“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 theface-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 thepuck 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 surehegets 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 outfor 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.
