Page 30 of Defensive Zone

On his thirteenth birthday, I bought him a set of Star Wars socks with my allowance. There were three pairs in the set, and I was so fucking happy with myself at finding them. He wore the Chewbacca pair for one of his state tournaments, and they won. From then on, they became part of his superstition, and he would only wear Chewbacca socks for his games. Of course, by the time the season ended, they were worn out and covered in holes, but he wouldn’t wear anything else. It brings a small smile to my face that sixteen years later, he still has the same tradition.

I’m just glad he buys a new pair at the start of each season.

I carefully slip the threadbare socks off his feet and stuff them into his skates, knowing that if anything was to happen to his socks, he would be really upset.

Once we get to the hospital, I follow close behind, not wanting to get in the way but not wanting to be too far from Zach either. I’m pleased when they take him straight through to a private room where the nurses and doctor are waiting to begin the job of taking all his hockey gear off. For some bizarre reason, people like to take photos of athletes, regardless of the fact they’re in a hospital. I don’t understand it.

“So bright,” he groans, squinting his eyes.

“Should I turn off the light?” I ask, pointing to the light switch like an idiot.

“You can dim them.” One of the nurses nods.

“Better?” I ask Zach once I’ve dimmed them, making sure there’s enough light that the staff can keep working.

His words come out slurred. “Yeah. Why was the sun in here?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I dunno, but it’s gone now.”

They roll him slightly onto his side to remove his chest pads, and the small movement causes him to throw up.

I stand out of the way while the nurses do what they do best. Thankfully, they took off his gear before he was sick, so the equipment is clean when they put it in a bag and hand it to me. I put it in the corner of the room where I already stashed his skates. Not that he can use it again, but I don’t know whether the Thunder’s equipment manager, Jordan, has a process for dealing with damaged or broken equipment.

They dress him in a hospital gown as he continues to slur his words as he talks. His blue eyes are dazed, unable to focus on anything.

“The doctor will be in shortly.” The nurse, whose name badge reads Beth, smiles. “You can be with him, you don’t have to stay in the corner.”

I let out a nervous laugh and rub the back of my neck. “Oh, okay.”

Zach’s face lights up in a lazy smile when I reach the top of his bed. Taking his hand in mine, I give it a gentle squeeze, relieved when he squeezes it back.

“Where am I?” he asks.

“You’re in the hospital. You took a nasty hit in the second period, but you’ll be okay.” I can’t stop myself. I lift my hand and card my fingers through the dark strands, pushing them off his face.

He closes his eyes and hums, so I do it again, hoping that it brings him a tiny bit of relief.

“Have I been here long?”

“No, ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops.”

“’Kay.”

It’s silent apart from the beeping of the machine he’s hooked up to and the noises from outside his room.

“Carter?” he rasps.

“Yeah?”

“What am I doing here?”

My heart falls.

One of my teammates had post-traumatic amnesia after he suffered a concussion two seasons ago. He couldn’t remember anything up to the incident. His earliest memory happened three days prior, and it took two weeks for it to come back, but even then, there were still patches where he couldn’t remember anything, including the hit that caused him to be concussed.

Closing my eyes, knowing we’ll be having the same conversation for a little while, I open them and tell him again,and this time he gives my hand a small squeeze along with his slurred “’Kay.”

Even though it’s only been a couple of minutes, it feels like an eternity has passed when a doctor finally comes into the room with a clipboard in hand.

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