Fake Dating My Ex's Hockey Star Brother (Maya Scott) novel Chapter 161

ALLISON’S POV

The first thing that hits me is the smell of bleach and it drags me painfully into awareness. It’s that unmistakable hospital smell that tells me exactly where I am-lying in a bed, not floating somewhere waiting for judgment in the afterlife.

I feel heavy, like super heavy.

The second thing I feel is the distinct sensation that a semi-truck has parked in my stomach.

I blink once, then twice, my eyelashes sticking together and my eyes protest every attempt to open, but I force them anyway. The ceiling tilts and sways in my vision and I have no choice but to shut my eyes again, just for a second to just to stop the spin.

“Allie? Oh, thank God. You’re awake.”

I inhale shallow gasps through the stiff plastic of the oxygen mask pressed over my face, my chest barely lifting before I try to shift my head. It’s a terrible idea-stars explode across my vision, and I freeze, too dizzy to move.

My mom is suddenly at my side, leaning over me and even though I can see the fear and worry in her eyes, the rest of her face stays frozen, thanks to her botox.

Yes, I’m definitely still alive. No one gets into the afterlife with that kind of stiff face.

“Hey, baby,” she whispers, her hand hovering over my face, unsure whether to cup my chin or not. Before I can twitch my fingers, her eyes widen, and she reaches for the bedside phone.

“My daughter is awake, Room 301. We need a doctor in here!”

She turns back to me, scanning my body again. “How do you feel?”

I feel like someone dumped me on the floor, shattered me into a million pieces, and then just kind of taped me back together. Still better than being dead, I guess.

“They said the surgery went well, but… you’ve been put for a long time.” She adds.

I wish I could talk right now and tell her to lower her voice. I’m injured, not deaf, and she’s practically yelling.

“You’re still-”

The door slides open, and a doctor walks in, flanked by two nurses. They stop at my bedside, clipboard in hand, and eyes scanning me. Mom quickly darts aside, giving them space.

“I think she’s in pain,” she blurts. Of course it’s going to hurt; I had surgery. But I don’t say that and lie still as the doctor moves around my bed, checking my IV and glancing at the monitor that keeps up its steady beep-whoosh, then leaning in to examine my eyes.

The whole time, my mind won’t stop replaying… I almost died. And now, I’m here. Every time he scans my eyes, it’s like I get flashes of what happened before I slammed into the pole, a dizzying, stomach-dropping reminder that none of this is some distant nightmare.

My chest tightens at the thought, fear weakening me as I lie on the bed. I was so scared. It was terrifying in a way I don’t think I’ve ever known before.

From a young age, I learned how to deal with my emotions on my own, how not to dump them on people because I was taught that pain can be exhausting to carry, even when it isn’t yours.

That’s why I struggle to share what hurts, why I keep everything tucked away and swallowed down. It’s probably why people say I sound perpetually insincere or rigid, like my feelings don’t quite match my words.

I can say the first thing that comes to my mind without hesitation, but the moment someone asks how I actually feel, the words disappear.

I’ll probably never tell Katy how scared I was, how in those few seconds I was sure I’d never see her again. People die from far less than this, from accidents that barely make the news, and it could have been my turn just as easily.

“Good to see you back with us, Allie,” the doctor says, scribbling on his clipboard. “How do you feel?”

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