Page 106 of From Ice to Home
The Canucks shoot from the blue line. With Declan and Mitch in front of the net, the puck gets swallowed in the paint. It’s a battle and just as Lucas joins in, a Canucks defenseman slams into him from behind, sending him sprawling over the pile of players. His helmet flies off.
Lucas’s head hits the goalpost with a sickening thud.
And then…he’s still.
The whistle blows, the arena goes quiet and my world stops.
24
LUCAS
Someone helped me off the ice.
I don’t really know who. Everything after the hit is a bit blurry. Maybe I walked, or maybe they carried me. Either way, I’m in the medical room at Madison Square Garden, with a headache pounding between my eyes and a sour taste in my mouth.
At least my ears aren’t ringing anymore.
“That guy was like a Zamboni,” I croak, the words dragging across my dry throat like sandpaper.
I try to sit up, but the second I do, it feels like my brain stays behind on the table. The room sways, then tilts.
“Whoa,” someone says, followed by two hands catching me, steadying me, and guiding me back down again. “You need to lay back down. You took a big hit.”
I let them guide me down again, but only because it’s either that or vomit. I close my eyes and breathe through the dizziness.
“The game’s not done,” I mumble, the words automatically tumbles out of my mouth. Doesn’t matter how hard I hit thepost, I’d know if we won. I’d know if I missed the final shift of my life.
“It is for you,” another voice says, firm and female. A woman steps in wearing blue scrubs and blue gloves. Her dark hair is pulled back tight. She looks calm, competent, and unimpressed.
“Like hell it is.”
I sit up again and swing my legs off the table. This time, the world only tilts a little, not as bad as before. Still, I grip the edge of the table just in case.
She steps closer. I raise a hand to stop her and my vision swims for a second. I blink it away.
“Don’t even think about making me lay down again,” I say.
She lifts her brows, folding her arms, unfazed. “I’m Dr. Kessler, the neurotrauma specialist. You hit your head and lost consciousness. We’re going to run through the SCAT5 protocol. It’s not optional.”
I lock eyes with her. She might be calm and clinical, but I’ve worked my entire life to stand where I stood tonight. One win from the Cup. And I’ll be damned if someone with a clipboard and a stethoscope tells me I’m benched.
“You won’t tell me that I’m done playing,” I say, adrenaline still pumping under my skin. “So you can either get out of my way, or—“
“Or what?” she cuts in, cocking her head. “You’re going to fight your way through the concussion specialist while swaying on your feet? I’m willing to bet you’re barely able to stand without wobbling. If you want to be back on the ice, then you need to cooperate.”
Her tone is all business, and I know instantly she’s had this argument with stubborn players a hundred times before…and won. No way she got this job without being able to go head-to-head with hockey egos.
I clench my jaw.
“Where’s my coach?” I mutter, glancing toward the door.
Right on cue, the door swings open, slamming against the wall.
Coach strides in, chewing his gum like it owes him money. “Walker, are you alright?”
Relief hits me like a breath of fresh air. Finally there’s someone in the room who understands, who knows what’s at stake.
“I’m fine, Coach,” I say. “Or at least I will be as soon as this lovely person steps aside so I can get back out there.”
