Page 26 of On the Line
Late in the third period, San Jose was down by two and pulled their goalie for an extra skater. Three possessions in a row, one of the Knights’ forwards iced the puck, which meant Mitch had been on the ice for nearly two minutes and counting. He was in the best shape of his life, no small task for being thirty-four years old, but he could only endure so much. At that moment, his lungs were burning, quads shaking with each glide of his skates. He was on the far side, away from the circle where the next face-off took place and closer to the San Jose bench. Cally won the draw, but a Wolves’ player quickly stole it. Shortly after, Gabe intercepted a tic-tac-toe pass between three of the Wolves’ players, and Mitch saw an opening for an easy empty net goal.
Despite the fact that he was completely gassed, he turned on the jets, using every last bit of strength he could possibly muster, skating hard and fast through the neutral zone as Gabe and Cally skated up ice with him, defended by two Wolves’ players. The three made crisp passes back and forth, trying to keep the Wolves guessing. Once they passed through the neutral zone, Huntley chipped the puck at the San Jose net, where it sailed just wide. Mitch followed it into the corner, angling himself sideways to slow his momentum so he could make a quick turn toward the net.
He had nearly reached the puck when a stick slammed into his ankles, sending him sprawling at an awkward angle into the boards.
Hard.
His final thought before everything went black was,I guess this is why I had a bad feeling about tonight.
Mitch regained consciousness as he was being loaded onto a stretcher. A cervical collar immobilized his neck, arms and legs strapped tightly to a backboard to restrict his movement.
“How bad is it?” He asked the paramedic nearest his head, his voice rough and cracking.
“We won’t know exactly until you’ve had some x-rays and more tests run at the hospital,” the kid said and reached down to hold Mitch’s left eyelid open while tracking the responsiveness of his pupils with a penlight. He repeated the process on the right. “The fact that you’re awake and coherent is a good sign. For your brain anyway.”
For your brain anyway.
That statement led Mitch to believe they weren’t particularly concerned with his brain health at the moment.
“Mitch, can you feel this?” Another voice—this one female—asked. Without being able to move his head, he couldn’t be sure, but he guessed the woman was standing at his feet.
“Feel what?” He asked.
Mitch knew that was the wrong answer when he watched the paramedic in his line of sight share a deeply concerning look with whoever was out of it.
“Look,” Mitch said, voice surprisingly steady despite the panic building in his chest. “I know we won’t have the whole picture until I get x-rays and all that other shit done. But tell me, what do you think happened?”
“From the angle of the hit and the fact that you can’t feel Vanessa pinching your big toe right now…”
“Just tell me.”
“I’m no doctor,” the paramedic said. “But I’d guess a lower spinal fracture. Most likely lumbar region.”
A spinal fracture?
Fuck.
He couldn’t feel his feet; that much was clear. This prompted him to take inventory of the rest of his body. He knew he had legs, with kneecaps and bones, and a dick that hung between them, but they may as well have been gone. He shifted his upper body as much as he could on the stretcher and heaved a massive sigh of relief when his abs constricted, the straps biting into his arms through his jersey. He also knew every uncomfortable place where the cervical collar dug into his shoulders, collarbones, the back of his head, and his chin.
It seemed the paramedic was correct: Mitch currently had no feeling below his waist. Some sort of trauma had occurred to his spine.
Would he ever…
No.
He wasn’t going there. Not yet. He was going to let these kind paramedics take him to the hospital, get all of the necessary tests run, then consult the best orthopedic surgeon this state, hell, this country, had to offer until he got the feeling back in his legs.
In his years as a professional athlete, Mitch had spent time with all manner of people suffering from all diseases and injuries imaginable. He knew from those interactions that the mind was powerful, and attitude was everything. He’d had minor setbacks before in his career, and the absolute belief that he would rehabilitate and find his way back onto the ice, come hell or high water, was always a given.
He was a hockey player, damnit. They didn’t make athletes any tougher than that. Physical and mental toughness were part of the job description and an intrinsic piece of his genetic makeup.
Hewouldwalk, and hewouldskate again.
Anything less was unacceptable.
The next several hours passed in a blur of beeping, buzzing, clanking machines, needles poking him, and nurses and doctors prodding at him, asking him thousands of questions about his lifestyle, injury history, and drug and alcohol habits.
Exasperated, Mitch finally yelled, “I am a professional athlete, not a fucking junkie! Will someone please tell me what the fuck is wrong with my legs?”
