Page 30 of The Alternate Captain
Then I see the blood.
There are guys all around me and I’m yelling. Yelling for someone to get the medic.
“Betts? Bettsy?” I try again.
Voices behind me tell me to move aside, then the ref is next to me, urging me to conform.
“Mike? Mike?” Penny, the team medic, places her hand gently on Bettsy’s gloved one.
Then he groans.
I expel a breath.
Fuck.
“Betts, can you hear us?” I ask.
Another groan. Thank fuck.
Penny signals behind her and I spot a stretcher moving towards us.
“You’re going to need to back up a bit, Johnny,” Penny says firmly as she springs into action.
I’ve seen nothing like it in all my years of hockey. I force myself to swallow hard, staving off the creeping sense of nausea washing over me as I make my way to the rest of my teammates.
“He groaned. That’s a good sign, right?” I ask Ryan. His face is hard, but he forces a nod.
“Yeah, he’s in the right hands, John.” He pats me on the back as we watch Bettsy getting carried off the ice, the crowd applauding respectfully and the opposition tapping their sticks on the ice.
“That fucker though,” I spit through gritted teeth at the ref. “What are you going to do about him?”
“Hey, let me deal with this, Cap,” Danny says, attempting to placate me as he steers me towards the bench.
It’s definitely the right thing for me right now because my temper is right up there with the rest of my emotions. I try to push my energy toward the first coping strategy that comes to mind: the ten parts of my body that I’m supposed to focus on.
But it’s all overwhelming.
Danny joins the opposition captain next to the officials and then an iPad appears in the hands of the ref. All their heads cram together as they watch the screen, and I note Danny wince as they watch the replay. His eyes flick to mine for a split second before he involves himself in the conversation on the ice.
We wait for the call. I think at least two different songs boom from the loudspeaker, which cuts mid-chorus when one of the refs finally skates up to the announcement box.
“After assessing the play, we determine that the call on the ice is a ten-minute major...”
Grabbing my stick, I hold it across my knee and push hard on each end of the shaft. The tension builds before it gives and breaks in two. Then I grab the next one on the rack, not giving a shit who it belongs to.
I feel sick.
Coach is leaning over the boards shouting something towards the stripes, but I don’t pay attention to the words. I’m using all the will I possess to sit myself back down.
I don’t even complain when Coach tells me I’m not returning to the game for the final few shifts. I sit spaced out, not evenconcentrating properly. Not even noticing that the final score is in our favour as the final buzzer sounds.
I can’t even bring myself to celebrate with the guys. It’s a moment I’ve desired for a long time, but right now, the last thing I want to do is party.
There’s one thing I always thought I’d be sure of—victory. Well, the feeling of victory. But I couldn’t give less of a shit right now.
Mike’s face resembles thatof a champion, not someone who recently suffered a concussion and was sent to the hospital. He’s grinning from ear to ear, and he radiates excitement. Our mother, on the other hand, does not appear impressed at all.
“We won, Mam. We won.” He beams.
