Page 85 of Flashback for the Forward

One of the trainers turned around. “Can two of you help to get him up and to the tunnel?”

Levi and I were the first to volunteer, flanking Crew’s sides and hauling him to his feet. My twin was so unsteady that he leaned all of his weight on me as we moved across the ice, and I nearly lost my balance. Thankfully, Jagger was nearby and quick to right me, joining us in the struggle to move Crew to the bench.

Once the handoff to the doctor and his team was complete, and Crew disappeared down the tunnel toward the treatment rooms for further evaluation, I turned to Coach.

“What’s the call?”

There was a grim expression on Davenport’s face. “No call.”

“WHAT?!” I roared, whipping around to aim my fury at the refs.

The four officials stood gathered together, shooting the shit while waiting for play to resume after the injury stoppage.

Skating in their direction, I shouted, “How the fuck do you not call a penalty on that dirty hit?”

The head referee stared me down. “It was clean from where I was standing.”

Sarcastic laughter fell from my lips. “Oh yeah? Guess you missed the part where he left his fucking feet and led with the elbow. And let’s not forget the fact that the hit happened away from the puck!”

Marakov skated to stand behind the refs, wearing a shit-eating grin on his face, and bringing his fists to his face to mimic crying. “Wah wah wah,” he taunted in heavily accented English.

My blood pressure spiked, and I lunged, ready to tear his fucking head off.

Unfortunately, the four men in striped shirts between us held me back.

Grunting with exertion as I fought against their hold, I screamed, “The second they drop the puck, you’re mine, you hear?”

Markov curled his fingers into a come and get me gesture. “Bring it on.”

“Astor, you need to calm down before I throw your ass in the box,” the head referee warned.

I scoffed. “Probably the safest place to be, given the piss-poor officiating tonight.” Then, because I was feeling particularly spicy, I said, “Mind if I get your autograph after the game? It’s not every day you get to meet the guy who all those blind ref jokes are about.”

His face turned an ugly shade of red, one arm swinging to point toward the home bench. “Get the fuck off my ice!”

With a roll of my eyes, I shoved off, skating backward so Marakov could see the murder in my eyes. I might not get a go at him tonight, but I’d get my chance later in the season, with the Fog being one of the Surf’s divisional opponents. The next time we squared off, the gloves would come off, and I’d settle the score for what he did to my brother.

Boos rained down from the crowd when it became clear that I had been ejected. I offered them a wave, silently letting them know it was okay, even though it wasn’t.

When I reached the bench, I spoke to my teammates. “Keep your heads on a swivel, you hear?”

Then I stepped past them and onto the rubber mats that lined the hallways underneath the arena. Normally, after being kicked out of a game—something that had only happened once before in my entire career—I’d head straight for the locker room, remove my gear, and get dressed so I could watch my team finish from the press box. But tonight, circumstances were different, so instead, I pushed through the door of the training room where Crew was reclined on a padded bench, surrounded by medical personnel.

“How’s he doing?” I asked.

Dr. Briggs’s mouth was set into a straight line. “Woozy, disoriented, and in a lot of pain.”

The disoriented part was what worried me the most. The brain was a delicate yet extremely important organ. Not only could repeated hits to the head end a career early, but there were also long-term effects, like CTE, that diminished a former-pro’s quality of life post-retirement.

I couldn’t stomach the thought of that happening to my twin. Not when the systems put in place to protect him from head contact had failed—the refs who were on the front lines of enforcing player safety.

Sure, the league would step in and review it. Likely slap Marakov with a couple-game suspension and make him pay a pittance of a fine—$5,000 being the maximum for any single infraction. But that wouldn’t undo the damage to Crew’s brain.

“We’re gonna send him over to SD General for a CT scan just to be on the safe side.”

I stiffened, reading between the lines. They were concerned enough that they wanted to rule out a brain bleed.

“Is there time for me to get dressed? I’d like to go with him.”