Skates stop beside me, but I’m too damn focused on the pain radiating through my face to even pay attention to them.
“Fuck, fuck!” I yell, already able to feel the blood dripping down my face.
“Easy, easy,” someone says, coming into view.
Hutch.
“Just stay down,” he says, trying to keep me calm.
Then he’s gone, the head athletic trainer replacing him.
“Talk to me, Whitlocke,” Ray says.
“Hurts. Everywhere.”
“I know, I know, buddy.” He presses a towel to my face to catch the mess I’m making all over the ice. “Can you get up?”
“My legs didn’t get fucking hit, Ray.”
He laughs. “Good to see you’re still a shithead too. Come on, big guy. Let’s go.”
Ray and Hutch help me to my skates, then toward the bench. I hear the crowd clapping and the players tapping their sticks against the boards and ice. I send them a wave to let them know I’m okay.
“Hey, dude, I’m so sorry,” someone says.
I turn to find the San Jose rookie looking awfully pale. What the fuck does he have to be upset about? I’m the one who got pelted in the face.
“Give him some space,” Hutch barks, and the kid drops his head, skating away.
I can’t decide if I’m grateful for my captain for sticking up for me or if I feel bad for the kid. He didn’t do it on purpose. Hockey is a fast-paced game. Shit happens. Then my face throbs again, and all empathy goes out the window. So much for feeling like I’m on top of the world.
I grab Hutch before I go. “Keller.”
He nods in understanding. The last thing we need is our guy to get tangled up with the rookie or another player over this. Keller got in a fight in the last game, too. No reason to start the season with back-to-back-to-backfights, especially when we’re looking at being 3–0–0 to start the season.
I make my way down the tunnel. One stop with Doc later, and I’m out for the rest of the game. It’s what I expected, honestly. I just hope it doesn’t keep me out any longer.
“At least I’ll get the first shower,” I joke.
By the time he’s done checking me out—no concussion worries, thank fuck—and patching me up, the game is nearly over. I check the TV in the hall to see we’re up 5–0, and the pain in my face seems to subside just a little. I hit the shower and get out just as the guys come back in, celebrating their win.
“Locke, man, are you okay?” Hayes asks as he enters the room, coming over to pat my shoulder.
I nod. “Good as I can be.”
“Holy shit! You look like hell on toast,” Lawson says, reaching for my face.
“Touch me and die, Lawsy.”
“Fair enough.” He scuttles away, and I don’t think he’s ever been smarter than he is right now.
He’s right, though. I look like some monster right now. There’s a huge gash on my cheek where the puck split it open, and I’m already starting to swell.
“Any games?” Hutch asks, worry in his gaze, and not just for me. He’s looking at the bigger picture, which I’m proud of him for.
I shake my head, wincing when I do. Doc gave me some meds, but they haven’t quite kicked in fully yet. “Not officially, but it’s up to me.”
“So no, then.” He chuckles when I nod. “Figures. Glad you’re okay, man. Gave me a hell of a scare out there.”
