“No secrets,” I say immediately. “Not with this. If my head feels off, I say it. I do not mess around with concussions.”
He nods once, like that was the exact answer he expected.
I run my thumb along my temple. “I got dizzy on the ice. Same kind of dizziness I felt yesterday for about ten seconds in the hallway. It passed quickly. No spinning. No nausea. Just… wrong.”
Costello does not flinch or react dramatically. He just shifts his posture forward, elbows on his knees. “Why did you not tell the trainers last night?”
“I thought it was travel fatigue,” I admit. “Or dehydration. But this morning it hit harder. Just now it took longer in the shower. I was waiting for the room to settle.”
He studies me carefully. I hate how good he is at reading people. Owners are not supposed to have insight. They are supposed to write checks and yell at refs from their seats. But he was a goalie in college, he gets it.
“You did the right thing saying it out loud,” he says. “I know you, Moretti. If your arm was dangling off, you would tie it back on with skate laces. But a brain symptom? You do not hide those.”
“I’m not losing my career over pride. If something is off, I want the medical team to catch it before it gets worse.”
Costello stands, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. “You’re sitting down for an evaluation with Miles. You tell him everything. Even the small stuff. Especially the small stuff.”
“I will,” I say. “I want answers. I want to know if this is normal or not.”
“It is not normal,” he says without kindness or cruelty. Just truth. “It is also not necessarily dangerous. But we do not take chances.”
“So, you think they are pulling me,” I state, knowing the answer already.
Costello inhales, slow and measured. “I think they will run you through a full VOMS screen and balance testing. If you pass clean, you play. If you do not, you sit. We’ve got use of the rink from Seattle, so let’s roll.”
I shake my head.
“What?”
“Johnson’s making them all play harder, andthat’snot safe. He’s?—”
“Assistant coach Dillard says otherwise.” He whispers.
“And Coach D?”
He shakes his head, “Forget I said a damn thing. That’s not your concern.” He smirks, “Or at least it shouldn’t be.”
“Forgotten, but everyone sees it.”
“Let’s focus on you. If your symptoms are what Coach D described, it is likely vestibular or oculomotor. Those are not season-ender. They are not career threats. They are setbacks. Annoying ones. About six games.”
I let out a slow breath I did not know I was holding. Six more games with the guys playing twice as hard. “Is that even manageable?”
“It’s manageable,” He states. “Now get dressed. I am walking you down, just to make sure you do not face plant before we get there.”
I snort. “I am not going to face plant.”
He gives me a look. “You leaned on a wall yesterday for three full seconds.” He types out a text and hits send. “Get dressed, they’re coming up to run through a few tests.”
Miles,our trainer, walks in and studies me like he’s taking a mental scan. Pupils. Posture. The way I blink.
“You look off,” he says bluntly.
I rub the back of my neck. “I feel good right now.”
“And yesterday,” he states.
My stomach tightens. “Yeah. Maybe five seconds. I thought it was travel.”
