Page 2 of Player Misconduct
His mouth twists. “You’re pulling me, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m pulling you.”
Two of our other players: Wolf Ziegler, our defensive player, and Slade Matthews, our center and captain, flank him under the arms, and as they help him up, he throws me a look that says every awful thing this means to him: Not tonight, not like this. It lands low, a bruise under my ribs. I tuck it away.
Boards, gate, the tight chute of the tunnel. A few drunk fans boo me; two of our guys on the bench bark something protective and unsavory back on my behalf.
I’m not always loved by fans. Sometimes not by players either. They work their whole lives for this moment, and I’m the one who sometimes ends their night early.
It’s not a choice I make lightly. But at the end of the day, as the doctor of this team, it is my choice—and Theo and I are the only two qualified to make it.
The arena noise slams the back of my skull when the door shuts, leaving only rubber under skates and Scottie’s swearing while Slade gives him the best consolation pep talk he can muster.
The quiet room is small, bright, and as sterile feeling as you’d expect for a medical space in the belly of a locker room stadium.
Everything starts moving like clockwork. Like Theo and I have done this more than a dozen times… because we have.
Helmet off.
Orientation.
Symptoms.
Theo tries to use humor to lighten the mood between the three of us, but it fails both times.
“I know,” Scottie says when I shine the light again. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“Then say it to me.”
Head tipped back, eyes closed. “I’m out.”
“You’re out,” I confirm. “Tonight.”
His jaw flexes. “What about the road game?”
“We’ll see how you feel tomorrow,” I say, gentle but immovable. “Right now we’re not there.”
A knock. An assistant coach peeks in with the face I’ve learned to hate. “Dr. Hensen—uh—they just want to know.”
“I’ll tell the bench.” I respond. Then I turn to Scottie: “You’re staying put. I’ll grab a towel and a bottle. Head back, eyes closed, slow breaths. You don’t do anyone any favors pretending this is less than it is.”
His mouth twitches. “You gonna tell my mom?”
At least the humor’s alive. I chuckle. “If you don’t, I will.”
Back on the bench, the guys are tight and keen—the kind of angry that focuses you. I lean between coaches and say the words no one wants to hear. Coach Haynes’s head dips, and then he nods as if he was expecting this but was hopeful I would come back with better news. I wish I were coming back with better news, too.
The next line is already over the boards, and the hitter is back on the ice. Wolf bee-lines and plants him into the plexi. The ref’s whistle shrieks. Wolf skates to the box with a satisfied grin; Coach Haynes slams his clipboard.
As if we needed our best left-side D serving time for retaliation. But trying to reason with Ziegler, who’s as close toa provoked, angry hornet’s nest when an opposing team messes with one of his teammates–is impossible.
We take a penalty that feels like it lasts an hour. JP Dumont, our goalie, robs a sure goal with a toe save I’ll see in my dreams. A defenseman eats a slap shot in the sacrum and pops up anyway.
Between whistles, I tape a finger, refill a mouth-guard tub with ice, one eye on the clock, one on the players. You learn your team like a set of vitals. Every time #8, Aleksi Mäkelin, loops past our side, he cuts a glance to me—quick, yet warm, like checking on me is as reflexive as lining up for the draw. It’s ridiculous, kind of sweet, and also… not the sort of distraction I need as the team doctor, considering players are off limits. Which is just as well.
“Hydrate,” I say to Aleksi when he’s close enough.
It’s neutral–Both clinical and safe. Not to mention that I say it to everyone so there’s no concern that it sounds like favoritism. I say it to him like it isn’t a tell.
