Prologue
Theo
February…
“Easy now.Don’t move.”The voice is coming from above me.I don’t recognize it at all.Is it a teammate?Blum or Hudson?Maybe Garlov?No, Garlov has a Russian accent, and this voice doesn’t.
Did I get hit?On the ice?Why is it so wet and… thick?The ice feelsthick.Like mud?
“We’re gonna put a collar around your neck, okay?”
“No.What?Why?”The words are coming out of my mouth, right?Am I saying them?Loudly?It feels like I am, but no one is acting like they’ve heard me.
“Hey.No.Don’t do that!”The voice gets stern and deep.“Stop moving.You could be making your injuries worse.Hey!I need help over here.He’s agitated.”
There’s another pair of hands on me, and then a wave of pain crashes over me so intense I get nauseous and then everything goes black.
The next time I open my eyes, I immediately close them because everything is painfully bright.I’m not on whatever wet, thick surface I had been on.Now I’m on a bed… I think.It’s not comfortable at all, though.There’s talking and beeping, like someone’s ignoring an alarm notification on their cellphone.I try to say something, but my mouth is dry and numb.My throat is raw.Am I at the dentist?Did they give me too much Novocain?
“Mr.Richard?Are you awake?”The voice sounds official and distant, like the woman speaking is in a different room.But when my eyes try to focus, I see three of the same person, and they look closer than they sound.
I feel like I’m going to puke, so I close my eyes.“What happened?”
I force the words from my battered throat, and they come out in a voice I don’t recognize.I’m weak and hoarse.
“You had a fall.You fell off the roof of your house.And you had an extreme amount of alcohol in your system.You have a concussion, a shattered right shoulder, and a compound fracture of your left humerus.You’ve been in surgery for five hours already, and you’ll need another one tomorrow or the next day.”
“Surgery?”
“Your parents are on their way.Your… coach?”she says uncertainly.“Your coach is in the waiting room.”
“Fuck.Sorry.Fuck.”I’m reeling.Confused and terrified.“No.How?How did this happen?”
“We are expecting you to tell us,” she replies.“But with the amount of alcohol you had in your system, I’m not surprised you don’t know.Rest.I’ll have a nurse give you something to help you… Stay calm.”
“I’m calm.”I try to sit up, and everything in my body suddenly radiates with intense, heart-stopping pain.I sag back into the uncomfortable mattress.
“Yeah.You’ve been through it,” the doctor tells me.“And there’s a lot more to go through.”
“My parents,” I croak.“My family?”
“On their way.”
“No.Don’t tell them.”
“I didn’t,” the doctor replies.“They saw your social media post.Plus, your team contacted them.”
“Media post?”I whisper, confused.
“Look, just rest,” the doctor orders gently.“You’re in good hands.”
I want to get up and walk—no run—out of here, but it’s impossible.So when the nurse injects something into my IV, and I start feeling dopey, I let myself tumble into sleep… and wonder if it would be better if I didn’t wake up.
When I wake up next, it’s dark in my room.The only light is a blue, annoying one coming from all the monitors by the head of my bed.I blink until my eyes regulate.I’m starving, and my arms are radiating with an extreme, dull ache.I try to look at my body, but I can’t see much.I think my right shoulder is wrapped in gauze, and my left arm is in a cast from my shoulder to wrist.This is potentially career-ending, I realize, and nausea courses through me again.
I don’t know how or when I’ll be able to play hockey again with my arms like this.And what if they don’t set right?What if I can’t play ever again?What the fuck have I done to myself?
There’s a lump in a chair in the corner of the room.A person-sized lump turned away from me.And another lump in a chair pulled to the foot of my bed, their head on the mattress by my ankle.That head is covered in near-black hair with silver strands that glint in the monitor’s light.Silver strands I caused, I’m sure.
