Page 48 of Lucky Puck

“Coach.” I nod, and I’m not sure what else to say.

“Congrats on the wedding. How’s your head? You alright to skate?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I try to hold my relief to a simmer. Because even though I’d prefer to talk about my injury—at least it’s hockey related—rather than my… personal life—I can’t even stand to think of the terms wedding, marriage, or newlywed—the headache is still there, and my balance isn’t a hundred percent, so I’m not thrilled with this topic either—or having to lie about it.

Coach nods. “We’ll have Dr. Scully look at you and arrange a C-Scan before tomorrow’s game to make sure you’re ready.”

“Is that necessary? I’m fine to play⁠—”

“Abso-fucking-lutely necessary.”

Some of the guys chuckle behind me, and I flip them a finger behind my back because every one of them has played with a bump on the head before. I know I’m okay. I’ve had plenty of sleep, and today’s skate will work out any residual kinks I have.

“I’ve had worse knocks on the head. I’m sure Doc Scully will clear me.”

He nods, and I proceed to dress for practice, relieved that he doesn’t stop me. When my skates hit the ice, all my tension disappears. Even the deep throb of my headache fades away as the frigid air flies by my face and my skates glide on the pristine ice while I work up to full speed, testing my balance with a tight turn around the net.

Catching a slight wobble, I right myself and keep going, pushing to a sprint to the other end. Sabien tries to catch me while Jason whoops, egging us on in the race. But it ends in seconds with a deep slash of snowy ice in front of the board at the opposite end. The coach’s whistle to start drills stifles the trash talk and arguments about who won.

“We’ll do sprints later, and I’ll time you,” Coach shouts. “Right now we’re working on shooting drills. Take the nets, Windy.”

After we come off the ice, I head straight for the shower for relief from the pounding in my head before Doc Scully can track me down. I don’t want to have to answer the questions about concussion symptoms all over again, especially since I’ll have to lie my ass off about this mother-effer of a headache that’s returned with a vengeance.

At least I’m not hurling. From experience, I know that’s a bad sign. It only happened to me once, but that was enough. I was fifteen, and it took me weeks to recover. But this is not that. Stepping out of the shower with my towel, I get dressed in time for Doc Scully to march through the locker room, around men in various states of undress, and head straight for me. Ignoring the murmurs in his wake and the eyes that track him and end up on me, I pick up my phone to distract myself.

The phone is savagely snatched from my hand, and I look up to see Doc holding onto it with a scowl deeper than Death Valley.

“You know better than that. No electronics. And you shouldn’t have been skating today, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.”

“Hi Doc, how are you?”

He gives me a squinty sneer, though I know he’s actually fond of me. Or that’s what my parents always said when they yelled—that it was only because they cared. Doc must care a lot. He turns his back and waves a hand for me to follow. The low murmurs filling the normally raucous room unnerves me.

“See you for lunch, guys,” I say as I follow Doc.

“Not for you,” Doc says. “Not here.” He shoulders open the door and lets me pass before him, and it’s not my imagination that there’s a chill in the air—having nothing to do with any concussion.

Doc has his own office in the practice facility wing of the Whalers arena complex. I’ve been here before, and it’s state of the art, including an x-ray machine. But there is no CT scanner here.

The instant the door closes behind me, Doc takes a stand in front of me where I sit on the exam table and stares me down with a grim line where his mouth should be.

“Doctor Patrick from the NHL sent me his exam records.”

Why should that statement make my guts feel like they’ve transformed into lead?

I wait him out.

“You have a moderate to serious concussion, and you should never have stepped foot on the ice this morning—you shouldn’t be doing anything that might risk another head injury for at least two weeks.”

“Don’t get mad at me. I didn’t crash and fall on purpose.” I try for a smile. Failing to move the meter on his scowl—in fact, it looks worse—I switch to logic. “Maybe you should examine me yourself before you reach your verdict.”

“You mean before I reach my diagnosis, don’t you?” He looks at me with suspicion, like I’ve failed his cognitive test—yes, I know all about the various symptoms to watch out for.

I shrug. “I know the difference between a diagnosis and a verdict. I said verdict because you’re acting more like a judge than a doctor.”

He snorts, and the gruffness of his expression lightens, though it doesn’t disappear.

“Congratulations. You’ve passed your cognitive competence test.” He narrows his eyes as he stares into mine. “When was the last time you vomited?”