Page 19 of Player Misconduct
“He passed away?” I ask gently. I know a little about this too, but only that he passed away before Aleksi came to the states.
“Yeah.” He exhales. “Right before I made the international team. We never got to celebrate together. He spent half his life getting me there, and then he was gone before the payoff.”
“I’m sure he sees it,” I whisper. “He’s watching. And I bet he’s proud of you.”
He swallows hard and I can tell he’s trying to keep his emotions in check. “I hope so. He was my best friend.”
Our hands are still linked. His thumb brushes once more across my knuckles, slower this time, as if he’s memorizing the texture of comfort. I don’t move away.
Then he clears his throat, the smile tugging back into place—his escape hatch. Happy go-lucky Aleksi is back. “Okay, my turn. Why the NHL? And what’s with the no-player rule?”
I blink. “Wow, going straight for the jugular on this one, aren't you? It’s almost as if you planned it.” I tease.
“You had full license to ask anything you wanted. Now I get the same question.”
He’s still smiling, but there’s curiosity beneath it–genuine interest.
I swirl what’s left of my champagne, watching bubbles break against the rim. “I left the NFL after it became too toxic following my divorce. And my no-player rule has a lot to do with my ex-husband, and the fact that I’ve seen what happens when doctors get too close to the people they treat. Lines blur, then ethics blur. I told myself I’d never let it happen again.”
“Again?” he echoes quietly.
Before I can dive into the hell of the medical board audit, the investigation into my love life, and the ugly divorce that wrecked my finances worse than anything since I escaped my mother’s home after high school, a loud commotion erupts in the back of the plane.
We’ve been in the air for maybe forty minutes when we hear a stewardess call over the intercom. Not the scripted safety voice. This one is hurried yet trying to keep calm. “If there is a medical professional on board, please press your call button.”
My body is up before my brain finishes the sentence. Muscle memory. I unclip, press the button, and Aleksi is already shifting to let me into the aisle. The attendant hustles up, face pale under the perfect makeup.
“Row twenty-three,” she says. “He just… collapsed.”
Behind me, a different call button pings. A white-haired man in a comfortable sport coat is already standing. He’s got ER written all over his posture. A calm triage wrapped in retirement if I’ve ever seen it. “I’m a physician,” he says simply. “Emergency medicine, twenty-five years.”
I could hug him. “Kendall, sports med,” I offer as we move. “I’ll follow your lead.” I tell him and let him stride quickly in front of me.
“John,” he says simply back to me. “Tell me what happened, everything…” he tells the stewardess as we follow behind her.
She gives a quick recap but before she can get much detail out, we see the man laid out in the aisle.
We reach the back third of the cabin, where the usual economy rustle has turned to a circle of alarm. The man is in his mid-fifties, pale in that waxy way I hate. His wife is kneeling, clutching his hand. “Steve? Steve, honey?” Her voice is controlled panic.
“Okay,” the ER doctor says, dropping to his knees with more grace than his age suggests. “I’m John and this is Kendall. We’redoctors. We’re going to help him. His name is Steve?” He asks his wife. She nods and then he looks at me, and the baton passes in a glance. “Airway, breathing,” he says. “You take vitals.”
I’m already kneeling. No gloves–no time. I slide my fingers to his throat and start calling out what I know so John can get instant information as soon as I have it. “His pulse is there but it’s too fast. Respirations are shallow.” I take a look at his hands and face. “Skin… clammy.” I clock the sheen of sweat on his temple and the chill of his fingers.
“Steve? Can you hear me?” John says, voice pitched to calm. He opens one eyelid with gentle fingers. The pupils react, sluggish. “Steve, can you squeeze Kendall’s hand?”
I reach from Steve’s hand and John’s eyes are on me, waiting for my reaction. There’s a ghost of pressure. “Good. But not good enough.”
“Any medical conditions?” I ask his wife.
“High blood pressure,” she whispers. “And… and he was sick last week. Stomach. We thought it was food poisoning. He was better and then today…he… said he felt hot.” She stutters with the words as if trying to remember it right.
“Any travel?” John asks, eyes never leaving Stevel’s face. “International? Hospitals? Farms?” I’m trying to think on the fly from my medical rounds back before my life in sports medicine. What could this be, but nothing is coming straight to mind.
“We just came back from West Africa to visit the bat conservation. Steve has studied them all his life but this was the first time he’s gotten to travel to the conservation.
“Bats?” He asks, with a raised brow as if this is the most important question he could ever ask. “Did he have any contact with them?”
“Umm…” she shakes her head as if trying to remember. “Not direct contact but this was his birthday present for his fiftiethbirthday and I splurged for a VIP experience into the cave for him.”
