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“This would be my second,” I say. And it’s a shitty one.
I took my eye off the goon from Houston for two seconds to watch Pasha sink the puck into the net. Next thing I knew, I was on the ice, my neck already tightening from the whiplash of the hit as my head rattled around in my helmet. The doctor nods and lowers his chart.
“Look,” he says as if he’s trying to level with me. “I understand you’re under pressure to play. But a concussion is a serious medical condition.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say.
He looks like he’s about to say more, but there’s a knock at the door and a pretty older nurse is there. With a wheelchair.
“I can walk,” I say.
“Don’t you dare,” she says.
* * *
The CT scan goes quickly enough, and they leave me to my own devices while the doctor looks at my results. My pocket buzzes again and I retrieve my phone. There’s a handful of texts from Pasha, Freddy, Krazowski, and my agent. But I ignore them, opening the only one that really catches my eye.
FAYE: You’d better be okay. Make sure they take you to the ER, not some half-assed urgent care that doesn’t have its own radiology equipment
I chuckle as I type out a quick response.
ME: I’m okay
FAYE: You’re concussed
ME: Yeah
FAYE: I’m on it
ME: On what?
FAYE: Caro & Aly helped me find that neanderthal’s mother’s address. I’m going to give her a call and then put a hit on that douchenozzle
ME: Damn. I like this side of you
FAYE: Put away the screen. You shouldn’t be on screens.
FAYE: Feel better
The doorknob turns as I tuck the phone away and the doctor arches his eyebrows, as if he knows exactly what I was doing. He shakes his head and pulls over the little wheeled stool all doctors seem to have in their offices.
“So, the CT scan looks good. I don’t see any evidence of fractures or breaks. Your skull is solid.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“But I am seeing some evidence of trauma. I’m going to recommend you take it easy for at least the next two weeks. That means nothing that requires a helmet.”
I frown. “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“You want to talk extreme? We can talk about TBIs—that’s traumatic brain injuries, which is what will happen to this concussion if you don’t give your brain the time it needs to recuperate. Or we can talk about CTE—that’s chronic traumatic encephalopathy—you know, what pro athletes who have had an average of seventeen concussions end up with? The same thing that was found in the autopsies of Aaron Hernandez and Phillip Adams and any litany of former pro-athletes who committed heinous crimes—”
“Yeah, I got it,” I say. I don’t need him to keep talking about athletes whose lives have ended because of brain injuries. I get how serious it is. And it feels like shit.
“Do the things your brain needs right now. I’m sure you know the list: try to stay off of electronic devices. If you’re tired, go to sleep. Don’t drink alcohol. Don’t—”
“Got it, doc.”
He stands as if he’s ready to leave, but he hesitates.
