Drew didn’t trust Hartley. Hecouldn’ttrust Hartley.
His hesitation cost him the shot.
He chose Dorsey, raising his stick to attempt the cross-ice pass. In his moment of hesitation, a Detroit defenseman had crossed the ice to get to him. Drew’s stick caught on the edge of the other player’s skate. The puck went wild, popping loose and skittering along the boards behind Drew. Drew turned, trying to recover, just as the Detroit defenseman finished the check.
Drew felt the force of the other man’s body colliding with him. The air was knocked from his lungs. He was slammed into the boards, his left leg twisting awkwardly, his knee absorbing the force. A flash of heat ran from his left hip to his left ankle.
He fell to the ice.
All he heard was his heartbeat. There was no sound of cheering or booing.
Two seconds passed, or it could’ve been an hour. He shook himself and tried to stand, but immediately fell back to the ice, his left knee screaming and unable to support him.
The game was going on around him. Boston had recovered possession of the puck, and no one had noticed Drew was hurt.
A second attempt at standing, a second failure, and a whistle sounded.
McCormac, the trainer, was now on the ice, headed towards Drew.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
Drew got himself up. His knee hurt, but not as badly this time. He couldn’t put his full weight on it without it buckling, but it would be enough to get him off the ice.
“No stretcher,” he said.
McCormac looked worried, but he nodded. Drew leaned on him as they skated to the bench. He barely noticed the crowd rising in support of him; hedidnotice Quentin Hartley, the winger, drifting across the ice nearby, his posture stiff.
Drew ignored him.
It was Hartley’s fault, after all, not that Drew could—or would—say that to anyone, and Quentin Hartley would never own up to it. What would Quentin say, after the game, if someone asked him about the play? That Drew hesitated and his hesitation cost them the goal? That would be true. Quentin wouldn’t tell anyonewhyDrew had hesitated. He wouldn’t tell them that Drew didn’t trust him, and that Drew had every reasonnotto trust him.
Quentin wouldn’t tell them that he’d broken Drew’s heart just hours before the game.
McCormac got Drew to the bench and guided him to sit. Drew tugged off his gloves.
“Fingers seem good,” McCormac said as Drew flexed them. They quickly checked his shoulders; no problems there.
“It’s my left knee,” he said.
McCormac looked grave. “I want to check it out,” he said, “but I can’t fully do that here. Can you bend it?”
Drew tried, and it just caused more pain. He shook his head.
He had another shift coming up on the ice, but he knew that he couldn’t take it. He was still numb to the whole thing. Any other game, he’d fight through the pain and get back on the ice, injury be damned. Nothing could stop him from playing.
At least, that was what he had thought.
He heard himself say, “Let’s get it checked out.”
He didn’t hear the applause as he left the bench, went down the tunnel, and collapsed in the locker room.
—
There were many traditions that followed a win at the Crawford Cup: rituals about who could touch the cup and how, immediate interviews with sports reporters, celebrations in the locker rooms, and champagne.
Drew didn’t participate in any of it. He was too busy getting hauled in an ambulance from the Regency Insurance Arena to Mass General.
The injury turned out to be a sprain. Nothing was broken or torn, though the doctors informed him that years of play had weakened his knees. The buildup of scar tissue was notable, and they cautioned him about playing hard in the future. He didn’t listen.
