“What happened?”
“A box of oatmeal fell on my head. Clipped the corner of my temple.”
I wince before cautiously asking, “That’s it?”
His grimaces. “With repetitive concussions, sometimes that’s all it takes.”
Before he can say anything else, the doorbell rings. He excuses himself to go back to the door to retrieve our dinner from the driver. It’s then I notice his movements are less sure than they have been while we’ve been in town.
After a quick debate, we decide to eat on the couch where we can watch the lake. While twirling his pasta, Brennan flicks his gaze toward me. “How’s your food?”
I fork up a big bite. “Good. And yours?”
He cuts into his chicken marsala. “Good.”
We sit comfortably eating for a few minutes before I ask a question that I hope he’ll answer. My throat tightens. I stare at my plate. “Brennan?—”
He stills at my serious tone. His fork hovers midair on its way to his mouth, he asks, “What?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
He nods.
“What happened exactly on the ice that night?” I don’t have to add which night.
“I got hit and everything went quiet. I felt like I was underwater in my head.”
“It was a bad hit.”
“They’re all bad hits, Amy.” He pauses before sharing. “People think career-ending injuries are the worst part.”
“What’s the worst part?”
“Realizing your body isn’t yours anymore. That it can betray you. That the thing you built your identity on can be taken in one second and the world keeps moving.”
“And you?”
“I didn’t keep moving.”
My lips part.
“I’d had concussions before,” he continues. “A lot of them. Some were diagnosed. Some…ignored. Because that’s what you do in the sport. You tell yourself you’re fine, you pass the test, you get back on the ice. You don’t want to be the guy who can’t take a hit.”
I stare at him, anger flaring. “That’s…different from college; isn’t it?”
“It’s what I thought was expected of me playing pro hockey.”
I hate how simple he makes it sound, like the sport expects lifelong damage. “And the last concussion?”
He swallows a bite of his food. “The last one changed something.”
“How?”
“My recovery wasn’t normal. I thought it would go away. I went to four different hospitals. I thought if I kept going, someone would finally tell me what I wanted to hear.”
“That you were fine,” I whisper.
He corrects me, “That I could play.”
