Page 107 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

He drives wide, drawing the defenseman with him, then drops a no-look pass into the slot where I'm charging. I one-time it, the puck leaving my stick before the goalie can set, finding the top corner where glove meets post.

The red light flashes, the horn blares, and my teammates mob me along the boards. 1-1, game tied, momentum shifting.

The remainder of the second period is a battle of wills, both teams exchanging chances but neither finding the go-ahead goal. As we head to the locker room for the second intermission, there's a renewed energy among our group. We're in this. We can win this.

Coach's intermission speech is brief and to the point. "Twenty minutes. Everything we've worked for all season comes down to these twenty minutes. Who wants it more?"

The third period begins at a frenetic pace, both teams pushing for the advantage. Five minutes in, we're cycling the puck in Northeastern's zone when I spot a seam—a passing lane to Miller at the far post for what would be a tap-in goal.

I thread the needle, the puck sliding through sticks and skates, right onto Miller's tape. He redirects it toward the open net, a sure goal—until their defenseman dives across, blocking it with his shaft, sending it out of play.

Frustration mounting, I battle harder on my next shift, winning a puck along the boards through sheer determination. As I turn to make a play, I spot Northeastern's captain bearing down on me. I brace for the hit, but at the last moment, he raises his stick, catching me directly in the face.

There's a white flash of pain, and then nothing.

I wake up flat on my back, the bright lights of the arena ceiling swimming above me. Voices filter through the fog—our trainer, the ref, my teammates. My face throbs, a wet warmth spreading down my cheek that I vaguely recognize as blood.

"Don't move," our trainer says, kneeling beside me. "Follow my finger."

I track his finger with my eyes as he moves it side to side, up and down. My vision is blurry on the left side, but I can see.

"Any dizziness? Nausea?"

"No," I manage, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears.

"Let's get you to the bench."

With help from Miller and Rodriguez, I make it to the bench, where a more thorough assessment begins. The high-stick has opened a cut along my cheekbone, blood still flowing freely despite the towel pressed against it. My left eye is already swelling shut, and a headache pounds behind my temples.

"We need to get him to the medical room," our trainer tells Coach. "Possible concussion, definite facial laceration."

Coach nods grimly. "Can you walk?"

"I'm fine," I insist, though the arena spins slightly when I stand. "I can play."

"Not tonight, you can't," the trainer says firmly. "Protocol is protocol. Let's go."

The walk to the medical room passes in a blur of disjointed images—concerned faces of teammates, the hushed crowd, the ice stained with my blood being scraped away by an arena worker. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the announcement: five-minute major penalty to Northeastern. At least my team will get an extended power play out of my misfortune.

In the medical room, the assessment continues—vision tests, cognitive questions, the careful cleaning of the cut on my face. The good news: no concussion, no broken bones, no stitches needed. The bad news: I'm done for the night, the swelling around my eye making it too risky to return.

"Small consolation," the trainer says, "but that guy got tossed from the game. Match penalty for intent to injure."

I nod, barely processing his words. All I can think about is the ice I'm not on, the game I'm not playing, the scouts who came to see me only to watch me get carried off after a mediocre performance.

"Your team is still out there," he reminds me, misreading my silence. "They're up 2-1 with eight minutes left."

They scored on the power play. Good. But it should be me out there, helping to protect the lead, not sitting here with an ice pack pressed to my face like some invalid.

Time crawls as I listen to the muffled sounds of the game continuing without me—the crowd reactions telling the story I can't see. A roar suggests another goal, though for which team I can't tell. Minutes later, another eruption, this one unmistakably positive for our side. The final horn sounds, distant but clear, followed by thunderous cheering.

We won. Conference champions. Without me.

The trainer returns, grinning widely. "3-1 final. Your boys did it!"

I should feel elated. This is what we've worked for all season, the culmination of countless hours of practice, sacrifice, sweat. Instead, I feel hollow, disconnected from the celebration I can hear building in the locker room down the hall.

"You can join them if you're up for it," he offers, noting my lack of reaction.

---