CK9.||clayton keller.
fluff.
clayton gets hit in the face with the puck but insists he’s fine.
I gasped, shutting my eyes tightly as I watched the mammoth game unfold on the screen. Clayton had just taken a hit—a puck straight to the face. Of course, the one time I decided not to go with him, something terrible would happen.
I picked up my phone, my heart hammering against my ribs, as I watched him skate off the ice with blood dripping from his eyebrow. I shot him a text immediately; I knew he wouldn’t respond yet, but I needed him to know I had seen it and that I was terrified for him.
I sat there biting at my nails for a few minutes before finally turning the TV off. I couldn't even bring myself to care about the outcome anymore. I retreated to our bedroom, hoping a hot shower would calm my nerves. After changing into my pajamas, I paced back out to the living room to sit and wait in the silence.
Finally, my phone rang. The game was over.
"Hello!" I answered frantically, not even waiting for a greeting.
"Hi, baby. Whatchu doing?" he asked, his voice incredibly calm.
"You’re calm? How are you so calm? Are you okay?" I spoke so fast the words nearly tripped over each other.
"I'm okay, really. All stitched up," he said, and I heard the click of a turning signal in the background. "I should be home in about five minutes."
"Did you see me score the OT winner?" I could practically hear the grin in his voice despite the injury.
"No," I admitted, feeling a pang of guilt. "I turned it off. I didn't want to watch anymore once I saw the blood."
"Okay, well, I’m fine. Stop worrying, I'll be okay," he laughed softly. "I'm here. Open the door."
The line went dead. I unlocked the door but retreated to the couch, sitting on the edge of the cushion. He pushed the door open, locking it behind him before making his way over to me.
"Hi, my love. I’m okay," he said, tilting his head to let me examine the damage.
My breath hitched. He had twelve stitches cinching his eyebrow together, his eye was swollen almost completely shut, and a deep purple bruise was already blooming across his cheekbone.
"You are *not* okay," I pouted, my eyes welling up. "Look at you. They hurt you."
"Baby, it was an accident," Clayton said, smiling softly as he reached out for me. "It was one of my own teammates; he didn't mean to do that. It's just part of the game."
"But why do you have to lie and say you're fine?" I asked, reaching up to tentatively touch his uninjured cheek.
"Well, I'm not lying. When it happened, yeah, it stung. But they gave me some good painkillers while they were stitching me up, so I’m not in any pain right now," he explained, pulling me into a hug and swaying us side to side. "Now, in the morning? In the morning, I’ll really feel it," he added with a dry laugh.
He leaned his forehead against mine for a moment. "Let’s go to bed. I'm absolutely exhausted."
He led me back to our room, moving a bit slower than usual. While he changed out of his clothes, I climbed into the covers, watching him carefully.
"Clay, I love you. I just... I hate seeing you hurt," I told him as he finally climbed in next to me.
"I know. I love you too," he whispered, leaning over to press a careful kiss to my lips.
"How are we even supposed to sleep?" I asked, worried about bumping his face in the middle of the night.
"Like we always do," he settled in, "but face the other way. I can't lay on my left side tonight."
I nodded, letting him pull me against him and position us so he was comfortable. As the room fell dark, Clayton began recounting the rest of the game I had missed—the roar of the crowd, the feel of the puck hitting the net for the win—his voice trailing off into a sleepy murmur until we both finally drifted off.
definitely more of clay he has to be a regular on here now.