Page 96 of Worth the Shot

Brennan

I see the shot a half-second too late.

It’s a blur at first. The kind of rising puck you assume is going wide, the kind you track out of instinct but don’t actually worry about. I shift forward to block the pass option, not the damn missile that’s suddenly changing direction like it has something against me personally. Someone yells my name, or maybe it’s just a sound my brain thinks is my name.

Then, impact.

It hits me under the rim of my visor, right at the edge of my eye socket, and it’s not pain first, it’s light. A white, exploding starburst behind my eyelid, like someone shoved a firework into my skull and lit the fuse. There’s a crack. I have no idea if it’s the puck or my face. My legs stop working before the pain actually arrives. They just…disappear. I feel the ice under me tilt, or maybe I’m tilting. Can’t tell. Everything’s sideways. Before I hit the ground I tear my glove off, hand going to my face on instinct, but there’s already warmth pouring through my fingers. It’s wet, hot and the metallic smell hits me all at once. Blood. I don’t know if it’s a nosebleed or my whole face caving in. The world is loud and far away at the same time, the noise from the crowd turning into this weird, dull roar that sounds like hearing the ocean under water.

Then my head hits the ice. Hard.

My helmet bounces and my brain slams against the inside of my skull like it’s trying to escape. The lights above me strobe into long, vertical lines and something in my stomach flips. Everything’s spinning. My vision is narrowing so fast it’s like someone’s pulling curtains closed. Voices blur over me—teammates yelling, a ref shouting something I can’t understand. Someone’s cursing. Someone else is breathing too fast. My name might be in there somewhere, but it’s smeared into noise. I try to open my eye, but the right one won’t. It’s swollen or bleeding or both. The left sees nothing but shapes and then pain arrives, late, but all at once. It’s blinding, sharp and deep, like my entire skull is pulsing with its own heartbeat. My eye feels wrong. Too tight. Too big. Pressure builds like someone’s squeezing it in a fist.

I taste blood. It’s running into my mouth.

I try to suck in a breath but it catches. There’s liquid in my throat—blood, spit, something—and I can’t swallow fast enough. Then I’m rolling onto my side. Someone’s hands are on me, turning me so I don’t choke. My stomach lurches and I throw up. Everything spins harder and all I feel is the ice against my cheek. Cold everywhere except my face, which feels like it’s on fire.

“Brennan, hey, look at me.”

I try. I can hear the panic in their voices but I can’t move. I can’t speak. I’m nothing. Everything’s dark at the edges, my eyelids feel heavy like gravity doubled and it’s dragging them down. I want to answer, I really do, I just…can’t get my mouth to work.

The roaring gets louder.

Or maybe quieter.

Hard to tell.

Then the cold ice under me starts to fade. My body feels far away, like I’m floating above it instead of being inside it. Someone’s yelling for a stretcher. Someone says, “Unresponsive.” Someone says something about my airway. Airway. That can’t be good. I want to move, or speak, or blink but everything slows. Everything drifts. Everything empties.

And then⁠—

Nothing.

Something is dragging me upward.

Not fast. Not clean. More like being hauled through mud with a hook in my chest. Every breath feels wrong, like it’s too shallow, too forced, too loud. Like it isn’t mine. There’s something in my throat. Something inside me. Pushing. Stretching. Burning. My body tries to cough but I can’t, it feels like my lungs won’t work right.

Noise filters in next and it’s metal clattering, feet moving, voices firing commands I can’t fully catch. Everything feels sharp, clipped, urgent and it all echoes like I’m still underwater.

A bright, white-hot bolt of pain stabs behind my eyes. It pulses, then spreads, crawling across my skull like someone is prying it apart with both hands. I groan, or at least I think I do but it sounds far away, like it comes from someone else’s body. Hands land on my arm and they’re firm and warm like someone is holding me down gently. My instincts scream fight, and my arms jerk upward, desperate to rip whatever the hell is in my throat out of me, but then the hands tighten and it’s soft pressure. A thumb brushes my skin and a voice cuts through the static. A voice I know.

“Brennan, it’s Laney…it’s me. You’re okay. Just stay calm. Trust me.”

Laney.

The name hits me somewhere deep, clearing a path through the fog. I try to open my eyes, but only one halfway listens. Light floods in and it’s too much, too sharp, too bright. Everything hurts. I can’t talk. I can’t breathe right. My chest is tight, my throat is on fire, and my head—God—my head feels like it’s been split in two. Her hand moves up and down my arm, slow and gentle, like she’s trying to anchor me to the table. I focus on that.

Her hand.

Her voice.

Her being here.

The panic eases just enough for the world to come into shaky, painful focus. She’s close. So close I can feel her breath against my cheek when she leans over me. I want to tell her I hear her. I know her. I trust her. But all that comes out is a strangled, frustrated noise around the tube.

“Easy,” she whispers, brushing hair, or maybe blood, off my forehead. “You’re safe. Stay with me.”

Stay with me.