staring at her shoes, refusing to meet Killian's gaze because Killian had only just gotten back to the room after another round of tests and an MRI and probably a CAT scan and she didn't know if those things were the same thing.

She should have known if those things were the same thing.

She should have asked Ariel when they got home, but Emma's brain was clearly suffering from oxygen deprivation across the city and Matt's eyes kept widening, like he knew far too much for a four year old and there'd been turbulence on the flight, which made Will's eyes widen like he was also a four year old and Roland had been disappointed about leaving early and-

"-Swan," Killian said sharply, catching her around the wrist. His thumb worked under her laces, tapping lightly on her pulse point and Emma's shoes made an absolutely God awful noise when they skidded across the linoleum.

"You're making me dizzy, love," he continued. Emma narrowed her eyes.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"A fairly bad one, huh?"

"Terrible."

Killian scoffed, but he didn't let go of her and if her feet had been tracing some invisible path, then he was beating out some kind of staccato rhythm that might have matched up perfectly with her heart.

So she'd really just dissolved entirely into sentiment at this point.

And complete and utter worry.

He didn't look bad. Really. He looked absolutely unfairly good, if Emma were being honest.

Killian had been skating well all season, not closing in on any sort of scoring record, but there'd been a fifteen-game point streak in November that garnered plenty of headlines and Regina was working on some branding deal that included commercials and Adidas endorsements and maybe specialized t-shirts or something.

It was going to be worth an absolutely incredible amount of money.

Regina's words.

It hadn't been perfect, but it had felt pretty damn close and they were sitting in second in the Metro on the other side of the break and Killian was sitting in another doctor's office and Emma hadn't taken a deep breath in the last seventy-two hours.

They had a game the next night.

She still hadn't really been paying attention to her phone.

"You've got to tell me what you're thinking, Swan," Killian muttered, like he couldn't bring himself to make his voice any louder. His thumb must have had a mind of its own.

"Way too many things," Emma admitted. "Do you know what the differences between a CAT Scan and an MRI are?"

"Aren't they the same thing?"

"Shouldn't you know?"

Killian shook his head slowly, lower lip jutted out slightly and Emma wondered if there was some kind of mass production for whatever tissue paper they put on examination tables. "I really don't think that's in my wheelhouse of knowledge."

"Did they tell you what they just did?"

"I believe that was an MRI."

"But you don't know for sure?" Emma pressed. She wanted to start pacing again. Maybe she should get tested for restless leg syndrome while they were in this office.

The Rangers had brought in some neurological specialist from Tarrytown – an announcement that made Killian blanche slightly when Victor called the night before and Victor was there too and Emma half expected both Robin and Will to show up at some point, because she was leading the worried race, but they were both doing a pretty good job of tying for second.

She was surprised Will hadn't demanded constant updates.

Emma had a few suspicions about that, but she couldn't seem to linger on one thought for more than a few moments.

"It's all been a bit of a blur, Swan," Killian said, another quiet admission that was almost worse than the attempts at jokes. "But, yeah, an MRI. Something about checking…"

He trailed off, lips pulled back behind his teeth and eyes staring at anything except her. His thumb didn't stop moving.

And Emma was going to chew her tongue in half.

Or start running a marathon in that office. That probably would have been impressive.

"Checking what?" Emma asked, and she didn't entirely appreciate the way her voice cracked over the words.

"The phrase traumatic brain injury was used several times."

Emma was never entirely sure what sound she made. It didn't sound entirely human. It kind of sounded like she was a balloon – and had only recently been popped.

All the air rushed out of her lungs at once, eyes widening and mouth hanging open and she was glad Killian hadn't ever let go of her wrist, because she wasn't confident she would have been able to stay upright otherwise.

Her knees buckled, knocking against each other painfully, and she could feel the tears in the corners of her eyes as soon as her mind processed what those three words meant in that very specific order.

She'd bit her tongue.

There was blood in her mouth.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Emma asked, but it came out more like a screech and she'd lost complete control of her limbs. She was jumping, actually jumping up and down, like she was standing on some kind of trampoline and she could see the muscles in Killian's throat move when he swallowed.

"I don't know," he whispered. "But I'd imagine it's not very good."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I wouldn't do that. Not about that."

"I need you to tell me what happened," Emma seethed, and she'd jumped from worried to furious rather quickly. Killian still couldn't hold her gaze for more than three and a half seconds. She kept counting.

So, really, she'd lost her mind.

"With the MRI or…"

"Oh my God! No, what happened in New Jersey. I need you to tell me what happened in New Jersey and why you wouldn't...why you didn't-"

"-Tell you?"

Emma nodded, stiff and awkward and she was still bobbing on the balls of her feet. Maybe that was where Matt got it from.

She felt like she was a live wire, with especially frayed ends, cut apart and prone to electrocution and she had so much to do before the game and explanations to send out because they'd blown off three fan events in Nashville and Zelena probably wanted to talk, but Emma hadn't answered any of her e-mails or given Merida any kind of instruction and Ruby had been picking up so much slack, she'd have to buy something for her too and maybe she could give her and Will a joint gift and-

"Swan," Killian cut in, nerves obvious in the sound of her own name. "You're really making me nervous, love. Lucas is taking care of things for the time being."

Emma blinked. "How could you possibly know that?"

And, really, she should have expected the smile.

She should have expected the slow curl of his lips and the flash of something that might have been amusement in his gaze, a hint of blue and want and it had been years and two kids, but he looked at her and Emma consistently and regularly melted.

Or something less disgusting.

Something more romantic.

She really needed to take that deep breath.

"Give me a little credit, love," Killian mumbled, tugging lightly on her wrist and she moved forward without a word. "And you're doing that thing with your nose."

"Excuse me?"

"You scrunch your nose. And your eyebrows twist. You do it every time you're trying not to show how worried you are."

"I don't think that's true."

"I can guarantee it."

She scrunched her nose. And probably twisted her eyebrows.

Killian chuckled under his breath, pulling her hand up and brushing his lips across her knuckles. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not bothering to move his mouth away from her skin. "I didn't think…"

"Yeah, that seems kind of obvious," Emma interrupted.

"That's fair."

"What happened?"

Her voice cracked again, eyelids fluttering shut so she didn't do something absolutely absurd like start to cry when Killian looked vaguely terrified she was going to scream again, and Emma's live wire had, effectively, fizzled out.

She had no idea what kind of metaphor she was trying to make anymore.

And she should have known something was wrong.

She should have known him.

Maybe terror and worry and anger were all just synonyms for guilt.

"It didn't before," Killian said, grinning slightly when Emma's eyes snapped open. "The, uh, the passing out thing. That didn't happen before."

"You should mention the mind reading thing to the doctor whenever she decides to show up again. It's pretty impressive, honestly. Maybe that's a sign you aren't concussed."

"I think that's what the MRI was for."

"You're really heinous at telling this story."

"That's because it's a pretty shit story."

"From the top, Jones."

He smiled again, hair falling dangerously close to his eyebrows when he tilted his head to stare at her. He held her gaze for six seconds and, like, one solid breath before he opened his mouth.

"That hit in Jersey," Killian started. "Was...not great. I don't think that kid...what's his name?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "Absolute shit at storytelling. Magren. His name is Magren and he's not a kid. You're just old."

"He's barely been in the league for three years."

"The fact that you just used that sentence at all proves my point."

Killian huffed, but he'd never actually let go of Emma's hand and she might have been counting that too or counting on that and this doctor had clearly fallen in a black hole somewhere. Maybe that's where all the oxygen went.

"Anyway," Killian said pointedly. "He came in, way too fast and shoulder lowered and I think he kind of messed up my calf too because that bruise lasted for, like, a week and a half." Emma glared at him, trying to pull her hand back to her side, but she didn't want him to rip her laces and Killian's grip tightened.

"You know all of this," he muttered. "Magren got the boarding penalty and they made me come off the ice and they brought me back to the locker room to do tests. But, uh, well, I told them not to. And Victor wasn't around yet. He would have killed me if he knew."

"That's the part I don't understand," Emma said. "Why wouldn't you want to get the test? And how did they just let that happen? That's not how the league operates. There's-"

"-Protocol, I know."

Emma nodded, not sure she could say anything else without yelling it. "They didn't let you back on the ice though."

"That was a precaution. They didn't think I was concussed. I was still coherent and cognizant and answered a few questions."

"But?"

"But," Killian repeated slowly. "It hurt like hell and I was honestly a little worried about the state of my neck after getting slammed into the glass like that."

"That's not an answer."

The words came out like an accusation, sharp and a little aggressive and Emma had to keep blinking. She could hear her phone vibrating somewhere.

Killian sighed, an absolutely ridiculous display of right arm strength when he pulled her closer to him. He ripped the tissue paper, sliding to the end of the table and Emma had moved in between his legs before she'd realized what was going on.

She didn't argue.

He kept one hand laced with hers, thumb, somehow, still moving and tracing out a pattern she was almost convinced he could see at this point, but his left hand landed on her cheek and Emma could just make out the glint of light reflecting of his ring.

She'd put it back on on the plane the morning before, quiet smiles and nervous gazes and she'd been convinced her heart was going to hammer out of her chest in the moment.

That probably would have fucked with the air pressure in the cabin or something.

Will wouldn't have been able to cope with that.

"I didn't want an MRI," Killian said. "They checked some things. An MRI would have just been overkill or something that doesn't sound as absolutely terrible as that word in this situation. I've been hit before. I've been concussed before. It didn't feel like that."

"What did it feel like?"

He shrugged. "Like shit," he laughed, but there wasn't much humor to the sound and Emma's pulse thudded in her ears.

It drowned out her phone. She kind of appreciated that. She was going to have to buy Merida the biggest gift of all for dealing with everything.

Hopefully.

If Ruby gave her the right instructions.

God, Casino Night was in three weeks.

"And the training staff in Jersey was just cool with that?" Emma asked, well aware of the disbelief in the question. Killian shrugged again. "They don't have to worry about Ariel killing them. I'm going to lead the charge. With pitchforks, maybe."

"I think you might have to get those special ordered."

"You're not nearly as funny as you think you are."

"I realize that."

"Ok, ok," Emma said, waving her free hand through the air. "Let me get this straight. You get hit, you think maybe it's a concussion, and you don't want the MRI because…"

Killian didn't answer immediately, tongue flashing between his lips, and he closed his eyes before he said anything. "Because we've been winning, Swan," he whispered. "We've been playing well and Gina's got all this stuff set up and Mattie hadn't stopped talking about that one goal for days."

"It was a good goal."

And it was. Really. Between his legs and around two defenders and that had made SportsCenter too, which really just seemed unfair now, but both Matt and Roland had tried to recreate the move in the back corner of the restaurant for most of December.

They cracked a chair leg in the process.

"Exactly," Killian said, one side of his mouth tugging up. "I didn't want it to be a concussion. I didn't want it to be anything, honestly."

"Did you try and go out for the third?"

He nodded. "They put their foot down on that one. Victor too, once he finally got back into the training room."

"And where was he this whole time?"

"That's a question for the ages, but I think he was dealing with something from in between the second and the third. Sean hurt his knee blocking a shot or something."

"All he's good for," Emma mumbled, and Killian laughed under his breath. "Alright, alright, so they didn't let you out for the third, but they didn't make you get an MRI or anything more than the, literal, most basic injury checks and no one confirmed whether or not it was actually a concussion then?"

"All caught up to speed, Swan."

"That's ridiculous."

"Me or them?"

"Both of you," Emma said almost immediately. "Equally and separately. The NHL doesn't do that, though. If they believed you might have been...there's protocol."

"Eh," Killian contradicted, and Emma resisted the urge to smack his shoulder. He might have been concussed. He was definitely concussed. "Yes, there's concussion protocol and rules and a whole schedule of things they're supposed to do. But I was ok when they saw me. Not wobbling or slurred or anything. They checked some things. That was enough. All signs pointed to absolutely, positively normal."

"But you had suspicions?"

Killian winced, and Emma didn't think he meant to squeeze her hand like that. "I had concerns," he amended. "And some decidedly painful memories that I didn't want to dredge up for anyone."

Emma blinked, confusion rattling down her spine, and she hadn't really slept much in the last week, was far too preoccupied with All-Star events and Casino Night prep and there was a trade deadline in there somewhere too, and the few hours of uninterrupted rest with her kid's right knee in her liver had been the best she'd had in far too long.

So, really, she could almost rationalize it.

And then she realized.

And she couldn't rationalize anything.

Because she should have known. From the very moment Killian got hit.

"Oh shit," she breathed, and, that time, she was the one who squeezed his hand. "It's not the same, Killian. It's not."

"That's true. No one hit me in the back of the head with a slap shot."

"Killian."

"I know, Swan, I know, but it's a, uh, sore subject."

"Was that another joke?"

"Not intentionally."

She scoffed, but his eyes were distractingly blue and staring at her like he was imploring her to understand and she should have known. "And you're you," Emma added, a rueful tone in her voice that might have been how obvious it was that Killian Jones was the entire goddamn face of the league. "If you told them you didn't want the MRI or the CT Scan or whatever you're supposed to get, no one's going to argue with you."

"I don't think I have that kind of clout, Swan."

"And yet here we are."

He hummed, thumb brushing over the back of her palm and the ridges of her knuckles, lingering just under her ring. The whole thing was kind of ridiculous and a little heavy-handed, but Emma was still surprised she wasn't crying, so really, the whole thing kind of made sense too.

"Not every concussion is the same," Emma said. "You know that right?"

"Yeah."

"Once more with feeling."

Killian rolled his eyes, tongue pressed into the corner of his lips, and Emma wasn't sure how much more her body could take, bouncing between emotions like she was the puck in some kind of elaborate passing drill.

God, that was an absolutely terrible metaphor.

"I thought it would be fine," Killian muttered, and his fingers moved away from her cheek to trace along the curve of her shoulder and the blazer she had on because she did, eventually, have to go back to the office and probably provide Merida with several IVs of the caffeinated beverage of her choice.

"I feel like repeating myself is just kind of redundant at this point."

"If I say I'm sorry again is that also redundant?"

Emma shook her head. "Not really. But you said the headaches started the very next day."

"That's because they did. I didn't lie about that, Swan."

"Pulling at straws," she mumbled, the words tumbling out of her without her express opinion, which, all things considered, was completely unfair, but Emma kept pressing up on her toes and falling back on her heels and there were tears on her cheeks.

"I was fine."

"No," Emma objected. Her hair hit her face when she shook her head again, twisting her neck quickly and, maybe, a little violently, but she was experiencing every single human emotion at once and she couldn't really handle the look on Killian's face.

Like the entire world was falling apart.

Or the ice was melting.

She'd circled right back around to drowning.

"No" she repeated. "You weren't. You...you were acting like you were fine and ignoring something that could…" She couldn't finish, the words getting stuck in her throat and that was probably for the best because Emma couldn't give a voice to the worry and the ideas and her lips felt dry.

She was breathing through her mouth.

"Emma-"

"-No, no, no," she snapped. "That can't be how this works. I...I watched you collapse on the ice, Killian. You were there and then you weren't and I'm just supposed to be ok?"

"No," he said. "No, you're not."

"Why didn't you tell me about the headaches?"

"Because I could still play. I was still scoring and we were still winning and then All-Star noms came out and Mattie was so excited and you were so excited and we were…"

He didn't finish.

Emma wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

Probably bad.

This whole, entire thing felt incredibly bad.

The door opened, a woman and a white coat and a clipboard that looked official, and Killian's arm wrapped around Emma's waist. She felt him kiss her shoulder blade through her blazer.

"Mr. Jones," the doctor said, flashing a smile and Emma couldn't remember her name. Ruby had definitely told her. But that was in between schedules and plans and they needed to do something about that one roulette table that had, somehow, sustained water damage in storage.

Emma despised the entire state of New Jersey.

The doctor's name was Tocorro. Her last name, at least. Emma didn't try to remember her first name.

"Mrs. Jones," Tocorro continued, still smiling and her teeth were almost blindingly white. There was probably a medical reason for that. "From what Dr. Whale has told me, we're dealing with the lingering effects of concussion-like symptoms."

Emma swallowed, biting back several scathing retorts that were as far away from professional as she'd been acting since they left Nashville. She nodded instead. "We think the concussion might have been misdiagnosed," she said, and she could feel Killian inhale behind her.

The tissue paper was in shred by now.

"Yes, that certainly does seem to be the case, doesn't it?" Tocorro asked. There was a forced brightness to her voice, a sound that didn't ring quite true and set Emma's teeth on edge. "It's unfortunate, but it does happen sometimes."

"Does it?"

Tocorro shrugged, hooking her foot around a stool. "The NHL does its best to monitor head trauma, but there are some cases when things do fall through the cracks. There is, of course, human error to consider. "

If Emma never heard the word trauma again, it would be far too soon.

"What does any of that mean?" Emma asked sharply, and Tocorro stared at her like she was asking to be let into Fort Knox and possibly on the next trip to the Moon. She tried not to blink.

There were still tear stains on her cheek.

"It means that there are signs here that there was, in fact, a concussion and it went undiagnosed. For more than a month now."

"And?"

"Swan," Killian mumbled, but she was already shaking her head and ignoring whatever her pulse was doing and maybe she'd run back to the Garden. She didn't have the right shoes for that.

The door opened again.

It was going to fly off the goddamn hinges.

Victor looked a little embarrassed, shuffling into the room with his eyes on the ground and a goddamn stethoscope around his neck, like he was playing dress up, but Ariel was a flash of red hair and almost palpable rage and she didn't shy away from smacking at Killian's shoulder.

"Are you kidding me, Cap?"

"You're going to have to be more specific than that, Red."

Ariel scowled, mouth twisted into something that looked a hell of a lot like disdain and felt a hell of lot like the several thousand emotions coursing through Emma's veins. "You know Anna called me. Several times."

"I think she's going down a list."

"Should I be offended that I'm not further up the list?"

Killian made a contradictory noise, ignoring whatever Tocorro and Victor were mumbling about on the other side of the room. "I don't think she's playing favorites. Did Liam e-mail you?"

"Yeah, was that weird? He knows he can communicate with me verbally, right?"

"I'm not sure he wanted to actually say those words out loud."

"Ah, yeah, that makes sense," Ariel muttered, exhaling loudly when her eyes flickered towards Emma. "Hey," she added. "Ruby's on several different war paths right now, so you don't have to worry about anything. At least hockey-related. Well-"

"-Red," Killian warned, but she brushed him off and for as much as she'd moved before, Emma suddenly felt as if she were rooted to the spot and possibly made of marble.

She needed to call David back.

He'd left several very detailed voicemails on her phone that morning.

After he promised to pick Matt up from pre-school. Mary Margaret was going to get Peggy from daycare. Emma needed to make a list of all the gifts she had to buy.

"Shut up, Cap," Ariel hissed, not taking her gaze off Emma. "I'm pretty positive between you, me, Ruby and Regina we could get those Jersey guys fired. Regina is already in full-on research mode."

"Research," Emma echoed. "About what?"

"Malpractice or something. She's determined to get someone's license revoked. I think it's a matter of pride at this point."

"That's dedication."

"Yeah, well, she's pissed at Cap."

Emma nodded, more words and feelings getting stuck in her throat and settling in the pit of her stomach and Killian's arm sounded like several enormous rock slides when it fell back to his side."I'm thinking we should all get membership cards to that particular club at some point," Ariel continued, a glint in her eyes when her mouth twisted again and Emma let out a noise that might have been a laugh, but might have just also been exhaustion and she hadn't eaten all day.

She'd honestly forgotten to eat.

"Alright, Cap," Victor said brusquely, and Emma reached back for Killian's hand before she could think of all the reasons she shouldn't or didn't want to and there weren't many of those second ones. His fingers laced through hers immediately.

"Yeah," Killian said warily.

"We've got test results back."

"I figured that would happen at some point."

"Killian," Ariel chastised, but he didn't look at her, just ignored the real name and kept staring at Victor like he was waiting to hear his career was over.

Emma counted heartbeats.

There were way too many.

She was sure.

She wasn't a doctor.

Killian squeezed her hand.

"You should have said something, Cap," Victor said. "It's...that was incredibly stupid."

"Did Anna call you too?"

"Yes, several times on Saturday night. Both she and Regina threatened to sue me as well, but then Regina remembered we're all on the same team, literally and figuratively and-"

"-Fucking hell, Victor," Emma yelled, and several pairs of slightly stunned eyes snapped her direction. Killian didn't let go of her hand. "No one is threatening your medical practice. You work for an NHL team! Get to the goddamn point!"

Victor blinked, exactly, six times, head tilted slightly and a vaguely impressed smile on his face as Emma's shoulders heaved. "Sure thing, Emma," he grinned. "Cap was concussed in Jersey. Not bad, borderline, really, but if they'd done an MRI they would have seen."

"Seen what?"

"I'm getting there, Emma."

"Get there faster."

He held up both hands, and she was going to strangle him with his stupid, fucking stethoscope. "At first I was worried it was a brain bruise, but-"

"-What?"

"Emma, seriously, this is not going to work if you keep shouting things at me."

She rolled her eyes, and stuck out her tongue, God, but she couldn't actually curse Victor to several different hells and the neurologist, specialist, whatever looked a little stunned by whatever was happening in front of her.

"Come here, love," Killian muttered, pulling lightly on the back of her blazer and it suddenly felt very hot in that office.

Ariel was texting.

Anna probably demanded updates.

"I don't need to be coddled," Emma growled, not turning around, but he really was absurdly strong. And she wasn't sure how much longer her legs would continue to function like actual parts of her body.

"Yeah, well, maybe I do," Killian said. His hand found its way over her shirt, moving over the ridge of her spine, and Victor didn't object when Emma moved onto the table next to him, knees bumping and feet dangling a few inches over the floor.

"Keep going, Victor," Ariel mumbled, not taking her eyes away from her phone. "It's really not the worst thing in the world, Cap. You're just an idiot."

Killian scowled. "That appears to be the general consensus, yes."

"Are we all done now?" Victor asked, exasperation clinging to every letter. "Because I'm sure Dr. Tocorro would love to get out of the city before she has to deal with traffic."

"It's three in the afternoon, Victor."

"And," Ariel added. "You're going to hit traffic no matter what you do. It's New York. Don't argue with Gina like that when she tries to take your medical license, you'll lose that fight."

Tocorro's mouth was practically on the floor.

Emma sighed. "It's not a...God, brain bruise is almost worse than traumatic brain injury isn't it?"

"That's the general term for all concussions," Victor mumbled.

"I need you not to say anymore words, Dr. Whale."

He saluted. And Tocorro closed her mouth. Before opening it again. To agree that traumatic brain injury was, in fact, the general term for all concussions.

"I was worried, because of the headaches and the spotty vision," Tocorro started, eyes widening when Emma's head jerked towards Killian. He tried to smile. It absolutely didn't work. "The occasional spotty vision," Tocorro amended. "That we were dealing with a brain bruise of sorts, which is certainly very serious, but the MRI didn't show that."

"Which is good, right?" Emma asked, the question sounding dumb even to her own ears.

"Decidedly. But there is a reason Mr. Jones lost consciousness the other day." Emma waited for the explanation, doing her best not to be too frustrated that this specialist seemed to thrive on a bit of drama and Ariel's nails were going to drive her insane.

"Which is?"

"Post-concussion syndrome and nerve damage. Basically the nerves have been structurally damaged and they're kind of firing at nothing now. That's why the headaches keep happening. If the concussion had been treated, we probably would have been able to prevent this."

Emma was glad she was sitting on slightly torn up tissue paper. She felt her body sag forward, several different weights and emotions landing with what she was sure was an audible thump in her stomach, and she knew Killian shifted before she heard him, a soft rip and creak of the table and his lips were soft against her cheek.

There were tears there again.

"Which means what exactly?" Emma asked, the question shaking its way out of her.

"It means that Mr. Jones suffered a concussion in that game, but it was left untreated and, coupled with still playing, the damage only worsened over the last five weeks or so. That's why the headaches haven't disappeared and things took a turn for the worse this past weekend."

"Yeah, you can say that."

"This isn't as bad as it could be."

Emma scoffed, and she wished her shoulders would stop moving before she was entirely prepared for it. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Melodramatic idiot.

She was still crying.

"What's as bad as it could be?" Emma asked. Victor clicked his tongue, but his lips twitched when she turned towards him, and Emma could almost hear her own glare.

"No bruising, no lingering damage to the actual skull, no internal bleeding."

"What?"

"Emma. The yelling."

She was only slightly worried her face was going to get stuck that way.

"You know you really suck at this Victor," Ariel muttered, finally stuffing her phone in her back pocket and resting both her hands on Emma's shoulders.

It was a weird twist of limbs – Killian hadn't moved an inch, didn't appear to be breathing that much, honestly, but his arm was pressed flush against Emma's and he didn't pull away when Ariel tried to join whatever triangle of human they were apparently building there.

"If this had been diagnosed immediately, Cap would have sat for a couple of games, maybe missed a road trip or two, at most," Ariel started, and Emma tried not to wither under the scrutiny of her gaze. "But it wasn't and no one pushed for more tests or keeping Cap off the ice."

"They'd have to drag him off," Emma mumbled.

"I think our combined strength might be able to accomplish that. You know that adrenaline kick? Like people lift trucks. I bet we could do it. And El would totally chip in."

"I'm sitting right here," Killian grumbled. Ariel grinned. And Emma almost felt better.

"I know you are, Cap, but if you think that's going to make much of a difference, you've got another thing coming."

"So what happens now?" Emma muttered, and eventually, she was sure, she'd run out of questions. Maybe when she went to sleep.

Killian sat up straighter, shoulders rolling back and chin jutted out and Emma had never seen that look before.

She'd seen worry and fear and concern, occasionally directed at her because he was a great, big overprotective idiot who had spent most of the night pacing in a hospital room when Peggy was born. She'd seen disappointment and frustration and anger because no one was more competitive than Killian Jones and no one wanted to impress his kids more.

No one wanted to win more than Killian Jones.

They'd been winning.

And he'd already seen what concussions could do to a hockey career first-hand.

"No skating," Tocorro answered, tone clipped and professional and Victor was staring at the ground again. Ariel squeezed her eyes closed. "Nothing. No ice. No practice. No...any of it. For at least three weeks. Minimum."

"Minimum," Killian repeated.

"Minimum. I'd lean more towards a full month, honestly. You've been hit since the initial injury, Mr. Jones. You've got to give your body some time to recover."

"But that's just practice. Right?"

"That's no skating," Tocorro corrected, and Emma's eyes widened when she saw Killian all but deflate next to her. She kissed his shoulder. She couldn't reach his lips. His whole head had drooped forward. "I didn't say anything returning to practice."

"How long?"

"Cap," Ariel wavered, but his eyes flashed and he looked at Emma. And she realized, rather suddenly with a sinking feeling that felt a bit like several different universes ending, she'd never seen Killian hurt.

Not really.

"How long?" Killian asked again.

"No practice until mid-March, at the earliest," Victor said. "Maybe some solo skate closer to the deadline if the symptoms don't return."

"Games?"

"Cap."

"Games?"

Victor sighed, rocking back on his heels and stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Back by playoffs," he shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" Killian balked, both Emma and Ariel moving to keep him from jumping off the table.

"It was misdiagnosed, Cap. We all fucked up and we should have known what was going on with you, but you should have said something about the headaches. You shouldn't have still been playing."

Emma didn't mean to make whatever sound seemed to fly out of her – a mix of a groan and a scoff and her own sigh – and she felt Victor's disbelieving stare on the back of her head. Tocorro probably wanted to study her right there.

Killian looked at her when the noise seemed to linger in the air around them, an apologetic look that was bigger than that because there'd been talk about a Cup run and possibility and he couldn't get on the ice anymore.

Not for three weeks. At least.

"It's not the full season," Emma whispered, like that made a difference.

Killian's expression didn't change. "True."

It was a lie. Was a pretty terrible lie, honestly, when his eyes kept darting across Emma's face like he was looking for some guarantee that this would be fine or better or she wasn't so disappointed she was sure she was aching with it.

She should have known.

Her phone started ringing.

There was more talking, Tocorro explaining things about the brain that Emma couldn't even begin to understand, all the reasons it was so important to take it easy and maybe stay away from the Garden for a little while, but that was like trying to tell a bird it couldn't fly or something equally ridiculous and maybe it was a bit like telling Matthew Jones that his dad wouldn't be playing for several weeks because that was absolutely worse than anything else they'd done...ever.

Mary Margaret tried to get them to stay for dinner.

"It's fine," Emma promised, but the lie was so obvious it should have come with flashing lights and sound effects.

And she knew her smile didn't reach her eyes the rest of the night, an absolutely devastated and exhausted four-year-old between her and Killian in the middle of their bed.

It didn't get much better the next day either, a to-do-list that seemed to grow by the moment and a flustered assistant who, at that point, probably deserved an Edible Arrangement, like, every day of the week.

Possibly twice on Sunday.

With the chocolate add ons. Or a stuffed animal. Or something.

Emma's desk phone kept lighting up, a mess of colors that wasn't doing much for her blood pressure, and no one had taken care of the roulette table.

She needed to get out of her office. She needed to get downstairs because it wasn't a press conference, per se, but there was a game that night and an announcement and the New York tabloids would have several different field days if Killian Jones wasn't on the roster without an explanation.

"This is the explanation," Ruby had explained earlier, and she'd brought Emma hot chocolate. And a croissant. "Cap said you didn't eat much yesterday."

"He needs to stop gossiping," Emma grumbled. She took the croissant anyway.

"It's not gossip. It's worry. Because you've got a million things to do and now so does he."

"That's not true at all. He's got negative one million things to do. Doctor's orders."

"You know what I meant."

Emma sighed, croissant crumbs landing on her legs, and she did know, was well aware of how little sleep Killian had gotten the night before, flat on his back with Matt curled against his side and an arm flung over his stomach and that endorsement deal had probably fallen apart.

It would after the explanation.

Emma was so busy retreating back into vaguely depressing memories, Nashville and those facts feeling like a lifetime ago, that she didn't hear the footsteps or the knock and Mary Margaret didn't really need to knock.

On, like, anything ever.

"Merida said you were probably still up here," Mary Margaret said softly. She had a cup in her hand too.

"Did you and Ruby coordinate that?" Emma asked.

"Not at all, if you can believe."

"I can, actually."

Mary Margaret smiled, stepping into the office and glancing around at the not-so-small explosion of team merchandise and post-it notes. "And," Emma continued. "I really shouldn't be up here. I should be downstairs. Loitering."

"I don't think it's loitering if you're there to support your husband. Ruby told me about the presser," Mary Margaret explained before Emma could ask. "So, technically, we did coordinate this wave of consistent support, but not the hot chocolate onslaught."

"That sound kind of violent."

"That's the opposite of what we're trying to do, honestly."

"They're going to ask a ton of questions."

"Who?"

Emma shrugged. "Everyone. Media and probably several dozen league reps and then media again and maybe Mattie."

"Was he upset?"

"Yeah," Emma mumbled. "But Killian was good. I mean...as good as could be expected, I guess. Explained about getting hit and getting hurt and it totally sucked, but we did ok, I think. He kind of cried himself to sleep. God, that sounds horrible when I say it like that."

"No, it doesn't," Mary Margaret countered, handing over the hot chocolate cup and sinking into the one chair that wasn't filled with paperwork. "You want to tell me what's really going on with you now, though?"

"You know. Killian's concussed and passing out on All-Star ice and Mattie spent most of last night crying, which I think may have actually been worse than the no-skating for three weeks, minimum, decree and now Killian's got to answer questions and Ruby's got to release official statements and I think he actually turned off his phone at some point and, oh, shit, we didn't tell the Vankalds."

"What?"

"I haven't...I've been ignoring my phone too and, can you tell David I'm sorry for not listening to any of his voicemails?"

Mary Margaret's laugh was shaky and slightly watery, but her smile was genuine and she'd gotten Emma hot chocolate. Ruby had gotten her hot chocolate. "He understands," Mary Margaret promised.

"You guys are other level."

"We're your friends, Emma."

"Other level."

Mary Margaret shook her head – nose crinkled, and maybe that was where Emma learned it. And she was almost angry she hadn't realized before. "Shouldn't you be at school?" Emma asked. "Molding young minds or whatever?"

The silence in her office was deafening.

Almost silence – her cell phone kept making noise.

"Reese's," Emma pressed. "Did you blow off school to come cater to my emotions?"

"It sounds absurd when you ask it like that."

"Yes or no question."

"I took a half a day," Mary Margaret answered. "As soon as Rubes told me they were going to make an official announcement about Killian's injury."

Emma was hopeful, eventually, she'd stop crying. But there was rapidly cooling hot chocolate on her desk and she needed to get out of her office and Mary Margaret's hand was warm when it landed on hers.

"It's going to be ok," she said.

Emma shook her head. "You don't know that. This is...he didn't say anything, Reese's. Almost a full month and all those games and those hits and do you think that's why he wouldn't drop gloves with that guy in Tampa?"

"You should probably ask him that."

"He already didn't tell me this. I thought...that's not how we operate. Not anymore."

"I don't think he was lying on purpose," Mary Margaret reasoned. "And certainly not to try and hurt you. The opposite, in fact."

"I know," Emma grumbled, twisting her laces between her fingers. "I know. And I...I almost get it. I do. Everything that happened with Liam and he's never going to be over that, I don't expect him to be, but this is...what if it was worse and I didn't ever notice?"

Mary Margaret blinked. Emma bit her lip.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing," Emma said. She nearly knocked over hot chocolate, waving her hands through the air in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

But Mary Margaret had taken a half day and she'd offered them dinner the night before and, with the absolute exception of the professional hockey player she was married to who, at that moment was explaining everything to a media horde in front of his locker, no one knew Emma better.

"This is not your fault," Mary Margaret said, an edge in her voice that was almost out of character. "You are not a mind reader."

"I should have known. I should have known something was wrong."

"You can't think that."

"Too late."

"That is not how this works, Emma. You can't blame yourself because something went wrong. Something that, by the way, is a very normal hockey injury."

"So long as it's diagnosed the right way," Emma argued, and she was going to miss the entire goddamn presser. She hadn't had any of her hot chocolate. "I knew it was bad, Reese's. I knew...the night before skills, we were in the hotel and something was wrong. He kind of wobbled and shook a little and I should have done something."

"What could you have done?"

Emma didn't have an answer. She kept replaying that very specific question on loop, trying to come up with something, anything she could have done or said or noticed and she couldn't come up with a single reason that didn't make her feel like complete and utter shit.

"Something."

"You couldn't teleport to New Jersey, Emma. You couldn't be on the road in the last series. You probably would have gotten fined if you tried to get on the ice and stop that guy in Tampa from doing whatever he was trying to do."

Emma's laugh grated on her ears, but she almost meant the smile on her face. "That was actually kind of funny, Reese's."

"He thinks the entire universe rotates around you. He doesn't think any of this is your fault," Mary Margaret said intently, and she'd never moved her hand. "You know he doesn't."

"Isn't that worse?"

Mary Margaret opened her mouth, and Emma didn't know if she wanted the hope speech, but her cell phone vibrated almost violently and she was sure it was either Ruby or Merida wondering where she was and why she wasn't downstairs.

It wasn't either of them.

"Emma Swan?" a clipped voice asked on the other end, and Emma's eyes darted to Mary Margaret out of instinct.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Can I help you?"

"My name's Tink Glas. I've been trying to get in touch with you for a few days, but you've been dodging my calls it seems."

"I...I'm sorry, Ms. Glas, who exactly do you work for?"

"Tink, please. And it's understandable of course," she said, ignoring Emma's question completely. "What with everything that's been going on with your husband, but I've heard it's not a full-season lost, is it?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to talk to our team's media relations department if you're looking for a quote."

Mary Margaret's eyes snapped up, and Emma nearly yanked the phone away from her ear when she was met with a laugh that could only be described as fairy-esque. She might have been dreaming.

"Oh that was good," Tink said, still laughing slightly. "And I'm certainly not looking for a quote. I'd get that from Regina if I needed it."

Emma hadn't experienced any of those adrenaline rushes that Ariel had been talking about the day before, but she was suspicious she was at the moment, certain she could lift her desk with one hand, fueled solely on the rush of frustration moving through her. And it took, exactly, seven seconds for her mind to catch up.

"You're the one Ruby and Gina were talking about," Emma said, and Tink laughed again. "I don't...if you're not media, who do you work for and why were you trying to talk to me?"

"I work for the league."

"What?"

"The league," Tink repeated, and Emma scowled at open air. "The one that runs this whole hockey thing."

"And you want to talk to me because…"

"I've seen the work you've done in New York over the last few seasons. It's impressive, but it's contained. It's focused. You could be doing so much more with a bigger audience to work for. You could be affecting the fanbase on an international level."

"I don't understand."

That was a lie too.

The presser was probably over by now.

"I work for a branch of the league offices in Toronto," Tink said, like she hadn't already said that enough already. "The league-wide community relations office to be specific. The one that tries to build the brand, to get kids on the ice, to work with Adidas to lower concussion rates in youth hockey." Emma scoffed, but Tink wasn't done. "And, like I said, we've noticed the kind of work you've done in New York. We think you'd be an asset a little further north."

"If I say I still don't understand are you going to laugh at me?"

She did. Mary Margaret's hand tightened around Emma's.

"The reason I've been trying to get in touch with you," Tink said lightly. "And even going so far as to get your personal number from Regina and try and talk to Ruby is because I'm offering you a job."