The arena erupts—a universal howl of agony and chaos. Play immediately ceases. Players from both teams crowd around him dropping to a knee even as the refs skate over to assess the situation.
The sky camera cuts away, before zooming in.
He’s not moving. His fingers aren’t moving. He’s not letting anyone know he’s fine by surreptitiously curving his hand into one half of a heart. Only me and his parents knew what that hand gesture meant.
It was to relieve us while he stayed down on the ice.
He still does it to this day, even if the gesture isn’t meant for my reassurance. Regardless, I study his hand waiting so my thundering heart can calm down. Not seeing it, I surge to my feet and shout, “Get up, you prick. Get up, damn you!”
Anxiety is affecting everyone on the ice. The way the crowd stands even though no one tells them to. Respect. Fear. Theunspoken understanding that this isn’t a game any of them want to play any longer.
Trainers rush toward him. One of Brennan’s gloves lies abandoned near the boards. His fingers, part of a hand that used to cup the side of my face right before he’d lean in for his good luck kiss before a game, curl in on themselves like he’s bracing for impact all over again.
That’s when the camera zooms in and I get a good look at his face.
His eyes are open—but unfocused. Glazed over.
“He’s too still.” The kind of still that Brennan never is on a hockey rink. The kind of still no player ever should be. Something cold settles in my stomach. Just then, the camera cuts to the game commentators who announce they’re cutting to commercial.
They didn’t show the stretcher, but I know it was there just out of view. Waiting to take him away to be evaluated.
The broadcast comes back from commercial break with hushed voices and somber tones. In-studio commentators speculate carefully about Brennan’s condition. Then begins the replays and second by second commentary in slow motion. They talk about head contact. About concussion protocol. About Brennan’s history of hard hits and fearless play.
They speculate about his future. One of them wonders if this could be a career defining moment. “Normally, he bounces back quickly. You have to wonder what’s happening in the locker room for Brennan McCallister, right now.”
“You think this will change how he plays?”
“I imagine it has to.”
I turn the TV off before they finish the conversation. The screen goes black, my reflection faint against the matte black screen. The silence in my cozy apartment is louder than thecrowd ever was. It presses in from all sides like it’s wondering what I’m going to do next.
I stay where I am on the couch, remote still clutched in my hand, thumb resting uselessly over the power button like I might need to use it again. My heart is still racing, but there’s nowhere for it to go now. No whistle. No replay. No slow-motion angle to soften the impact.
Just me and the echo of a past that was brutalized just as badly as Brennan was tonight. Just then, my phone lights up on the coffee table. Message after message comes in from my girls.
Emery:
Are you watching this?
Maya:
Did you see what happened to Brennan?
Christin:
That hit was brutal.
I text back in our group chat one word.
Me:
Yes.
The persistent vibrations makes me almost drop my phone.
Emery:
They’re saying concussion. Maybe worse.
