Page 3 of Power Play

That can’t be good.

About twenty minutes later, a short, stout man walks into the room.

“Hello, hello, hello,” he says in a sing-song voice that makes my head hurt even worse. He stands at the foot of my bed and pushes his glasses up on his nose. “I’m Dr. Bratstein,” he says with a warm smile that I don’t have in me to return. “I’m a neurologist here at Spokane General.”

“Hi,” I say. My voice is raspy. The clock on the wall says it’s 5:30, which means it’s been over ten hours since the game and over twelve since I’ve eaten anything. But I can’t even fathom eating something right now. The thought alone makes me want to throw up.

“You took quite the hit last night, huh?” he says with another odd smile. I just nod. “Well, while you were out, we ran a whole lot of tests. We’re waiting on the results of your CT scan right now. You also had an MRI and some X-rays done. No breaks or fractures, but you did sustain a pretty serious concussion. Still have a headache?” I nod. “The ringing in your ears? Nausea?” I nod again. He sighs. “From what I understand in speaking with the team physician, this is your fifth concussion in ten years.”

I nod again slowly. He sighs and rubs his temples.

“Mr. Buck, all concussions are serious, but this one was a doozy. We can tell from the initial scans that you suffered actual brain damage. Now, the NHL has its own concussion protocol that you’ll have to follow in order to get back on the ice. But it’s my recommendation that you consider, uh…consider refraining from play.”

My eyes widen as much as they can without my head feeling like it’s going to explode.

“Refraining from play?” I ask. “For how long?”

He sighs again, clasping his hands in front of his belly.

“Mr. Buck, the concussions you’ve suffered over the last years, including this one, have altered and injured your brain. Permanent damage. Another one could be…catastrophic. I really hate that I have to be the one to make this suggestion—Lord knows I love watching you play—but as your physician—and a fan—I can’t not make this recommendation. We will bring you some paperwork on some neurologists you can see in the meantime once you are discharged, and we will recommend some physical therapists who specialize in concussions. At minimum, I’m recommending an eight-week suspension. We will test each week and may reevaluate sooner, depending on your residual symptoms.”

I stare up at the ceiling, my head moving a million miles per minute.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating.

Not in this bed, not in this room. But in this city. In this state. I need to get out.

“Doc, can I fly?” I ask.

He tilts his head, giving me a peculiar look.

“Am I…cleared to fly? In a plane?” I ask again. He nods slowly.

“Yes. I’d recommend giving it at least forty-eight hours, but then you should be okay to fly.”

I nod.

I need to go home.

CHAPTERTWO

lo

“Got a new menu item for ya,”Gary says as he walks around to the back of the counter. I’m entering my table’s order into the computer.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask.

This happens at least once a month. Gary decides he wants to add something “fresh” and “new” to the menu. And then his wife, Linda, who runs the kitchen here at Fran’s, usually bitches at him for changing things up too much, and it’s off the table before it’s even on the menu. Gary’s father opened Fran’s Restaurant back in 1957. When his parents died, they left it to Gary, and he and Linda have been running it ever since. It’s a staple in Crooked Creek.

“This one’s gonna stick, too,” he says. I chuckle.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“No, really. Even Linda is excited about this one,” he says, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, waiting for my response. It’s Tuesday at lunch time, so it’s quiet, as usual. It’s busiest for Friday lunches and all through the weekend. That’s when I usually make my best tips.

Some might laugh at the idea of being a “career” waitress. And I’m not saying that’s what I want out of life. But working here at Fran’s has given me the cash flow I need to take care of myself and Harper. It lets me breathe a little bit. It’s mindless work. And Gary and Linda are good people.

And after the rush of the last four years, I could use a little oxygen.

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