Page 1 of Player Misconduct
Chapter One
Kendall
Hockey.
One of the only sports where you sit close enough to hear bones break, where fans pay to watch car-accident-like injuries in real time, and where tall walls of plexiglass and nets ring the rink because a puck flying at slap-shot speed could knock the Chiclets out of a fan in the nosebleeds.
Somehow, Penelope Matthews—the Hawkeyes’ GM—recruited me out of the NFL to be team doctor for a sport where players don’t just show up; they skate out with the kind of pride you can feel in your bones.
It’s game three. We’re down 0–2 in the Western Conference playoffs. The boys have worked all year to get here. A loss tonight doesn’t mean we’re dead… but we’d be bleeding. And no amount of med school and a five-year fellowship can keep a team from hemorrhaging on the scoreboard. It’s up to them.
A win tonight and the city breathes again. Our guys sleep a little sounder.
I’m on the bench at the far end, shoulder to shoulder with the equipment guys and Theo, our athletic trainer, kit open at my feet: gloves, gauze, ammonia caps, extra mouth guards, stacks of blue nitriles. I’ve taped three wrists, glued one knuckle, and told a rookie he’s not dying—he just needs to spit the blood out before he swallows it and pukes on the spot.
The puck pops up near the boards in front of us. Scottie Easton, our right wing, snatches it and wheels through neutral. The crowd’s roar shifts—hopeful, hungry. I stand because I always stand when he hits the blue line; the way he leans into speed should be illegal.
The hit comes a breath after he crosses.
A defenseman meets him shoulder-to-chest and drives through. Textbook—and still vicious. The kind of hit that won’t go unspoken for. Scottie goes glass, then down, and the whole bench surges forward.
I hop the boards as soon as I’m sure I’m not going to set out in front of a player, my body moving on instinct and adrenaline, Theo on my heels, and Aleski Mäkelin skating full force towards us to build a force field to protect us from getting run over by players.
“I got you Doc,” Aleksi says… and I know I can trust that he does.
By the time I drop to my knees beside Scottie, the world has narrowed to the cold sting of ice shavings and someone in section 224 screeching, “Get up!”
Aleksi pointed his stick at the drunk fan as a warning to the fan in 224 to shut his mouth about his teammate or he’ll do it for him.
“You’re going to be fine, East.” Aleksi calls out of his shoulder, still standing guard as other players start to circle around us now to give us some privacy from fans without blocking out too much light.
“Hey, Scottie. It’s Kendall and Theo.” My gloved hand cups the back of his helmet as his eyes blink fast, unfocused. “Don’t try to sit up yet. Look at me.”
His pupils are big. Too big.
Theo’s already got the light out, flashing. We both know what this is and move in unison.
“What period?” I ask, steady.
He swallows. “First.”
“Good. Who are we playing?”
He blinks. Blinks again. “—Vegas? No. Sorry. Sorry.”
“Okay.” Calm is the job. Calm is the whole job. After a fellowship with the pro football team in Florida and then getting hired on as the team doctor for an additional two years, I know a concussion when I see one. In my first Hawkeyes season, I’ve seen more concussions than in my years in the NFL. “Follow my finger.” Left to right. His eyes lag to follow, just slightly, but enough.
“I can skate,” he mutters. “I’m fine, Doc, I can—”
He braces to move. Theo rests a palm to chest. “Easy, buddy. Doc’s making the call.”
Two of our players crouch low and close to us, waiting for my word.
“You’re not skating anywhere,” I say, firmer now. “We’re going to the tunnel and you’ve got a date with a quiet room. You know the drill.”
The crowd drops from roar to rumble, their patience and tone starting to shift. Someone pounds on the glass—three angry thumps. I don’t look up. This is the playoffs and Scottie is key, but my job isn’t to win the Cup. My job is to keep the players healthy.
He attempts to push up to his knees. His glove slips. Strong as a horse, stubborn as one too. I catch his shoulder pad and give him one second of gentle pressure. Just enough to remind him I’m not asking.
