I snapped at Raffi before he left for the game. He spoke with the team doctors this morning, they ran some tests and declared him fit to play.
In my official medical opinion, from years and years of endless studying in medical school and working with athletes forever, I think it’s a bullshit call.
Fine. I’m a no one with no medical know-how. But this isn’t a smart plan. At all. My gut says Raffi needs to step down before he hurts himself.
Listening to his mom last weekend, it’s easy to see why he pushes himself. She gushes about how successful he is on the ice. Everything comes back to the game in their house. I’m not sure if it’s deliberate, if they thinkhewants it so badly and they believe they’re encouraging him, or iftheywant it for him.
Eitherway, they need to sit down and have a frank conversation about the likelihood that Raffi won’t end up playing pro hockey. I mean, there’s a chance, but from what I’ve gathered from his teammates and researching on the internet, the NHL is unlikely to come calling. His medical history has rendered him a liability, even if he was the best player ever to skate on the ice.
I could be wrong. I’m not an expert on hockey any more than I’m an expert on medicine.
Wyatt leans forward on Penelope’s lap to smack on the glass. He doesn’t understand much, and he hopefully can’t hear anything with those ear defenders on, but he’s wearing a shirt with Raffi’s number on the back.
Raffi hasn’t seen it yet because he didn’t come our way during warm ups. But as the arena gets ready for the first period, he skates our direction, tapping the plexi to get Wyatt’s attention.
“Raffiiiii!” Wyatt’s voice pierces the air as he waves frantically at his dad. Raffi winks at him before turning his attention to me.
I whisper to Wyatt to show Raffi the sign we’ve been working on. It’s the American Sign Language sign for “I love you,” and we’ve both been working on it for a week or so.
Raffi rolls his lips and blinks quickly like he’s trying not to cry. I love how sensitive he is.
Holding up one finger for him to pause, I pluck Wyatt from Penelope’s knee and rotate him so Raffi can see what his shirt says.
When he tilts his head to the side, his smile spreading, I hand Wyatt back, and turn to show him that his name is on my shoulders and his number is on my back.
I may not like his choice to continue icing, but we’re a family, and we support each other.
He covers his chest with his gloves.
I mouth “I love you.”
He grins with a wink and mouths “I know. I love you more.”
I jerk my chin at the ice over his shoulder. “Go gettum, hot shot.”
He salutes me, offers his glove at the glass for Wyatt to fist bump, then skates off.
Eloise nudges me from my right. “You’re adorable when you’re mushy.”
“I’m never mushy.” The words barely come out around the lump in my throat. For years all I wanted was for Wyatt to have a father, for someone to love me in spite of the fact I was a single mom.
Now that I have what I yearned for, it’s hard to believe it’s going to last.
Fear is a fucker.
We’re playing the Cincinnati Vipers. If I didn’t already know that, all I’d have to do is look at Penelope’s boobs. She’s wearing the away team’s shirt once again. I can’t help but laugh.
From the opening puck drop, the Vipers are, I don’t know what the technical term is, but they’re assholes. It’s a much more physical game than I’m used to. So, naturally, my heart’s lodged firmly in my throat.
Raffi’s concentration is clear. He’s fully focused on the game. As he chases the puck, a Viper collides with him.
My stomach lurches as his head cracks against the boards and he crumples onto the ice.
Time stops.
An audible gasp ripples around the crowd.
Someone shouts a really loud “fuck.”
