Chapter 7
7
GERARD
T here’s a reason why I’m considered one of the best NCAA Division I Men’s Ice Hockey power forwards of the last decade. As I propel myself down the ice, I have the innate ability to keep one eye on every player and the other on the path ahead.
I’m so in tune with the game that I’m pretty sure I could do it with my eyes closed. But I won’t test that theory tonight. We’re only ten minutes into the first period, but I can already tell that this is going to be an extremely close game.
The team we’re up against tonight is the North Shore Academy Vikings. They’re no joke. Over the past few seasons, they’ve built a roster that’s deep with talent.
Guys like Landon Hayes and Connor Mills are starting to get the same kind of attention that Drew and I have been getting. Sportscasters are even predicting that a few of them might go pro straight out of college.
It ticks me off.
Not because they’re good—we respect good players—but because we worked our butts off to get here. The Barracudas have been an elite program for decades, and now these upstarts think they can waltz in and take our throne ?
No way. Not on my watch.
I steal a glance at the scoreboard. Still 0-0. My legs are burning from the constant sprints, but there’s no time to let up. Every shift counts. Every play could be the one that breaks the game open.
Coach calls for a line change, and I glide over to the bench, tapping gloves with my teammates as I take a seat. Drew plops down next to me, breathing heavily and grinning like an idiot.
Back on the ice, our second line is grinding hard. Jordan Chase wins a face-off, and Will Dixon rips a shot from the point, but the Vikings’ goalie snags it with his glove. The kid’s hot tonight, and that’s trouble for us.
Five minutes later, the ref blows the whistle, and I’m back on my feet, stretching out my quads and cracking my neck side to side. Drew stands and adjusts his helmet.
“Let’s show these kids how it’s done, G-man.”
We hop over the boards as Jordan and Will take a seat. After the ref drops the puck, Drew snags it, passing it to me.
I take off down the ice like a missile, deking around two defenders before dishing it to Oliver. He gives us his best slapshot that ricochets off the post with a clang that echoes through the arena.
So close.
The Vikings recover and start a rush of their own. I recognize their play immediately and fall back into our zone to intercept a pass meant for Mills.
He curses as I poke it away and clear it down the ice for an icing call.
My chest heaves as we circle back for the face-off. This is what it comes down to: who wants it more?
The Vikings may have talent, but we have history. We have tradition.
And most importantly, we have each other.
Drew leans in close. “Remember freshman year?”
How could I forget? It was another season opener, just like this one. We were down by two goals against Dartmouth with five minutes left in the period.
A defenseman tried to cut me off, his stick poised to swipe at the puck as soon as it came within reach. But with a quick flick of my wrist, I sent the puck sailing between his skates.
I spun around the defenseman and quickly reclaimed possession. The thrill of outsmarting and outmaneuvering the opposition was almost as euphoric as that feeling I get right before I bust a nut.
The goalie prepared to block my shot, his beady little eyes, hidden behind his mask, darting frantically as he tried to predict my next move.
I reared back, channeling all my strength into one explosive shot that hit the back of the net with a satisfying swish. It was my first college hockey game ever, and it was because of me we won. From that moment onward, I was the go-to guy when in a pinch.
And I’m ready to do my duty once again.
Our game plan is simple but deadly, not unlike a well-placed sniper shot. It’s something we’ve been working on all preseason with Coach Donovan’s guidance. A quick give-and-go that exploits even the slightest defensive lapse. We call it the “Barracuda Bite.”
Drew wins the face-off clean, and I’m already in motion, skating backward to our blue line. He flicks the puck to me with a nonchalant ease, then takes off like a rocket down the center of the ice. The Vikings’ defense collapses around him, thinking he’s going for a breakaway.
I survey the ice as my heart pounds in my ears. This is the moment where all our practice either pays off or leaves us floundering. I wind up as if I’m going to launch a Hail Mary pass, and the defenders bite hard, peeling away from Drew to intercept.
Suckers.
With a delicate touch, I saucer the puck over two sticks and right onto Drew’s blade. He doesn’t even break stride as he bursts through the now-gaping hole in their defense .
The crowd sucks in a collective breath.
Drew ends up one-on-one with the goalie, and I can see every muscle in his body tense with focus. He fakes left, then right, then left again. The goalie overcommits, sprawling out like a starfish on too much eggnog.
Time slows to a crawl as Drew whacks the puck viciously.
I watch as it arcs over the goalie’s flailing glove and kisses the top corner of the net with a soft tick.
Silence.
Then, the arena explodes with noise as our fans leap to their feet, screaming and hollering. The goal horn blares from the speakers, and I rush over to Drew, tackling him in a bear hug.
We skate to our bench for high-fives and fist bumps. Coach Donovan gives us an approving nod. His usual stern demeanor cracks just enough to show he’s pleased.
The announcer’s voice crackles over the PA system. “Scoring for the Barracudas, number twenty-seven, Drew Larney! Assisted by number seven, Gerard Gunnarson!”
Drew’s already talking about the next play, but I let his words wash over me. For now, I just want to bask in this moment—the first goal of the season. The first of many.
Depending on who you ask, being slammed into the boards can either be fun or agony. For me, it’s rejuvenating. There’s nothing like having a two-hundred-plus-pound guy flattening me like a pancake as the fans jump back in horror.
Sometimes, there’s blood, but not today.
For those of you keeping track, I’ve been slammed into the boards no less than five times, and my eyes are doing a jig inside my skull.
I shake my head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs, but it only makes the pain worse. The Vikings are playing a physical game, and I’m their favorite target.
Despite the blurring vision, I’m able to intercept a sloppy pass and skate up the ice. The crowd roars as I gain speed and weave through the Vikings’ defenders. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Drew break toward the net with his stick at the ready.
But before I can dish the puck, I feel a sharp crack between my shoulder blades. The next thing I know, I’m hurtling towards the boards at breakneck speed. I brace for impact, but it’s like trying to stop a freight train with a feather.
WHAM!
My helmet cracks as I collide with the plexiglass. For a moment, I’m not sure which way is up, then gravity takes over, and I slide down the boards like a cartoon character.
I lie motionless on the ice, a human starfish. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Everything hurts.
The arena ceiling swirls, and white lights streak together in a dizzying dance when I try to focus my eyes. I blink, once, twice, hoping it’ll clear the fog that’s settled over my brain. It doesn’t.
Seconds turn to minutes as I struggle to stay conscious. The cold of the ice seeps through my gear, and sounds that were once sharp and clear are now muffled hums. I know the fans are shouting, and the refs are blowing their whistles, but none of it registers.
I recognize this feeling all too well. Welcome to concussion number…aw, heck, I’ve lost count.
Skates carving into the ice grow louder as they draw near. I see Drew’s face first, his mouth moving with words I can’t make out. Concern lines his forehead. Behind him, Oliver and Nathan quickly follow, their expressions similarly tight.
“G-man, you okay?” Drew’s voice finally pierces the haze.
I nod, but the movement sends a jolt of nausea through me. “Just…catching my breath.” God, even talking hurts.
“That was a dirty hit,” Oliver huffs. “Fucking Vikings.”
“Their coach is acting like he didn’t see shit,” Nathan adds.
Drew bends closer to me. “Can you get up?”
I take a deep breath and will my limbs to move. My hands slip on the ice as I try to prop myself up on my elbows. The world tilts, and I flop back down as stars burst behind my eyes.
Yeah, this isn’t good.
Coach Donovan is at the boards now, shouting obscenities that would give my mom a heart attack. He’s so mad that the vein in his forehead is seconds away from bursting. His face is as red as his hair, and I laugh hysterically.
Everyone stares at me, thinking I’ve lost it. I very well may have.
Where’s Marty when we need him? He’s the team doctor and a fine one at that.
Coach places a meaty hand on the plexiglass and shouts, “Gunnarson! Talk to me!”
“I think he’s concussed,” Drew calls back.
Two of the Vikings’ players skate over; one of them is Anders Kraft, their captain and supposed hotshot NHL prospect. He looks almost apologetic on behalf of his teammate.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Wasn’t intentional.”
“Save it,” Drew snaps.
I don’t have the energy to play peacemaker right now. All I can do is hope that someone calls my parents because I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out.
“Larney, Jacoby, get him to the bench,” Coach Donovan says.
Drew and Oliver slide their hands under my arms and lift me slowly. My legs are useless beneath me as they half-drag, half-carry me towards the bench. New waves of pain course through my head and neck, and I groan loudly.
I collapse onto the bench like a sack of potatoes. Marty rushes over with a towel and some smelling salts. He carefully removes my helmet before dabbing at my forehead, where it’s starting to bleed.
“You’re a pal, Marty.” I pat the side of his face. He’s a young guy, no older than thirty-five, and our team would be lost without him. He’s patched us up more times than I can count. The dude should get a medal or something.
The fans boo as the ref escorts the offending Viking to the penalty box. I appreciate their support, and I show it by giving them all a megawatt grin.
Everyone cheers, relieved that I appear to be okay.
Because I am, or I will be, once that ringing in my ears stops.
The rest of the game is a blur, literally. I spend most of it with an ice pack pressed to my head while watching my teammates battle it out. The Vikings continue to play dirty, but we continue to play smarter.
In the final minutes, Drew nets the game-winner, and the arena explodes with joy. Barracudas: 3, Vikings: 2.
After the obligatory handshakes, Marty pulls me aside. “You know the drill, Gerard.”
I do. This isn’t my first rodeo when it comes to head injuries. I follow Marty into his office, where he runs me through a series of tests—tracking his finger with my eyes, reciting numbers forward and backward, and standing on one skate with my eyes closed.
I fail more than I pass, but it’s enough for him to make the call. “You’ve got a slight concussion. Nothing too serious, but you need to take it easy for a few days.” He hands me an ice pack and some Tylenol. “Sit tight. I need to update Coach Donovan.”
Marty’s office is a small space cluttered with medical supplies and old sports memorabilia. Framed photos of past teams line the walls. In the corner sits an ancient exercise bike that looks like it hasn’t been used since the Reagan administration.
I shift in my seat and wince as another bolt of pain shoots through my neck. The ice pack has already lost its chill, so I toss it onto the desk and rub my temples instead. A dull throb pulses in time with my heartbeat .
Concussions are funny things. It’s not always the initial hit that does you in; sometimes, it’s the whiplash or the immense shock to your system.
I think the slam into the boards stunned me more than anything else. I’ve taken worse hits and walked away fine.
Footsteps echo behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see Marty returning with a grim expression. “Coach isn’t happy, but he understands.”
“Thanks, Marty.” I start to stand, but he waves me back down.
“Gerard, you need to be honest about how you’re feeling. We can’t afford to have you out long-term.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Remember what happened to Jake?”
Everyone remembers what happened to Jake. He was our team captain my freshman year—a spitfire of a player and an even better leader. One too many concussions ended his career—and his life—prematurely.
“We don’t want that for you.” Marty pauses, then adds, “Take this seriously, Gerard.”
“I will,” I promise, though I’m not sure he believes me.
Marty hands me a sheet of paper with concussion recovery guidelines—stuff I could recite in my sleep by now—and gestures me out the door. “Get out of your gear, shower, and then go home and rest .”
What he really means is that I shouldn’t go out and party with the team tonight. But I’ve never been the best at playing by the rules. At least not when it comes to hockey.
I walk down the hall and into the locker room, where the team is already stripping out of their gear. They’re sweat-soaked and exhausted but riding high from the win.
“Gunnarson, you alright?” one of the freshmen asks. I think his name is Billy, but honestly, I’m too foggy to be sure.
“Yeah, just a slight concussion. I’ll live. ”
He goes back to whatever he was doing, and I slump onto the bench in front of my locker. The combination of adrenaline and pain is making me shaky, and all I want to do is close my eyes—but I can’t. Not yet.
A water bottle is passed to me. I examine the hand holding it, recognizing the large, meaty fingers.
“Hydrate.”
My head snaps up. Oliver stands over me, taking in every inch of my body.
I know what he’s doing. He does it with every player who gets injured. Yes, he trusts Marty and Coach, but that doesn’t mean he won’t assess things himself.
“I’m fine, Ollie. Honest to God. I’ll be back to my normal self in no time.”
“Still…hydrate.”
I unscrew the cap and take a few sips. The cold water trickles down my throat and momentarily soothes the heat radiating from my core.
Feeling marginally better, I peel off my shoulder pads and jersey. Kicking off my skates takes more effort than it should, though. I liken it to trying to pry open a rusted-shut treasure chest with a plastic spoon.
Each tug sends a jolt up my already tender legs, and my fingers are too numb and uncooperative to get a good grip on the laces.
I take a deep breath and give one last heave, nearly toppling off the bench when the skates finally come free. My socks are drenched in sweat, and my feet throb with the release of pressure.
I stretch out my legs, wincing as the muscles protest. The room is loud with post-game chatter. Guys are rehashing key plays, making plans for the weekend, and joking around like they always do.
I stand and shimmy out of my hockey pants, then sit back down hard as the room spins again. Fiddlesticks. Maybe I’m worse off than I thought.
With slow deliberation, I peel off my socks and sigh. The cool tile beneath my feet feels heavenly. I wiggle my toes, letting the chill seep in and take away some of the throbbing.
One of the guys walks by and slaps me on the shoulder. “Hell of a game, G!”
I muster a weak smile and nod as someone starts blasting music from a portable speaker. I want to enjoy it because it’s one of my favorite rock songs, but it only makes the throbbing in my head worse.
Kyle notices my discomfort and slaps the guy over the head.
“Sorry, G. Wasn’t thinking,” the culprit mutters as he lowers the volume to a more tolerable decibel.
I wave off his apology. “It’s all good. You want to celebrate. I get it. Don’t let me rain on your parade.”
Standing up more cautiously than before, the world steadies enough for me to walk. I stagger down the hall toward the communal shower. It’s a relic of another era, with shower heads lining the walls and several Bradley shower poles in the center.
When Infinity Arena was remodeled a few years ago to become the state-of-the-art facility it is now, the owners wanted to turn the space into private shower stalls. The team at the time protested; privacy had never been a concern, and shockingly, the contractors listened.
Steam billows around me as I twist a knob on one of the shower poles and let hot water cascade over my body. The heat penetrates my skin, loosening tight muscles and washing away the sticky residue of sweat and pain.
A few of the guys trickle in, talking and laughing as they claim shower heads and poles. It’s a ritual as old as time—sharing soap and shampoo, making lewd jokes about each other’s bodies. It’s one of those traditions that bonds us closer than just teammates.
Drew saunters in last, unashamed of his perpetual half-chub.
“Gunnarson, you sure you’re okay?” he asks, though his concern is tempered with the confidence of someone who just scored a game- winner.
“I’ll live,” I say, letting the hot water pummel my scalp. “Nice goal, by the way.”
He grins and shrugs modestly. “Had to do it for you, buddy.”
My head is a balloon, bobbing on a too-long string, but the hot water and steam make it slightly more bearable.
I finish showering and stand there as my skin prunes. I know I should get out before I’m as wrinkled as an old man, but the thought of facing the cold air in the locker room keeps me rooted in place.
Nathan yells across the room, “Hey Gerard, who do you think has the best butt on the team?” His pink hair is flattened on his forehead, and he’s grinning like an idiot.
“Besides me? Probably Oliver.”
Oliver shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I can tell he’s pleased with the recognition.
“See? Told you!” Nathan says, high-fiving Jordan.
I shake my head and laugh softly. These guys.
Shutting off the water, I grab a towel from the stack by the door. My muscles have loosened up, but my head still feels stuffed with wet cotton balls. I wrap the towel around my waist and make my way back into the locker room.
The cool air hits my skin, and my body rebels against the sudden temperature change. Goosebumps pop up my arms and legs, my nipples harden, and my balls retreat into my body.
I plod over to my locker stall but don’t bother getting dressed yet. I sit down on the bench and ignore the fact that my towel is growing damper by the minute. I clutch my face and will the dull pain away as more guys filter out of the shower.
“G, you sure you’re up for celebrating?” Oliver asks. “We can always do something low-key at the house and party hard another day.”
I gape at him. He knows as well as I do that a “low-key” thing at the house will turn into a rager. That’s how it always goes with this team .
“I’m up for it,” I say, though I’m not entirely convinced. “Just need a few more minutes.”
Oliver nods but doesn’t move away. “You know we won’t think less of you if you sit this one out.”
I sigh. “I know.”
He claps me on the shoulder and heads over to his locker between Drew and Kyle. They’re my best friends in the world, but right now, I kind of hate them for being whole and uninjured when I’m such a wreck.
Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I close my eyes and hang my head. Memories of past game nights flash through my mind—celebrating our first win as freshmen, dancing like idiots after making it to the Frozen Four, last season’s tear-filled bash when we sent off the seniors.
I open my eyes and stare at my feet. Getting dressed feels like climbing a mountain right now, but if I don’t make a move soon, someone will come over and drag me out half-naked.
Screw it. I stand up and immediately regret it as the room tilts on its axis. I close my eyes again and take a few deep breaths until things level out.
One night. That’s all it is. It won’t be the death of me.