Page 72 of Married As Puck
“Focus up,” Coach barks from the bench. “We’ve got two days to sharpen the edges before the big game.”
We run through passing drills, then speed sprints. My legs burn, lungs screaming for air, but it’s familiar pain. Comforting, in a twisted way. Keith skates by and smacks my stick with his own.
“Keep your head in it,” he says, grinning.
“Trying,” I mutter.
We move into scrimmage. I push harder, chasing the puck down the ice. Every stride feels heavier, like something invisible is dragging at me. My blade catches, just slightly, but enough to send a ripple of unease down my spine.
Jack’s voice echoes again.Careful out there. Ice can be dangerous.
I clench my jaw and shove it down, locking on the puck. If I play timid, he wins. I can’t let him win.
Keith calls out, “On your left!”
I glance up, ready to pass, when—
My skate clips something. Not the ice. Something else. A stick hooked just right at the wrong second.
I lurch forward, arms flailing, vision whipping sideways. The boards rush up fast, and then almost immediately, I hear acrack.
My head explodes in white. There are muffled sounds around me, and it feels like I’m underwater. The last thing I see is Jack skating backward, stick innocently up, that smug grin tugging at his mouth.
When I open my eyes and make a little sense of my surroundings, I’m lying on the bench, helmet off, Keith’s face hovering above me, pale and panicked.
“Cam. Hey. Stay with me, man. You hear me?”
My head throbs so hard I think it might split in two. “I’m fine,” I croak, though the word comes out broken.
“You’re not fine,” Keith snaps, looking over his shoulder. “Coach, we need an ambulance. Now.”
I try to sit up, but the world tilts viciously, and my stomach lurches. Keith presses a hand to my shoulder, keeping me down.
“Don’t move. Just—don’t. Help is on the way.”
The hospital lights that are blinding. I’m propped up in a bed, a dull ache pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat.
A doctor, mid-forties with sharp eyes, flips through my chart at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t bother sugarcoating.
“You’ve suffered a concussion,” he says flatly. “Not your first, according to your record.”
I swallow hard, throat dry. “So what does that mean? I’ll be fine by tomorrow?”
The doctor looks up, unimpressed. “Absolutely not. You’re lucky you didn’t black out longer. Another hit like this—” he taps the chart with his pen, “and you could be facing permanent damage. Cognitive, motor, even loss of basic coordination. Do you understand?”
My stomach sinks. “But… I can still play.”
“Hockey?” The doctor’s eyebrows shoot up. “You step back on that ice too soon, and you’re gambling with the rest of your life. If you get injured again, you may never play hockey again. Period.”
Keith is sitting in the corner, silent, but I can feel the anger rolling off him.
I grip the sheets. “You don’t get it. In two days, it’s the game. I can’t just sit it out.”
The doctor crosses his arms. “What I get is that you’re thirty-five with your entire future in front of you, and you’re willing to throw it away for one match. That’s reckless.”
“I’ve been training for this my whole life,” I snap. “You expect me to just walk away?”
The doctor leans in, his voice firm, eyes drilling into mine. “I expect you to decide whether you want to walk at all in ten years.”
