Page 83 of The New Guy
The crowd makes a loud noise, and I yank my head back up so I can see what’s going on. Montreal has the puck and they’re making trouble for my teammates. “This is stupid. Send me back out.”
“No way,” Gavin grunts, and my heart sags.
“Why?” I growl. “You can see I’m fine. This is bullshit. Henry would put me back in.”
“That’s low,” Gavin growls. There’s fury in his eyes. “Read the numbers on the next card, please. I’m not abandoning the concussion protocol just because you’ve got something to prove.”
“Well fuck you very much,” I insist, moving the card out of my field of vision.
“Jesus.” Trevi says from beside me. “Stop being an asshole and let the man do his job.”
But Gavin has already shoved the card back inside his pack. And he’s hustling around the end of the bench.
For one ugly second I think he’s going to haul Coach over here to yell at me. But no—Crikey’s bleeding again and Gavin is pulling on his gloves so he can tend to the cut.
The clock is winding down toward full time, and I can’t believe I’m going to have to sit on this bench and watch my teammates go into overtime without me.
And I’ve never seen Gavin so angry. That’s my fault, too.
I could burn the whole world down right now. Just hand me a match.
Just as I’m taking another mental tour through all of my flaws, Castro gets a breakaway, flies past the unlucky defenders and flips the puck into the upper right-hand corner of the net.
We won. We clinched it. We’re going to the playoffs.
And still I feel an ugly darkness inside me that just won’t fade.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gavin
Somehow the gameends with Brooklyn up one point. But I couldn’t tell you how we got there. I do my job on autopilot. In the dressing room I cut tape off limbs and massage muscles. I make notes on charts, and I dab antiseptic ointment onto Crikey’s face.
Then I stand over a sheepish Hudson while he reads off another concussion card.
The whole time, I’m burning up with fury. It’s the kind of anger that feels like fuel. All I have to do is picture his unconscious body on the ice, and I want to burn the whole building down.
And there he sits, reading numbers off a card like everything is fine. At least his score improves, even in a loud, crowded dressing room, while a reporter interviews O’Doul about two feet away.
“Did I do okay?” he asks, looking up, his eyes full of questions.
“Only three seconds off your baseline,” I say through clenched teeth. “But you’re still getting a full workup tomorrow in Brooklyn.”
“Yeah, okay?” he says, searching my face.
I turn away from him and march back over to my station.
Hudsonprobablydoes not have a concussion. These field tests can correctly predict concussion in ninety-two percent of cases.
Knowing that doesn’t really help, though. I pack up my stuff with jerky, angry movements. I can’t wait to leave this place behind.
Tonight was the perfect storm—with me on duty, and Hudson injured. I’d never pulled a player out of a game before, and it had to be him?
Fuck my life. This is why I should never have gotten involved with him. If management knew…
I shudder.
* * *
