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She shook her head. “He can’t, okay? Please, for once, just believe me. Video games and running are fine, but no hockey.”
I exhaled hard and ran my hand over my jaw, aggravated. “Listen, I know you like to be in control, but sometimes you overdo it.”
“I’m not overdoing it.” Her expression was imploring. “I had to take him to the hospital earlier for IV migraine meds. He had a horrible headache and he was just…raging.”
I immediately regretted what I’d said. She was on the verge of tears and I could see her concern for her brother was genuine.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I’d known.”
“You were playing a hockey game; there was nothing you could have done.”
“I would have left earlier.”
She covered her face with her hands and cried.
“Hey,” I said, stepping closer to hug her. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.” She kept her hands over her face but leaned into me. “I didn’t want to break down like this. I just needed to tell you.”
I held her for a minute while she cried, wishing there was something more I could do. When I pulled back, she lowered her hands and I put my hands on her shoulders.
“You know you can trust me, right?” I asked.
She nodded silently, her eyes red from crying.
“What’s your brother’s diagnosis? I know you know more than you’re telling me.”
She looked away. “The whole thing has been a well-kept family secret for a long time.”
“I’m not asking because I’m being nosy. I’m asking so I can help you help him. So I don’t make any more missteps like the beer and the invite to hit pucks.”
Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at me. “Luke started playing hockey when he was five. My dad played through college and Luke wanted to be just like him. He played travel hockey through high school and then he played at the University of Michigan, just like our dad. The headaches started his sophomore year of college, and my parents took him to the best doctors in the country.” Her shoulders drooped wearily. “They ran so many tests and couldn’t diagnose him with anything.”
It all fell into place at once. Why she didn’t want Luke hitting pucks with me and why she was so adamantly opposed to hockey and football.
“You think he has CTE,” I said.
“I do. Most of the doctors he saw said he most likely has it. My mom thought so, before she died. He had lots of concussions over the years but he just kept playing.”
Chronic traumatic encephalopathy could only be diagnosed post-mortem through an autopsy. I’d heard horror stories about retired professional hockey players developing dementia, mood disorders, and even losing their ability to walk and talk from CTE. It was a big reason for concussion protocols in major league sports.
“Elle,” I said, at a loss for words.
She swiped her fingertips beneath her eyes, drying her tears.
“You get it now, right? Why it would kill me inside if you got him back into hockey? He’ll want to join a league, and”
“I get it. I won’t do it. I promise.”
She nodded. “Thanks. Luke can be very convincing. During his good spells, I’ve believed he was better. He wants to be better so badly, and I wish he could be, but”
Her voice broke and she looked away.
“I know,” I said softly.
“It’s why he can’t keep a job, and I think it’s why he turned to drugs and alcohol in the past. He needed a way to cope with the pain.”
She didn’t want others to suffer like her brother. That was at the core of her opposition to hockey. She’d caught hell from hockey fans for her columns, but she’d meant well. I saw her in a different light. A clearer one.
