Chapter 55 Tytus
Chapter fifty-five
Tytus
The shooting, searing sensation courses up my left side, taking my breath away as it incinerates nerves and tissue. My intercostal muscles seize up and spasm with such violence I nearly collapse completely.
The shouts from guys surrounding me only addle my brain further, making it impossible to send signals to my body, to make my limbs fucking move.
I can’t get up. I can’t even inhale deeply. If I do, I’ll pass out.
“All right, man?” Atty skates in close and offers me his hand.
I don’t reach out.
I can’t.
My best friend, thank fuck, knows me well. The second we lock eyes, understanding flashes on his face.
Bending low, he catches me under my right arm and helps me to my feet. As I straighten, a soft swell of applause rises up around us.
It’s then that I remember the Galaxy reps watching tonight.
“I’m good.” I make a show of slapping Atty on the shoulder and pushing off so I can skate away on my own.
The pain in my side flares, a blistering sensation that short-circuits every nerve ending in my torso.
I ignore it. I have to.
Nicole and the Galaxy photographer are here. I’m not just in a fish bowl tonight. I’m being sliced open and surveyed under a microscope, complete with documentation.
I have to rally, to power through.
I’ve survived worse. I’ve endured more pain.
Two-a-day practices after completely sleepless nights.
Playing games with broken bones and on an empty stomach after being caged for days.
“What hurts?” Atty asks as we skate to the bench.
While he hoists himself over the side, I gingerly sidestep through the gate, gritting my teeth when I have to lift my left leg over the threshold.
Everything.
“Nothing,” I clip out.
“Tremblay,” Coach Connors barks. “Get over to the trainer. Now.”
Frustration explodes in my chest, joining the pain. Here we fucking go.
I can’t sit out. I have to finish this fucking game. Atty and I are the top pairing on defense. We’ve only let one in on our shifts, and the team can’t stand to look any worse than we already do.
“Come with me,” I murmur to Atty.
He hits me with a hard scowl. For a few seconds, I worry he’s going to deny playing along and covering for me. Then with a huff, he heaves off the bench and follows.
“Tell them you strained your wrist,” I hiss as we make our way over to the trainers.
He startles beside me. “I didn’t—”
“Just fucking do it. Go with McGrady. I don’t want him touching me.”
He gives me a hard glare, the small shake of his head almost imperceptible because of his helmet.
McGrady is older. He’s smart and thorough. He doesn’t miss a fucking thing. If he looks me over, I have no chance of getting back out there.
Despite his reservations, Atty holds his wrist and beelines for McGrady.
With a sigh, I make my way over to one of the student trainers.
She fumbles with her clipboard and dives right into the standard questions required for concussion protocol.
I didn’t even hit my head.
This’ll be a piece of cake.
By the time we’ve both been released, there are only eight minutes left of game play.
Coach puts us right back into the mix, thank fuck, and as I skate to center ice, I ignore the warmth pooling in my torso. I keep going, keep pushing. It’s all I can fucking do.