Page 82 of The New Guy
The world does a strange, slow blink. After a moment of quiet darkness, it flickers back into view. Like a glitch in the matrix. The first thing I see is O’Doul’s worried face above mine. “Hey, you with us?”
“Yeah.” The crowd is screaming. “What happened?”
“Trevi scored off the pass you fed him.” He puts out a hand, and I take it so he can haul me to my feet.
The stadium sways for a second, but then rights itself. I turn to look at the scoreboard, but before I can, Gavin arrives on the ice, his medical bag in tow. “Did you just black out?”
“Yeah,” O’Doul says, just as I say “No.”
“Which is it?” he demands.
“He was out for maybe a few seconds,” O’Doul says.
“What? I’m fine,” I insist, glancing toward the ref, who’s also watching me. “I didn’t get a penalty, did I?”
O’Doul laughs, but Gavin’s face turns stormy. He leans over and grabs something off the ice—my helmet—and brandishes it in front of me. I’m surprised to see that there’s a crack in it. “Your head hit the ice and youblacked out. On the bench, please.” He puts a hand on my arm.
I shake it off immediately. Like anybody would.
He gives me an angry glare and then jogs back to the bench, my helmet in his hands.
Coach is beckoning, too, so I quickly catch up. And I’m skating fine.
“Is he out?” Coach asks as we approach.
He means out of thegame, so I say no, at the same time that Gavin says yes.
“He blacked out for a few seconds,” Gavin says icily. “And the concussion protocol is very clear.”
Coach nods and then turns away from us, assembling his next shift of players as the whistle blows for a face-off.
I sit down heavily on the bench, and Gavin kneels in front of me, a pen light in his hands. “Look at me.”
With a sigh, I turn my tired eyes to his worried ones. He shines the light in a particular way—from the outside of my visual field inward—that’s supposed to make my pupils constrict. “Ow,” I grumble.
He doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he pulls out a card and a stopwatch. “You know the drill,” he says. “Andgo.”
There are numbers arranged in small print on the card. They track across several lines, and I read them off as quickly as I can.
Every athlete does baseline tests periodically. After a possible concussive fall, you repeat the test and they compare it to your baseline. If you’re within five seconds, a concussion is not indicated.
“How’d I do?” I demand, as Gavin looks up my baseline on his phone.
“Eh,” he says. “Four seconds.”
“Then put me back in. Jimbo!” I call over my shoulder to the equipment manager. “I need a helmet.”
“No you don’t,” Gavin hisses. “You need another test in a few minutes.”
“Come on, I’m fine. Ask me anything. I know we’re in Montreal. I know who’s president. Singing the Star Spangled Banner would be a challenge, but that’s my baseline. I could still beat you at ping-pong,” I add, because he needs to lighten up.
But it doesn’t work. His scowl could set things on fire. If I weren’t itching to get back into the game, I’d probably find it hot.
“I need to check your head for contusions,” he says stiffly. “Bend over.”
That’s what he said. I lean forward on the bench, but I’m gritting my teeth. Precious seconds are passing in the game, and I need to get back out there.
A skillful hand palpates the back of my head, and I try not to flinch when he finds the goose egg that’s forming.
