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“Anyway…to Michael,” he says, holding up his mug of hot tea.
Everyone drinks to the goalie who lived to be eighty-three, the room quiet. Just as Anton’s setting his glass down on the table, he looks over at me, his expression somewhat puzzled.
“I’m hot,” he says. “And dizzy.”
He shoves his plate aside and lays his head down directly on the table, pressing his glass of ice water to his cheek. I immediately look around for one of our trainers, Rob, and call him over. He’s almost made his way to us when Anton slides his head off the table and vomits all over the floor—and my shoes, bare legs and shorts.
“Fuck, dude,” I mutter. “Really?”
It’s undigested Chinese food puke—and it smells bad. I stand up and look around, my situation beyond help from napkins.
Rob gets to Anton, who’s still doubled over in his chair, and puts a hand on his back.
“Hey, Anton,” Rob says. “What’s—oh, shit.”
He races away from the table, running with his legs close together, like his ass cheeks are clenched.
“Sorry, I have to shit right fuckin’ now,” he calls out.
There’s a loud groan from another table, and I look over and see our goalie Jonah trying to stand up, gripping the back of his chair for support.
“I’m gonna be sick,” he mumbles.
I look across the table at Easy, whose eyes are wide at the chaos around us.
“What the hell is going on?” I say to no one in particular as Luca makes a run for the bathroom, followed by two other players.
One of our backup goalies, Shuck, tries to go to the bathroom but slips in a puddle of our equipment manager’s puke. It’s like a scene in a movie, guys vomiting and others trying to run out of the room. It smells like puke, shit and soy sauce in here.
Anton looks up at me, his expression desperate. “Get me to a hospital.”
I forget about being covered in vomit, and the situation around me. My brother needs me. I reach down and get my arms around him, and between me dragging and him stumbling, we get him across the room to the door.
“I can’t believe I shit my pants,” I hear someone lamenting from behind us.
We leave the nastiness behind as I drag Anton out the front door and set him on a bench, using my phone to summon an Uber.
“Can you wait for an Uber or do you need an ambulance?” I ask him.
“Just fucking kill me,” he mutters, vomiting for a second time all over the sidewalk.
Easy walks out the front door of the restaurant, Vic clutching his arm on one side and Jonah on the other.
“You feel okay?” I ask him.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Is this food poisoning?”
“It has to be.”
Vic makes a run for the bushes on the side of the building, throwing up immediately.
“We need and ambulance,” I decide, dialing 911. “This is fucking crazy.”
I’m talking to the dispatcher as my Uber pulls up. Anton crawls toward it, mumbling about how he’ll buy the guy a new car if he has to.
“I have to go with him,” I tell Easy. “The ambulance is on its way. I told them we needed more than one.”
“Hey, whoa!” our female Uber driver calls out as Anton crawls into her backseat. “No puking in my car.”
“Just get us to a hospital,” I snap. “He’s really sick. I’ll pay to have your car cleaned if he pukes.”
She rolls her twenty-something eyes at me. “Then I can’t use my car while it’s being cleaned.”
“Just drive,” Anton pleads.
“I’ll pay you for it, all of it,” I promise. “We’re both NHL players. Take us to the nearest hospital now.”
She hits the gas. Anton, curled up on the backseat beside me, throws up all over the floorboards, and the driver groans.
“I’m dying, Alexei,” he whimpers. “I’m gonna shit my pants.”
“Oh no!” The Uber driver yells. “You are NOT shitting in my car!”
“Just keep driving,” I tell her.
Anton mumbles, “Tell Mia I love her. Help her with the girls.”
“Stop, you’re gonna be fine,” I tell him. “Just hang in there and keep breathing. I can see signs for the hospital.” I pound on the top of the front passenger seat. “Drive faster, will you?”
I’ve never seen my brother like this. He’s the strong one. The reliable and steadfast one. It’s scaring the hell out of me.
The Uber driver is cruising to a stop at the Emergency entrance, and I say, “Call the Chicago Blaze front office. Tell them Alexei Petrov told you to call. They’ll get your information and we’ll take care of the cost of detailing your car.”
“What the hell?” She glares at me in the rearview mirror. “My car smells like a toilet right now. I can’t work the rest of the day!”
“We’ll fucking pay for it,” I snap.
As soon as she puts the car in park, I open my door and hook my hands behind Anton’s shoulders, dragging him out. He falls limply to the ground.
