Page 3 of Cheap Shot
Another concussion. Fuck me.
I keep my eyes clamped shut, waiting for the pain to ease as I inhale deeply. The smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils, further confirming that I am, in fact, in the hospital. As if the overhead fluorescent lights and the soft beeping to my left weren’t enough of a clue.
Hospitals are no fun any day, and this isn’t my first concussion this season. In fact, if I remember correctly, it’s my fourth. I enjoy having normal brain functions, but the last thing I need right now is extended time off the ice. This will give management the perfect excuse they’ve been looking for to get rid of me.
I slowly open my eyes, wincing slightly at the bright overhead lights as I try to remember what happened after I lost the game. Slowly, memories from what happened filter through my mind. That motherfucker Leon sucker punched me on the side of the head. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that’s the cause of my concussion and the reason for my being here.
Not only did I get my clock rocked by my teammate, but I must have blacked out. I can’t remember anything after being sucker punched. I try harder to focus on what happened, but all this damn thinking is just making the pain in my head almost unbearable. Either way, it won’t change anything.
I try to lift my head off the bed to get a good look at my surroundings, but immediately regret that decision. My stomach rolls as bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. My eyes clench tightly shut as I inhale deeply through my nose before letting it out slowly, willing my body to keep the contents of my stomach inside my body.
I will not puke. I will not puke. I will not puke.
After a few minutes, my stomach settles. Instead of lifting my head, I turn it slowly to the side. My eyes take a moment to adjust, but I notice the last person I want to see right now. Cooper. His attention is focused out the window, his eyebrows pulled down in worry about something. Not about me. Never about anyone besides himself.
Looking at my oldest brother is like looking in a mirror, and I fucking hate it. Not only am I compared to him on the ice, but I have to see him staring back at me every time I look in the mirror. Too bad we aren’t anything alike. My hair is slightly darker than his, but we have matching scars above our left eyebrows from when we tried and failed to teach Kyle how to pull off the perfect slap shot. Instead of brown eyes like our mother, I have hazel colored eyes like our father. Either way, he looks like shit. I doubt he even showered since coming here from the arena after the game.
My eyes scan him, looking for any part of his body that I can find lacking. Not inthatkind of way. He’s my brother, for Christ’s sake, but I know deep in my soul that I’m not a better hockey player than him, but maybe there’s something else. Cooper bows his head, and I notice his lips moving slightly, as if he’s praying, and a woman's slender golden-brown arm slides across his shoulder, pulling him toward her.
My focus was solely on my brother, so I didn’t notice there was anyone else in the room besides him. Cooper drops his forehead onto her stomach, burying his nose into her skin as he slides forward in the seat, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him between his legs. She doesn’t say a word, just runs her fingers through his hair, staring down at him, her face full of concern.
I know I’ve seen her in pictures with Cooper over the last few months, but I can’t seem to put a name to the face. She can’t be much taller than 5’4”, if that. Her hair hangs around her shoulders, twisted into long locks that look more like braids. There are golden clasps affixed to a few of them, placed strategically throughout her hair to draw in someone’s attention. I should probably look away, but I can’t stop my eyes from continuing their way down her body. Her compact form is engulfed in an oversized green-and-white flannel shirt with a white top beneath it, hanging loosely around her hips. She’s wearing tight-fitted blue jeans, tucked into brown knee-high riding boots.
I can’t help but feel like I know her from somewhere, but I can’t seem to put my finger on it. Maybe she’s someone we went to high school with? I know Cooper was coaching a peewee hockey team back in Redwood Falls while rehabbing his knee. Probably nothing more than a publicity stunt to bring in more money to the franchise, but Momma was happier than a pig in shit to have him home more. Could she be one of his players' parents? No, that’s not possible. Cooper would never fall for a player's mother. He’s way too by the book for that. I narrow my eyes, trying to place the woman, but still come up empty. This is making my head hurt.
Neither one of them says a word as Cooper melts into her embrace, his entire body relaxing at her calming touch. I want to ask them what they’re doing here, but I know the answer. Cooper wants to lecture me, give me pointers on how he would’ve done things if he were in the position of scoring the winning goal that would send his team to the Stanley Cup Championship. Too bad for them, that's the last thing I want to hear.
I got in a little kerfuffle on the ice with Leon, and we lost the game, but that doesn’t warrant either of them standing vigil over me. There isn’t a damn thing Cooper or anyone else can do to change the outcome of the game. He should be out celebrating with his team, not staring out the window of my hospital room with fake concern. I have a concussion and can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years. Cooper’s concern for my well-being is a little too late in my mind.
Just as I open my mouth to ask Cooper why he’s here, a loud pinging noise fills the room, causing me to wince. Sound sensitivity is a damn bitch when you have a concussion. The woman pulls a cell phone out of her pocket, swiping to open it before staring down at something on the screen. Her calm face quickly turns into one of pure horror as she flicks her eyes toward Cooper before looking down at the phone a second time.
“Show me,” Cooper whispers, his forehead still resting against her stomach.
“I don’t think this is—” she begins to respond, but he cuts her off, releasing his hold around her waist and holding out his hand.
“Whether it’s right now or later, either way, I’m going to see it.”
The woman’s eyes shift back and forth between Cooper’s face and the phone before sighing heavily. “Are you going to remain calm?”
“I can’t promise you that, but I’ll try.”
She looks at him for a few moments before handing over the phone. Cooper stares down at the screen. His eyes quickly scan the screen before throwing it across the room. It crashes against something to my right before shattering and smashing to the floor. I try to turn my head toward the noise, but the blinding paint halts my movements. Okay, maybe this isn’t the run-of-the-mill concussion I thought it was. This. Is. Not. Good. Not good at all.
The woman reaches for Cooper, but he waves her off, her arms dropping to her side as she takes a step back. “Take a deep breath, Cooper. The last thing Cole needs when he wakes up is you on a rampage.”
“If he ever wakes up.”
“Don’t talk like that,” she snaps at him, her annoyance with his doom-and-gloom attitude in his voice. “The doctors said Cole will be fine, but he has a long road ahead of him to recover.”
Recovery?What the hell happened after Leon knocked me out? I’m pretty sure I blacked out since I can’t remember much of anything after being punched, but I’m not the first person who's been sucker punched on the ice and lost consciousness, and I probably won’t be the last. Maybe I should be a little more concerned about what happened than I originally thought. My stomach turns, threatening to empty its contents on the nearest surface again. Nope. Not fucking happening.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
“Is Cooper spiraling again?” The familiar sound of Alise’s voice reaches my ears, and I slowly turn my head forward.
After blinking a few times, Alise comes into view. Her once-long, curly hair is styled in a large afro. Not the style I would’ve picked for her, but I dig it. Not that I’ll ever tell her that. She has on her favorite accessory, a pair of Beats headphones around her neck that she uses to block out the world, a grey oversized sweatshirt, and a pair of black leggings that disappear into a pair of brown boots with grayish-colored fur surrounding her calf.
There are more than enough sounds in the hospital, beeping machines and voices filling the air, that carry the potential of triggering her sensory issues. Ever since we were kids, we knew Alise had sensory processing disorder, or SPD for short, meaning she has a hard time processing things that are going on around her—smells, sounds, and sometimes even textures. My brothers and I always thought she’d grow out of it when she was older, but the headphones hanging around her neck is an indicator she hasn’t. Either way, I have a feeling that nothing has changed with Alise. She is who she is, and Alise has never once apologized for it to anyone, and I, for one, wouldn’t have her any other way.
