“Possible concussion. They're monitoring him. He was conscious when they took him back, which is good. Coherent, mostly. Asking about the game.”
Of course he was.
“How long until we know?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe an hour.” She glanced at her tablet, then back at me. “Grant, he's going to be okay. The kid's tough.”
“I know he is.” But that didn't make this easier. Didn't make the guilt sitting in my chest any lighter.
I should have seen it coming. Should have known Boston would target him. Should have pulled him off the ice before?—
Stop. This isn't on you.
An hour turnedinto ninety minutes. The team gradually dispersed—some guys went back to the hotel, others stayed in the waiting area, quiet and tense. Rook sat down next to me at one point, said nothing, just sat there like a silent anchor. I appreciated it more than I could say.
Finally, a doctor appeared. Not our usual team physician since the team doctor was travelling.
“Coach Sutherland?”
I stood immediately. “That's me.”
“Dr. Warren. I've been reviewing the imaging and Mr. Hartley's medical history.” He gestured toward a consultation room. “We should talk.”
That wasn't the tone of someone delivering good news.
Tess and I followed him into a small room with a lightbox on the wall. He clipped up several images—shoulder, neck, spine—and I felt my stomach clench at what I was seeing even before he started explaining.
“The good news first,” Dr. Warren said. “No fracture to the collarbone. No spinal damage. The concussion appears mild, though we'll monitor him overnight to be sure.”
“And the bad news?”
“Grade two shoulder separation. Significant soft tissue damage. He’ll need at least six weeks of rest and rehabilitation before he can even think about returning to play.”
Six weeks for the shoulder alone. That took him through the prelims. Possibly into the playoffs if we made it that far.
“But that’s not the real problem,” Dr. Warren continued, and something in his tone made every muscle in my body lock up.
“What do you mean?”
He pulled up another image. Not the shoulder. The leg.
“When we were doing the full-body assessment, we noticed irregularities in his left leg. Old scar tissue. Evidence of previous tearing in the hamstring that isn’t documented in his current medical file.”
I stared at the scan, my brain refusing to catch up. “What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Hartley has a history of hamstring tears. Significant ones. The scar tissue pattern suggests at least one major tear that was rehabbed aggressively, likely pushed too hard, too fast.” He tapped the image. “And it’s showing signs of re-injury. Microtears. Inflammation. The kind of slow damage that comes from playing through pain.”
My stomach dropped. Microtears meant he could numb it, tape it, pretend it wasn’t there. It also meant every shift could be ripping it open again.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that if he keeps pushing it, he’s at risk of a complete rupture. That would require surgery and easily three to four months of recovery. Possibly longer.” Dr. Warren’s voice stayed clinical, matter-of-fact. “Given the existing scar tissue and the pattern of repeat damage, there’s also a significant risk of permanent complications. Reduced mobility. Chronic pain. Career-shortening issues.”
“Why wasn’t this in his file?” My voice came out tighter than I meant. “Why don’t we have documentation of a previous tear?”
Dr. Warren glanced at Tess, and whatever passed between them made my skin go cold.
“That’s a good question,” he said carefully. “One you should ask your medical staff.”
