Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
brODY
In my own bed last night, with the familiar and comfortable surroundings, it was easy to forget—or pretend, because I’m getting good at that—and sleep like Vegas never happened, like the proverbial baby.
But at the rink this morning, as I get off the elevator and walk down the hallway toward the locker room, reality roars in the back of my mind that I’ll need to tell coach… something. A lie.
I’ve never been nervous coming to hockey practice in my life.
The rink is like home to me, the place that suits me down to the cracks in the boards, and playing hockey is as natural to me as walking and breathing.
I’ve always felt like hockey was designed specifically for me, to match my talents and skills exactly down to the last twitchy muscle in my pinky, as if I were made in the perfect shape and size and with the exact kind of quickness and strength, the exact match like the last piece at the center of a million-piece jigsaw puzzle.
The rink is the one place where I’ve always belonged.
I resent the nerves kicking in now. All-Star weekend should have been about showcasing my talent and representing my team.
Instead, all the focus is on the Vegas wedding, and the only thing on my mind is why the hell I’m carrying the lie.
I fist the hand with the wedding band that seems to scorch my skin as I walk through the empty corridor. Fuck.
It’s time to get back on track in spite of the constant social media pings on my phone.
The noise not only aggravates my headache, dragging it from a low level up to hard to ignore, but it drives me crazy.
So as soon as I shove inside the locker room doors, I pull the phone from my pocket and shut it down.
Today begins my focus on hockey—and only hockey.
Too bad my teammates have other ideas. Sabien, Link, Windy—aka Windham Bekham—and Jason Hall all pounce before I make it to my cubby.
“Well, who would have thought?” Windy slaps my back. “The heartbreaker himself is tied up in a matrimonial knot.”
“Congratulations.” Link’s smile is tentative, but he gives me a fist bump. At least he’s sincere.
Jason grins, shaking his head, and gives me a bro hug, thumping me on the back. “Good luck, man.”
I glare at Sabien because he could have kept a lid on this, could maybe even have told the team the truth with their promise to keep it secret.
But no, he’s actually fully invested in the whole newlywed scene and all the crap.
Even when Windy launches into a dissertation on the joys of marriage, he doesn’t do a thing to quiet things, to put the focus back on hockey.
I’m contemplating what I can say to refocus things without sounding like a disgruntled groom when Coach Logan walks in.
“Coach.” I nod, and I’m not sure what else to say.
“Congrats on the wedding. How’s your head? You alright to skate?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I try to hold my relief to a simmer.
Because even though I’d prefer to talk about my injury—at least it’s hockey related—rather than my…
personal life—I can’t even stand to think of the terms wedding, marriage, or newlywed—the headache is still there, and my balance isn’t a hundred percent, so I’m not thrilled with this topic either—or having to lie about it.
Coach nods. “We’ll have Dr. Scully look at you and arrange a C-Scan before tomorrow’s game to make sure you’re ready.”
“Is that necessary? I’m fine to play—”
“Abso-fucking-lutely necessary.”
Some of the guys chuckle behind me, and I flip them a finger behind my back because every one of them has played with a bump on the head before. I know I’m okay. I’ve had plenty of sleep, and today’s skate will work out any residual kinks I have.
“I’ve had worse knocks on the head. I’m sure Doc Scully will clear me.”
He nods, and I proceed to dress for practice, relieved that he doesn’t stop me.
When my skates hit the ice, all my tension disappears.
Even the deep throb of my headache fades away as the frigid air flies by my face and my skates glide on the pristine ice while I work up to full speed, testing my balance with a tight turn around the net.
Catching a slight wobble, I right myself and keep going, pushing to a sprint to the other end.
Sabien tries to catch me while Jason whoops, egging us on in the race.
But it ends in seconds with a deep slash of snowy ice in front of the board at the opposite end.
The coach’s whistle to start drills stifles the trash talk and arguments about who won.
“We’ll do sprints later, and I’ll time you,” Coach shouts. “Right now we’re working on shooting drills. Take the nets, Windy.”
After we come off the ice, I head straight for the shower for relief from the pounding in my head before Doc Scully can track me down.
I don’t want to have to answer the questions about concussion symptoms all over again, especially since I’ll have to lie my ass off about this mother-effer of a headache that’s returned with a vengeance.
At least I’m not hurling. From experience, I know that’s a bad sign.
It only happened to me once, but that was enough.
I was fifteen, and it took me weeks to recover.
But this is not that. Stepping out of the shower with my towel, I get dressed in time for Doc Scully to march through the locker room, around men in various states of undress, and head straight for me.
Ignoring the murmurs in his wake and the eyes that track him and end up on me, I pick up my phone to distract myself.
The phone is savagely snatched from my hand, and I look up to see Doc holding onto it with a scowl deeper than Death Valley.
“You know better than that. No electronics. And you shouldn’t have been skating today, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.”
“Hi Doc, how are you?”
He gives me a squinty sneer, though I know he’s actually fond of me. Or that’s what my parents always said when they yelled—that it was only because they cared. Doc must care a lot. He turns his back and waves a hand for me to follow. The low murmurs filling the normally raucous room unnerves me.
“See you for lunch, guys,” I say as I follow Doc.
“Not for you,” Doc says. “Not here.” He shoulders open the door and lets me pass before him, and it’s not my imagination that there’s a chill in the air—having nothing to do with any concussion.
Doc has his own office in the practice facility wing of the Whalers arena complex. I’ve been here before, and it’s state of the art, including an x-ray machine. But there is no CT scanner here.
The instant the door closes behind me, Doc takes a stand in front of me where I sit on the exam table and stares me down with a grim line where his mouth should be.
“Doctor Patrick from the NHL sent me his exam records.”
Why should that statement make my guts feel like they’ve transformed into lead?
I wait him out.
“You have a moderate to serious concussion, and you should never have stepped foot on the ice this morning—you shouldn’t be doing anything that might risk another head injury for at least two weeks.”
“Don’t get mad at me. I didn’t crash and fall on purpose.” I try for a smile. Failing to move the meter on his scowl—in fact, it looks worse—I switch to logic. “Maybe you should examine me yourself before you reach your verdict.”
“You mean before I reach my diagnosis, don’t you?” He looks at me with suspicion, like I’ve failed his cognitive test—yes, I know all about the various symptoms to watch out for.
I shrug. “I know the difference between a diagnosis and a verdict. I said verdict because you’re acting more like a judge than a doctor.”
He snorts, and the gruffness of his expression lightens, though it doesn’t disappear.
“Congratulations. You’ve passed your cognitive competence test.” He narrows his eyes as he stares into mine. “When was the last time you vomited?”
“I didn’t.” I’m not lying. I’m not counting the near misses.
“Nausea?”
“Mild, but not in the past twelve hours.”
He gives a harrumph and picks up his ophthalmoscope and zeroes in on my left eye first. I remain still and force myself to breathe.
What the hell is my problem? I’ve been through plenty of these exams before.
Shit. That’s the exact problem. I can’t pretend that repeat concussions don’t have a cumulative effect. I’m not a dumbass.
But fuck. I’m just starting out, and I need to play. I need to become the player the hockey world expects me to become, the player I expect to be. I’m the fucking generational player who is going to light the record books on fire.
There’s no way one small concussion is going to sideline my spectacular future and leave me as a footnote about what could have been.
I’m not letting that happen.
Okay, I take another deeper breath. I’m really not a dumbass, and I don’t want to end up talking to walls by the time I’m forty, but it’s not crazy to expect the marvels of modern medicine to find ways to fix the damage from too many concussions in the future. Someday.
Doc has me following his finger back and forth with my eyes when he’s finished with his ophthalmoscope, remaining silent while I concentrate on exercising my lungs.
Next, he taps my knees with his rubber hammer, and my legs dutifully jerk forward—thank god.
“Any balance issues?” He stares me down as he straightens, the crinkles around his sharp old eyes demanding the truth.
“Minor stumbles. Nothing much. I’m—”
“Fine? Is that what you’re going to say?” He shakes his head. “I’ve arranged a CT scan. They’ll take you as soon as we can get there.”
“Are you sure that’s necessary?” I don’t know why I bother, but fear makes me unreasonable. I’d rather live with the unknown in this case than find out the truth of my condition because I fear knowing the worst.