Page 7 of Must Love Hockey
“Go ahead,” I say gently. “It’s probably quieter back there.” I give her a wink.
“Bye,” she whispers, and then steps through the open gate, which clicks shut behind her.
The ass behind the desk flips the clipboard to the other man, whose name tag readsDr. Agarwal. He catches it one handed. Then he gives Emily a quiet smile and beckons her toward the corridor beyond. So at least one person who works here isn’t going to try to intimidate her.
Emily turns around one last time and waves at me. “Bye,” she mouths. “Thank you.”
I wave back. She disappears, and I realize too late that I didn’t even get her phone number.
THREE
DID YOU GET ANY AUTOGRAPHS?
Emily
I feel so strange walking away from James. This has been one of the scariest nights of my life, and he was the only thing standing between me and a nervous breakdown.
Dr. Agarwal leads me to a bench in the hallway. “Sit here a second,” he says. “I heard you describing your symptoms at the front desk. Would you describe the sensation in your throat as more of an itch or a burn?”
“Definitely an itch.”
“And the person who gave you the shot of Epi is someone with a food allergy?”
“Yes. He took one look at me and told the doctor on the phone that it looked exactly like an allergic reaction.”
“This friend—has he seen many allergic reactions? And this doctor was…?”
“Um…” I don’t know how I’m going to explain this. “Are you a Brooklyn hockey fan?”
The doctor blinks. “Sort of? I watched them win the Cup.”
“The rookie center—Wilson? He’s the guy who gave me his EpiStick. I was outside the stadium at the loading dock when I started to feel so sick. And their equipment manager brought me in. They got the team doctor on the phone.”
Dr. Agarwal laughs. “Well, that’s a story you’ll be telling for a while. Did you get any autographs?”
I shake my head. “Too busy freaking out.”
“Okay. Do you have any idea what caused it?” Dr. Agarwal asks. “How much time passed between the last thing you ate and the onset of your symptoms?”
“Lots of time,” I say. “We ate during the first period, and the hockey game was ending when I first felt my palms itch. And this has never happened to me before.”
“What did you eat during the first period?”
“A barbecued brisket hoagie, fries, ketchup, a pickle. And a Coke. Regular, not diet.”
“Alcohol?”
I shake my head. “It’s a school night.”
He taps his pen against his lip and then starts scribbling on his prescription pad. “First thing tomorrow morning, you call an allergist—here’s two names. Make an appointment to be tested. We can’t test you in the ER. You need to figure this out, okay? And you’re going to fill this prescription for another EpiStick.” He flips the page and writes some more. “These are pricey, but you need to carry it with you until you see the allergist.”
“Okay? Sure. And what happens now?”
“Well…” He hesitates. “The protocol is for me to check your vitals and sit you down somewhere for three hours to make sure you don't experience any labored breathing or a return of your symptoms. But I'll make a deal with you.”
“What's that?” God, I want to go home.
“I can tell from looking at you that the epinephrine worked. You're not in the midst of an allergic crisis. So, if you take a seat in the waiting room—or the cafeteria—for three hours, I'll come and check on you at…” He looks at his watch. “Three a.m. And if you're still doing well, I'll send you on your way. But you won’t be logged as a patient. If you’re still smiling in three hours, you can just tear this up.” He takes my paperwork off the clipboard and hands it to me.
