“Medical professionals may recommend players who have had recurrent concussions sit out for a longer period of time or even retire from playing altogether to prevent further damage to their brain.” There’s a whistle of air. “Cap, he’s on the bench for a while.”
No. Panic clutches my whole body, making me groan. The extra movement seizes the drill behind my eyes and shifts it up a notch. Fuck. I’m gonna hurl.
“Everyone out.” The next time August speaks, it’s so low I barely hear it. “Go get some food. Raffi needs rest. I’ll sit with him while y’all eat.”
“Want something brought back?” Justin again.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll tag out with someone when you’re done. But no overwhelming him. And keep the fucking noise down, okay?”
Footsteps thump and squeak away. There’s a swish of the door closing. If only their exit had also taken away the dread curling around my body.
If I can’t play, I lose my scholarship. I swallow down the bitter panic lodged at the back of my throat with a groan.
“Easy, Raf. It’s okay. Just rest.” August pats my leg.
It’s fine for him—he’s not the one in this bed.
“Research has shown repeated head trauma can lead to chronic traumatic encephalopathy C.T.E, a degenerative brain disease which can cause symptoms such as memory loss, mood swings, and dementia.”
Great. He’s clearly reading the same fucking website Justin was before he left. August’s words are spoken quietly, and they’d almost be soothing if they weren’t so terror inducing. I know the risks. Iknowwhat I could end up like. But hockey is life.
“Hockey players who have suffered concussions may also experience post-concussion syndrome, which can cause headaches, dizziness, and difficulty concentrating, among other symptoms.
“These long-term effects can have a significant impact on hockey players’ lives, leading to difficulties in their personal and professional lives. Some players may have to retire early due to the effects of their concussions, while others may struggle with mental health issues and financial challenges. Fuck. Raffi, we’re going to have to keep an eye on you, kid. This brain shit isn’t something to fuck around with.”
While I appreciate his concern about my well-being, I’m also freaking out on an epic scale. I need to heal quickly so I can get back on the team. Without my scholarship, I can’t afford college, and I’m far less likely to be discovered by the NHL so I can play professionally.
It’s always been my dream to play big.
Wincing, I swallow down the half-truth. I’d love to play in the National Hockey League, I would, but I know deep in my bones I’m not cut out for it. My parents though, once they learned my childhood dream was to become a hockey star,they took it with both hands and ran with it. I can’t let them down.
“I can hear your fucking brain working from here, Raf. Settle down and go back to fucking sleep.”
But I can’t settle or get comfortable. The pain in my head, my ears, encompassing my entire body, makes it impossible for me to “settle down.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t freak out. Let me help.”
I don’t know what he’s doing because I can’t bring myself to open my eyes, but there’s a lot of shuffling around. The brightness of the room shifts, getting darker. I don’t know what he’s done, but my chest swells that he’s trying to help.
“What happened?” My voice is croaky. I should probably drink some water.
As though he read my mind, a straw pokes at my lips, and I take a long, slow drink of the cool liquid. Fuck. That feels so damn good.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Trying to recall memories hurts. It’s like the piece of my brain that knows what happened earlier is on fire. Shrugging, I dare to crack an eye open, just a bit. My stomach tightens. I’m definitely not in the hockey house. And August has somehow jerry-rigged a blanket over the window to block out some of the extra light. He’s nothing if not resourceful.
“I can’t, I don’t.” Ugh. I start to shake my head but nope, that hurts. “I…did we do the jail-and-bail?”
August nods. “Raised a shit-ton for the ASL charity you picked too.”
My sister in law’s going to be so happy. My niece was born deaf, and the whole family has learned American Sign Language. It was a slow process, especially for Dad—old dog, new tricks and all that jazz—but we pulled together as a family to learn how to communicate to our littlest member.
We do a fundraiser for a different ASL charity each year,and I roped my fellow teammates and friends at school into joining the cause this time. I’m glad we raised money, even if I can’t remember it.
There’s a prickle in my arm, an itch I want to sink my nails into and scratch like crazy. It’s right under where the IV is administering fluids. There’s a bright red firecracker tattooed on my inner arm, with a date—today, yesterday, last week?—inked underneath it.
“What’s this?” My speech is slow, heavy like my tongue’s too big for the inside of my mouth.
