It wasn’t even a check—Eminem and one of theirplayers had just collided at a weird angle, and then he’d hit the boards at an even worse one. He’d crumpled to the ice, and he was still there now.
Okay, so nobody needed his ass kicked. In fact, the other player was at his own bench, having his face checked over by a trainer. Then he was getting sent into the back, and the trainer was gesturing at his own head as another trainer nodded.
I could read between those lines—concussion protocol.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. How bad was Eminem, then?
I gnawed furiously on my mouthguard as I turned to my downed teammate. He was being helped into a sitting position now, Evan holding his arm while Mix steadied his shoulders. Blood ran down one side of his face, and it had pooled on the ice. Now it was dripping onto his jersey, staining the white red and turning the gold an ugly shade of orange.
Fuck, indeed.
I turned away, trying to keep my stomach where it belonged. I eyed the ice crew’s bucket, wondering if I could get to it in time to puke.
A ripple of applause turned my head, and I blew out a relieved breath as I watched Mix and Evan easing Eminem to his feet. They paused once he was upright, Evan’s hand on his chest as he asked him something. Eminem nodded slowly, pressing a bloody towel to his face.
Then they started toward the bench, Eminem a little wobbly but mostly moving on his own power. The crowd cheered and all of us banged our sticks on the ice or the boards. He lifted his head and managed a wave at the crowd, which prompted more cheering.
I exhaled as I followed him off the ice. My shift was overanyway, but I’d been too restless and too worried to go back to the bench while he was still down.
As he continued down the tunnel with Evan, I took my seat on the bench.
“How is he?” Peyton asked over the noise. He’d been on the bench the whole time.
“I think he’s fine,” I croaked despite the way my heart pounded beneath my jersey. “Probably just rang his bell.”
Peyton nodded. “Hope the other guy’s okay too.”
“Looked like they were sending him back to be evaluated for a concussion. But he was moving on his own, so…” I half-shrugged.
Another nod. Peyton shifted his attention back to the ice, where the ice crew was still cleaning up blood. He seemed reassured—confident our teammate was banged up but okay. This was, after all, part of hockey.
But I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t get my pulse to come back down. The jittery feeling just would not relent. No matter how much I tried to talk myself down to earth, no matter how much I reminded myself this happened all the time, I couldn’t convince my heart to stop pounding.
For God’s sake, players got hurt. I’d been hurt myself plenty of times. Hell, I’d been half-carried off the ice as often as I’d half-carried my teammates. It happened. And heads and faces bled like crazy; for all I knew, Eminem’s visor had cut the bridge of his nose, which always looked way more dramatic than it was.
And as Evan and Mix had helped Eminem off the ice, they hadn’t had that look of urgency that meant he needed to go to the hospital or anything. He’d been upright. Conscious.
He was okay.
But I couldn’t shake thisoh shitfeeling. That certainty that Eminem was hurt bad.
After a few more messy shifts—I couldn’t focus, damn it—the buzzer finally sounded and the period was over. Thank God. Now I could breathe, and maybe get an update on my injured teammate.
Before I’d made it two steps down the tunnel, though, Coach stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey. Calds.” He eyed me. “You’ve been off your game since Eminem went down. Are you all right?”
Swallowing hard and shifting on my skates, I nodded. “Yeah. Just, um…” I forced a laugh. “Just rattled me a bit. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Just looked scarier than it was from where I was standing.” Not entirely a lie, so… fine.
Coach grimaced. “I understand that.” We continued toward the locker room. “If it helps, Evan confirmed Eminem is fine. He’ll be out for a game or two, but that’s precaution more than anything.”
For the first time since I’d seen my teammate crumpled by the boards, some actual relief rushed through me. “Good. That’s good.”
The biggest relief of the night? Seeing Eminem in the locker room. He’d stripped off his bloody jersey, and he was wearing flipflops instead of his skates, but otherwise, he still had on his gear. A bandage covered his nose, and both eyes were starting to turn black.
