Page 2 of Playoff

He’s right, so I stop struggling to get up, twisting my head instead, to get a feel for the damage.

People are yelling, talking, calling out for help.

“It looks like we’re on a flat surface,” Coach Vanek says finally, squinting into the darkness. “I think it’s safe to move—but slowly.”

I nod, sliding off his lap and finding my footing.

People are everywhere, almost no one in their original seats.

“Everyone okay?” I yell out.

“Rowan—over here,” Gene calls to me. He’s bending over Ivan Rochenko, one of our forwards, and I see a lot of blood.

“Shit.” I hurry in that direction. Gene is holding his jacket over a deep gash in Ivan’s temple. “Let me see if I can find the first aid kit.” It’s actually a first aid duffle bag, because Gene is a little anal about having it with him at all times when we travel.

Thank goodness for Gene’s quirks, because the bag was up in the cubby above his seat instead of in the bus bay with everyone else’s luggage, and it’s still lodged in there.

“I got it.” Connor Brooks, a nineteen-year-old rookie on the team, reaches over my head.

“You okay, Connor?” I ask, putting a hand on his forearm.

He nods. “Yeah. I was asleep. Woke my ass up in a hurry.” He pulls down Gene’s duffel and I grab it, yanking it open and pulling out some gauze.

“I smell gas,” someone yells.

“We need to get off the bus!” The driver is pushing at the door, which is luckily on top and not beneath us.

“I’ve got you.” Gabe runs over, along with Connor, and the two of them get the door open.

“Rowan.” Jensen Bang, a defenseman on the team, calls to me quietly. “I think my arm’s broken.”

“Can you move it?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Blood? Bone?”

Another shake. “Nothing like that. Just hurts and I can’t move it.”

“Sit tight,” I tell him. “Don’t aggravate it until we’re ready to get you out of here.”

I’m momentarily overwhelmed. There’s a lot going on, and I’m hoping none of the injuries are life-threatening.

“Is anyone unconscious?” I yell out. “Look around, the people who were sitting near you…anyone not moving?”

“Over here!” Canyon Marks is one of the top players on the team, and he’s leaning over Marty Nadeau, who’s slumped over, motionless. “I think he hit his head.”

“Fuck.” I bend over, looking for a pulse, gratified to find one. “He’s breathing, but he’s got a head wound. Can you hold this on it?” I hand Canyon more gauze, and he nods.

“Everyone who’s not hurt needs to climb out and then help everyone else,” Coach Vanek yells. He’s moving toward the exit. He ditches his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt, all business.

“Gene, they’re going to need you out there,” I say. “You go on, and I’ll take care of the guys in here until it’s time.”

Gene’s a little pale, but he nods and I don’t have time to worry about him. “On it.”

“Ivan.” I press the wound firmly with one hand, digging around the duffel for smelling salts. I find one of the packets, tear it open with my teeth, and then hold it under Ivan’s nose. Luckily, it does the trick and his eyes flutter open.

“Wha—” He starts to sit up, but I gently push him back down.

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