Chapter 3
Jabari
“Seven Nation Army” drums through the arena speakers as we skate around the rink waiting for the game to start. Soon they’ll have us line up in the neutral zone to listen as a local sings the national anthem. Until then, I continue my pregame ritual.
I stop my forward trajectory and begin skating backward, making sure no one is behind me. The guys are all in their own zones as we ready for tonight’s game against the Utah Mighty Five.
Coach motions for us to get back on the bench, so I slow to a stop, then hop over the boards, not bothering to enter through the door.
“You ready for this?” Liam, one of the assistant coaches, asks.
I nod.
“Good. Bring your A game because Utah’s bringing theirs.”
Don’t I know it. They haven’t been in the league very long, but they’re already an explosive team and on the watch list.
Soon the announcers give the indication for the anthem, and we skate to the center line. I hold my helmet in my hand, and as soon as the last notes ring out, I raise it in the air. Game time.
I strap on my helmet, then snap my mouth guard on.
My line is starting, and we’re prepared to crush it.
For one last time, I skate around the rink before positioning myself at the center for the face-off.
The ref holds up the puck, and I give a nod in acknowledgment at the Utah player.
We bend at the knees with our sticks at the ready. The ref drops the biscuit.
My stick slams against the black circle, shooting it toward Utah’s goal. Sanchez immediately takes possession, and I race behind him, blocking where need be. He passes to Pascal, who aims and misses.
The crowd groans, but I push the noise to the background.
Now isn’t the time to take notice of their expectations or even the music blaring over the speakers.
(They’re playing that ’70s rock band Scorpions.
Three guesses on the song choice.) Utah gets the puck, and our defensive players do their best to aid our goalie in keeping the biscuit out of the net.
Back and forth, I move around the rink attempting to make a goal or ensuring the other team doesn’t.
When I hit two minutes of play time, I get the signal to hit the bench.
The second line comes out, eager to keep up the momentum.
The exchange is on the fly and, for the fans watching, probably not obvious if their gaze is on the puck and not us.
A water bottle’s thrust into my face, and I pop out my mouthpiece, squirting the cold liquid right down my gullet.
I exhale slowly in an attempt to bring my heart rate down before I go back out on the ice.
Keeping quiet, I let my gaze follow the game.
Sometimes we chat on the bench, but times like this, we’re too focused as we wait to get back out on the ice.
“Hall, you’re next.”
I give Coach a thumbs-up, then check the game clock.
We’ve been playing for almost six minutes now.
When Preston skates toward the sideline, I hop over and glide toward Utah’s goal, where one of their players tries to gain possession from our defender.
I slam him into the boards so that Tae can escape.
“What the—” Charles North glares at me as he spits out an expletive.
I smirk, then chase after the next guy. He ends up with the puck despite my best efforts.
Before I make it three feet, my feet go out from under me.
With a grunt, I quickly turn to land on my back and slide across the ice.
A whistle pierces the air, and I watch as Trevor pushes the Utah player who tripped me. Trevor loves a good brawl.
Sanchez helps me to my feet. “You all right, man?”
“Yeah. North is just ticked I checked him before.” I crack my neck.
“Loser.” Sanchez sneers and tilts his chin toward the ref. “They’ll put him in penalty box for tripping.”
“Good.” Tripping is one of the worst things you can do to another player. Throw a punch, fine. Trip with a stick or your skate, and you’re lucky the whole team doesn’t come after you. I’m surprised Trevor didn’t throw down.
We continue the game, yet neither team makes a goal.
Two minutes later, and North is out of the penalty box, gunning for me.
Apparently, his time in there hasn’t cooled him off.
It’s all I can do to evade him. If he keeps trying to check me, I’ll make good and well sure he gets an accidental tripping.
Sanchez passes the biscuit to me, and I shift to the side of the rink to gain the perfect angle to sail the puck behind their goalie. Before I can prepare for a swing, an explosive force shoves me in the back. Falling forward, I’m slammed into the boards, and I drop to the ice. Oof.
Sound dulls as I lie still, too stunned to do anything else. I don’t even hear the whistle, though judging from the face peering above me, the ref has called for a time-out.
His lips move, but I can’t hear a sound.
Do I have a concussion? I resist the urge to shake my head as a wave of nausea brings my stomach to my throat. I battle the sensation back as the ref raises a hand in the air. Before I know it, the team doc is in front of me.
My fists clench as I try to steady my breathing and beat down the panic skittering up my spine. A concussion can keep me out for at least two weeks. That’s about six games depending on our schedule. If it’s more . . .
I groan.
“Let’s get you to the locker room for concussion protocol,” Doc says.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of his voice.
“You need help walking?” he asks.
“Nah.” I attempt a swallow against my cotton-mouth.
But with my first step, my whole body wobbles, and Doc grips my arm. Liam steadies me on my right and helps me back to the locker room.
“We’re gonna get a CT of your noggin, got it?” Doc asks.
I almost nod, but the jolt surging through my head halts the movement. “Yeah,” I rasp.
“Don’t worry. It’ll probably show nothing or a slight concussion, but since you blacked out for a few seconds, we need to make sure everything’s okay.”
“Yeah, I don’t like the look in his eyes,” Liam adds.
You mean the fact I see two of him? Yeah, I’ll keep that factoid to myself. “Understood.”
“All right. Hang in there, Crank,” Liam says. “We’ll get you squared away.”
“Thanks.”
The medical staff will do everything in their power to get me feeling as good as new, but being nauseous and seeing double has me worried. I’m not a doctor, but the fact the world went silent and my vision is off screams concussion.
One of the assistants brings a wheelchair to me.
My attempt at a glare is countered by an arch of the brow.
Obviously, I’m not fooling anybody, and they know I’m hurt.
I grumble under my breath but slowly sink into the chair.
As they push me forward, I close my eyes hoping to keep my stomach contents secure.
Only they churn faster than an ice cream maker.
“I’m going to be sick,” I grit through my teeth.
“Here.”
A barf bag’s shoved under my chin just in time.
Humiliation hits me wave after wave as I empty my stomach contents.
Great. I hold my head as we enter the CT room.
The tech helps me onto the table, and relief finds me.
I’m thankful they won’t have to stick me in an MRI machine.
No way I can handle that level of noise right now.
Even their talking is too loud. As if realizing this, the techs lower their voices as they inform me to lie still.
“Crank,” someone whispers.
I open my eyes to see Doc and his double peering at me, a look of concern creasing his forehead wrinkles. Slowly, I move my head left, then right to get a sense of my bearings. It’s dark, except for a soft lamp lighting the back of the room.
“What happened?” I croak, mouth dry.
Doc hands me a cup. “You fell asleep while being wheeled into the room. We brought you in here and have been monitoring your vitals.” He points to a machine.
I peer down at my body and notice a blood pressure cuff on my left arm. “What’s the verdict? How long will you recommend they bench me?”
Doc’s mouth turns downward. “It’s not good, Crank.”
Just what I’m afraid of. “Give it to me straight.”
“All right. You’ve got a bad concussion, son. There’s some swelling and some kind of lesion on the occipital lobe. We’re waiting for an ambulance to transport you to the hospital for observation and further testing.”
What in the world? Half of that sounds like gibberish and the other half, well, I’m afraid to ask clarifying questions. “No,” I groan.
“Sorry, Crank. That swelling needs to be monitored in a hospital setting.”
“And then what?”
“We take it one day at a time. You need to let your brain heal.”
Yeah, but for how long? “Best guess, how long will I be out?” Hockey is everything to me. I don’t often get injured, and this is my first serious concussion.
“At least a month.”
No. What will I do for a whole month? How will the team fare without me? Yet I keep my questions internal. “After a month, I’ll be back on the ice, right?”
“We gotta monitor your noggin. It’s the only one you have. We don’t want to mess around with TBIs.”
My body goes cold. Traumatic brain injuries?
I’ve heard the term before but usually related to football players and military members who’ve been in traumatic accidents.
Those words aren’t often spoken in the hockey world.
Not that we don’t get concussions. We’re known for our fights and obviously wear helmets for a reason.
But the jokes are always about our lack of teeth, not brain injuries.
“We’ll fix ya up, Crank. Promise.”
He can’t guarantee that. TBIs are nothing to mess with. I want to will my body to shake off the double vision and nausea, but my brain is hyperfocused on the idea of not playing hockey again. Will this truly only be a month’s rest? Or . . .
Don’t think like that.
There’s nothing I can do about this today. I’ll let them bench me for a month before I’m begging them to put me back on the ice. It’s where I belong, my whole reason for existing. I don’t have a lot of skills, but hockey is where I shine. If they take it away from me, what’s left?