I took a bit of a different approach, point-of-view wise, for parts of this one. Fingers crossed that it translates okay!
####
"I will talk with Stuart, explain the situation."
"That's…probably best. Even though he's not symptomatic, we need to ensure –"
"David, how is she?"
Erica had to hand it to him. When Leo decided to 'come out,' he swung the door fully open.
The fact that poor Joe looked every bit like a ghost had just tapped him on the shoulder did not even register to Leo or his brother; they were much too preoccupied with picking up a seemingly half-finished argument.
"Leo, where the hell are? –"
"They're with their family. They'll be here. Right now, I'm here, and I want to be with my family."
Leo, finally mindful of the increasing attention he was getting from the hospital's assorted staff, clutched David's shoulders and moved them to a more private corner. Erica did the same for a still-frozen Joe, leading him to a nearby seat.
"Erica –"
Erica shook her head, giving him a rueful smile. "It's David, Joe. Heck, it's Pine Valley." As if that explained everything. And, truthfully, it did.
After a few moments, the two brothers turned to Greenlee's room. The tension seemed to have left their bodies, and David's palm remained on Leo's shoulder as he led him inside.
"What is happening, Joe.?"
The doctor, finally at least partially emerged from his daze, rose and moved to the hospital room's small window. Erica followed. "God willing, we are about to save Greenlee's life," he said.
As David and Leo approached the room's only other occupant, the weight that had temporarily been eased in her chest at Joe's words reasserted itself.
Jack…he didn't –
The two new entrants blocked him from her view. Erica began to rush inside, but Joe's hand gently stopped her. "They need to work through this on their own."
Hesitantly, she nodded. After what seemed an eternity, she saw him; a million emotions crossed Jack's face. The final expression, his default, had settled on his lips, in his cheeks. In his eyes: unbridled devotion.
And unending love.
He had stepped aside, giving Leo his place at Greenlee's bedside.
Her eyes moved quickly to David and the IV drip just before Jack's gaze could catch her. When she could look again, when was not paralyzed by her own emotions rapidly galloping away from and toward her, she found those swirling storms in his eyes hadn't abated. Hadn't hidden.
They had intensified.
#### (Zach)
Hockey is a game of strategy.
A violent dance, a dizzying choreography reserved for the most discerning judges. It is marked by the unmistakable glare, claiming supremacy as it sweeps the vast white landscape in search of a vulnerability, an unattended land mine.
You must prepare equal parts offense and defense: essential components in a champion's arsenal. You must familiarize yourself with your strengths. More crucial still, you must study fault as steadfast as a scientist might evaluate a newly discovered specimen.. Before you can exploit your opponent's weakness and murder your own, you must first know weakness. You must play defense.
Hockey is a game of strategy, but the simple truth they conceal is this: hockey is a sport of luck. When you stand on that burning ice - when that stinch of sweat and the feel of newly shaved ice exhilarates and intoxicates you - you are exposed. You are a running, hunching, grunting vulnerability. Fickle sheets of white seek your partnership, switching sides and allegiances on a whim. Unseen traps lay in wait, ready to avert your best-laid plans. All the while, scattered or plentiful dots - what one might assign the label of human spectators - can shift a leg with cheers or tighten an arm with silence.
When you are part of a team, though, strategy is your ace. You must plan, you must plot, and above all, you must know your partners. Your minds must become one, your resolve a singular unity.
Trust.
Ah, there's the rub.
Hockey is ultimately a sport of trust. Who will make the first move? Who will gain the advantage? Who will trust?
When an unfortunate slip or perhaps a wayward fist temporarily takes you out of the game - this, this is the true test. While you play in the penalty box, you must trust in your team. You must trust that they will stare down the hungry eyes of the enemy with a ferocity that leaves the offenders slack-jawed and awed. Then, together, you defy the odds.
You go for the win.
And when the white coat with the messy handwriting and the monotone voice invites you for a game in his rink, you are prepared.
When he says, 'Come in. Have a seat.,' you smile and squeeze your partner's hand.
Game on.
#### (Tad)
Five minutes.
The time it takes to burn the ends off a microwave pizza.
The time it takes to make a run for the boys' room while the used-car salesmen and their rugrats take over the airwaves.
…or the time it takes for one of the best days in your life to turn into one of the worst.
Minute one: you're convinced that you stumbled into some wonky psychedelic dream, because this whole set-up, it looks a little too familiar. Then again, she's always the one who seems to show up when you need her, no matter the method. Maybe she knows that right now…right now you could probably use your baby sister back.
Minute two: while everybody else is busy gasping or fainting or just settling on the fish-mouth, you're grabbing onto the staircase like your life depends on it…and hell, maybe it just might. That piece of knicked-up wood is putting one hell of a pinch on your palm, but that's exactly what you need. The pinch: the 'hey buddy' wake the hell up call. But it's not working. It's not working because your other hand, it doesn't wanna play the game. It wants to break the rules and reach for the dream. And just when you're right and convinced that it'll snatch a nice hearty dose of reality for you -
Minute three: it steals a little piece of heaven for itself. Plucks the angel right from the biggest cloud and takes possession for all its worth. And she's smiling at you and you're vaguely, just vaguely aware that somewhere, somehow, a few more angels have crash-landed. And you know the anger and the fist-fights and the demands will probably come, as they always do, but not today. Not now. Because now – now is pretty undeniably, pretty unequivocally, pretty amazingly awesome.
Minute four: you lob a few of the obligatory questions. You are a detective, after all. Funny thing is, you don't pause, or breathe, long enough for the answers. In fact, you don't really stop to breathe until you are sobbing and laughing in her arms, roles reversed. Until you're privileged enough to reintroduce your mother to this new, infinitely brighter world she had temporarily vacated. Until you're all together again. Together…
Minute five: a scream pierces this bubble because on the balcony, a different kind of star has captivated the ctowd's attention. One with wild eyes and a snarl to match. It's the face of a savage…and the unmistakable face of the woman you love. You manage to push away that thing clawing at your throat and you call out her name. And even from the distance, you can see she's got her own fight going…and it's not the kind won with fisticuffs or knives. But you know, you know it could just be the fight of her life. And you won't let her do battle alone.
The closer you get, the flickers of recognition become flames, and you can't help but smile and reach out, because she's winning. And when she falls, you catch her. You will, forever.
And when the room's two testaments that maybe, just maybe somebody is up there listening indicate that the hospital just might have all the answers, who are you to argue?
You gather her up, you nod to your sister and best friend, who are temporarily captured in their own moment, their own mini-reunion, and you follow the best damn doctor you'll ever know.
You take a leap of faith, again.
Why not?
#### (Leo)
It's poetic, really. Or a bad country song. The spoiled princess and the con-man.
What do you do when you stumble across this girl crying her eyes out in a wedding dress?
They tell you in every chick-flick. You take her in your arms, and whisper how everything's gonna be okay. Then she fixes you with those shiny eyes, and your lips meet in a moment that transcends time, place, space.
Or, there's the other option. You sling her over your shoulder as she rages at the world and tells you, in so many words. to mind your own damn business.
You get the message, except you don't.
You wouldn't let me.
A crying girl, who hasn't seen that? It's practically a badge of honor for those aforementioned chick flicks.
But a girl with a mean right hook? A girl they said was a cold-blooded bitch?
Or a girl with the eyes of a kitten? A girl who put me in my place? You, the dichotomy.
The girl that flayed me open, guts and all. Yeah, I know, gross but true.
The girl that ripped herself up for me, too. Hell, who needs priests and lawyers when you've got a snarky socialite as your deepest and darkest confessor?
That girl was my best friend.
That girl was the love of my life, even though the both of us were too crazy-blind to see it for too long.
That was you.
That was us.
Do you want me to say you're scaring the hell out of me? Yes.
Do you want me to say I'm giving up?
No.
I'm way too pig-headed, and I need you to remind me of that fact every day. Don't laugh. I'm guilt-tripping you. I'm selfish, but what do you expect from yours truly? Not poetry, but the truth. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but…you know the spiel.
My heart - you're it.
Don't break it
Wake up, baby. Please.
####
And she did. Surrounded by a small but formidable army. Hugs and smiles were exchanged all around, the most lingering occurring between the two reunited lovers.
How…touching.
A few gulping gasps, but otherwise, no complications. None at all.
The figure entrenched by her own battalion a few rooms over was not quite as fortunate. The movements were more frenetic, the faces of the doctors more worried. At one point, as bodies crammed into the door, not a pindrop was heard – save the soft thumps of the hurried compressions and the loud whispers of numbers.
Markers, or a final countdown, to be determined.
Yet fate, once again, appeared to be offering a kind word for Pine Valley Hospital's patients today.
Dixie too was restored to her ragtag motley crew of faithful soldiers.
Even dear Alexander Cambias, Jr., forever pondering whether medical error, or factors decidedly more basic, made him into a man capable of cold-blooded murder - even this poor, forever-tortured soul was the beneficiary of good news on this day.
Words that eased, words that lifted, words that truly began a new chapter…
She scans the video monitors one last time before reaching for the telephone. Not those computers that passed for phones today, but a true classic.
The silence replacing the dial tone both amuses her and….unsettles.
"It is time."