Emergency Medical Dad

XX: present, 10PM

 JORGEN

We were right about the storm, it rolls overhead at about 9pm. I'm struggling through some emails back and forth with the staff at the rink, reorganizing the medical department for my absence. I really wish I could just make Jack the figurehead and then call it done but I can figuratively put him in charge but I'd still have to support him from underneath.

We've got an intern doing summer training that can't find the binders where I keep full injury reports, a new hire struggling to figure out how my organization works, Jack wondering where I put the k-cups for the coffee machine- it works with coffee grounds, I fucking hate kcups- and Bernie is looking for the best way to inform the guys I'm suddenly very much a variable for next season.

Plus, we just sealed up two very solid trades. Two of our third liners are off to Minnesota in return for Finnish winger Fidan Koskinen, age 21, hot off a rookie season for the Wild, and the NHL's only Spaniard, Hugo Romero, 20, defenseman.

Greenie has been off the hook about that one, Hugo and him have already made a rather wild show of roasting the absolute shit out of each other in Spanish on Twitter. We've all had to tell him to cool off. It's been rather interesting news in terms of NHL twitter.

"Hi," I about leap out of my skin at the little cloaked figure in my door.

"God, Connor, hello," I breathe out, trying to chill the overdose of adrenaline going through me.

"What are you doing?" He doesn't hesitate hopping up onto my bed and looking at the screen of my laptop.

"I'm trying to control my office from afar. I left them to their own devices and it's not going well."

Connor frowns, a tiny little flicker of Jessie's frown going across his forehead. He settles down, sitting next to me. "Why?"

"I'm in charge most of the time, they're having a hard time without me."

"You're in charge?"

"Mhmm," I nod. "Everything that happens with the whole medical department, the trainers, the physical therapy guys, trips back and forth for doctors appointments for the players, specialists, diet people, all of it is directed by me."

He seems intrigued by that, tipping his head to the side, watching me type something up, "now what are you doing?"

"I'm about to send a file to my second in command so he can print it out and add it to the binder I keep of current player's injuries and past medical history," I point at it, Hugo's face in wallet-size in the top corner followed by a rather extensive list of things wrong with his left ankle with a hernia surgery sprinkled on top. "And then I have to send over this one too," I pull up that page, "this guy's Finnish."

"Why is he finished?"

"No, he's Finnish, like he's from Finland," I ruffle his hair and slide it onto my knee so he can see the file. "He's our shortest Scandinavian too."

"How tall is he?"

"Six foot two."

His big eyes stare up at me like I'm the most interesting person ever, "I have no idea what that means." God this fucking kid.

"Shorter than me but only by a few inches."

"But you're really tall."

"I know."

"Ah," he sits back, still looking at the screen, "so you're doing homework?"

"I am," I nod as another roll of thunder goes through, Connor gets a little tense at it. "You don't like thunder, do you?"