Page 68 of Body Check

The thought of leaving hockey, even for a short-term stint, has my chest tightening with pure panic.Who am I?The question won’t stop spiraling through my head.Without hockey, who am I? Without hockey, Who. Am. I?

“Can’t do that, Doc.” I drop my raised foot to the floor and set my elbows on the desk. “The season’s just beginning. My guys need me. Theteamneeds me.”

“Do they?” He only closes my file and then matches my pose, his forearms using my file as a prop. “The unfortunate truth is that everyone is replaceable, Captain. It’s how the game progresses, how the team grows into its next entity, whatever that might look like. Your brain, alternatively, isnotreplaceable. You break a leg, and a doctor will reset the bone. If there are any levels of Tau in your brain, a neuropathologist like myself will never even discover it until you’re dead and you’ve given your brain to science.Thatis the outcome of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.”

Christ.

I work my thumbs into my eye sockets, relieving the mounting pressure behind my lids. “It might be something else.”

“It might be, yes. As they say, we’ll hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

“And how, exactly, do you prepare for something you can’t fully diagnose without me being a corpse?”

“Various tests. None are conclusive, but in ruling out factors like post-concussion syndrome or a possible spinal injury, we can narrow our accuracy and determine if you are indeed displaying symptoms of CTE.” He watches me, eyes narrowed and certain. “I could give you a list of players more famous than you, Mr. Carter, who have walked through your shoes. They survived the transition from pro-athlete to civilian just fine. Not to mention, there’s a reason why when CTE was first introduced, it was known as the ‘punch-drunk syndrome.’ I assume you can put two and two together to determine why a disease like this one might gain a nickname like that.”

“I reckon I can.”

“Good. We’ll get you set up for a bone scan, just to rule out any possible spinal damage that’s gone undetected.”

“And the game?”

Dr. Mebowitz’s glasses slip down the bridge of his nose, and he stops their descent with a single finger. “My professional opinion goes unchanged. You have less to fear from full-fledged concussions than you do from smaller, more repetitive impacts to the head. When it comes to matters of the brain, I advise to quit any sport that’s putting you here in my office.” He pauses, then adds, “With that said, I’m fully aware that you pulled a complete disappearing act on me a year ago. Considering the timing of Fitzgerald nailing you two weeks ago and your sudden arrival for the appointment you stood me up for, I can only guess that should I lay down the law, you’ll do as you please anyway.”

For whatever reason, the disgruntled note in his voice makes me grin—despite all the sobering news that’s come my way in the last thirty minutes. I lean back in my chair. “Don’t tell me that you’ve been following my career now, Doc. It’ll go to my head. Next thing you’ll know you’ll be replacing that photo of Neely with one of my face. Just think of it now.”

“Your head,” he drawls with absolutely no humor in his expression, “is big enough on its own. I’ll have my receptionist call you tomorrow with your appointment schedule—bone scans, cognitive therapy, a SCAT3 . . . You’ll be a busy man, but I assume you don’t know what to do with downtime at any rate.”

Taking that as a dismissal, I haul ass off the chair and head for the door.

Ping!

Ping!

Ping-ping-ping!

“Did that missive of yours go through?” Dr. Mebowitz asks at my back.

“Whoever it is can wait. I just want to . . .” I glance back, meeting the doctor’s dark eyes. “I would prefer that none of this be related to the Blades yet.” I don’t bring upGetting Pucked, even though this has been my biggest fear with the show from day one. If the media finds out—if the hockey world discovers that the Beast of the Northeast might be taking a permanent hit—then my career might as well be over. And I’m not ready to hang up my skates, not yet.

“At least not until we know—well, not until we rule every possibility out,” I continue roughly. “This year is our year for the Cup, and headaches aside, I’ve never felt better.” He doesn’t look like he believes me, and my spine hardens. “We’re taking home the Cup, and I’m going to be on that ice with the rest of my team.”

Dr. Mebowitz only huffs softly. “Athletes and their God complexes.” He nods with a quick wave of his hand. “I’ll be in touch with the specifics, Mr. Carter. Shut the door on your way out.”

I do as he says, clicking the door shut behind me.

As I head for the elevators to bring me back to the outside world where topics like TBI and CTE and head trauma aren’t discussed like who’s-having-what-for-dinner, I pull my phone out of my pocket and steal a quick glance at the glass screen.

Oh, fuck.

Me: Sweetheart, there’s nothing I love more than cupping your tight ass and pressing you up against me.

Me: Sweetheart, there’s nothing I love more than cupping your tight ass and pressing you up against me.

Me: Sweetheart, there’s nothing I love more than cupping your tight ass and pressing you up against me.

Beaumont: Did Carter just say he wants to cup my tight ass?

Cain: **eating popcorn GIF**

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