“Hockey game. Just got hit.”
“That’s right. Can you move your arms and legs?” he continues, speaking directly in my ear.
I kick my feet on the ice, though they’re heavy as a ton of bricks.
“What about your fingers? Can you feel your back?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Any head pain?”
“Yes,” I reply, glancing to the side to see some of my teammates with dark looks on their faces. I want to make a joke, tell them I’ll be back on the ice in a minute, but that headache keeps kicking me down.
“Okay, James. Your nose is bleeding pretty heavily, and you lost consciousness for a second, so we’re going to take you to the hospital to run some tests, okay?”
“Can’t we do it after the game?”
“Afraid not. You got hit pretty bad,” he says, standing up.
Moments later, they’re strapping me to a backboard and lifting me onto a stretcher. It feels a little extreme. We’re hockey players, after all. We’re tougher than that.
“They got you,” Hawthorne says, stopping next to me and patting my leg. “You’ll be fine, man.”
“Get better, bro,” Miles says, a deep frown etched onto his face as he looks at me.
The crowd bursts into cheers followed by stick taps and applause. The stretcher starts moving, and I give the fans a thumbs-up to show them I’m fine. Louder cheers erupt, and I’m bombarded by more well wishes and pats from my team and the Sharks as I’m being taken away.
In my peripheral vision, I notice Rogers, looking a little pale. I stretch my arms, signaling for the medical team to stop the stretcher, then I beckon him toward me.
The arena quiets down as he shuffles forward. “Look man, I’m sorry,” he starts, leaning over me. But I don’t want his apologies. It was a bad hit, and it was intentional. He’s only regretting it now because things got serious.
No, I’m not looking for an apology. There’s only one thing I want to say to him.
“Touch her again,” I growl, looking him dead in the eye. “And I will end you.”
His eyes widen slightly, and he straightens his back as they haul me toward the edge of the ice and through the Zamboni tunnel.
14
"If it’s any consolation, I will die one day, Elizabeth."
Beth Bowen
That was the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. James getting slammed against the boards, then lying motionless on the ice as the medics rushed onto the scene. I’m still shaking when the entire arena claps and cheers their support as James is evacuated on a stretcher. I haven’t been to many hockey games, but I’ve never seen this happen. The players usually get back up right away after a hit. The thought that they sometimes can’t never really occurred to me. They look so strong, almost invincible with all that gear on. But beneath the pads and helmets, they’re just men. Humans.
And now, James is on that stretcher, and it’s all because of me. He and Lucas have been at each other’s throat since the game started, and the hits became more and more intense.
“I’m going to the hospital,” I tell the girls, my throat suddenly dry. “You all can stay and watch the rest of the game.”
“No, we’ll come with you,” Marissa says, standing up.
I nod, and we gather our stuff.
“That was a hard hit,” Hayley says in a quiet voice as we’re leaving our seats. “Crap. I really hope he’s okay.”
My heart clenches tight, and I feel the air drain from my lungs. “Me too.”
We walk up the stairs toward the exit, and we’re almost at the top when the referee announces that they’re reviewing the hit for a possible match penalty.