Page 6 of Just My Puck
Jacob offers a grin, then heads back to his team’s bench, leaving me to collect my thoughts as we await the referee’s decision. The air is thick with anticipation, the energy emanating from the crowd hostile, but my mind isn’t focused on the game anymore. I can’t shake the image of the woman’s unconscious form, sprawled awkwardly beneath me.
Finally, the referee skates to center ice. The silence in the arena is deafening as everyone holds their breath.
“After reviewing the play, the call on the ice stands: no penalty,” he announces, his voice loud enough to carry through the arena. The crowd boos even louder, but as we resume play, they quickly settle down.
It feels fair—at least to me. I know the hit wasn’t malicious. But I’m pretty sure the girl who was just evacuated on a stretcher doesn’t feel the same way.
3
"Whoever his girlfriend is, I’ll take that name."
Dawn Russell
When I open my eyes, all I can think about is the pain. My vision is blurry, and I can’t even make out where I am. My body jostles with movement. Some kind of vehicle, maybe?
A figure appears above me, hazy at first, then slowly taking shape. He’s wearing a paramedic’s uniform, and I catch the flicker of light as he flashes a lamp in my eyes. I flinch, instinctively squeezing my eyes shut again, trying to block out the assault on my senses.
“Welcome back,” the man says, pocketing the handheld light.
“What happened?” I croak while trying to sit up, but my migraine forces me back down.
He places his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t try to sit. You sustained a cranial injury after an incident at the hockey arena. You might also have an eye injury. For now, just stay calm. We’ll be at the hospital soon.”
I try to make sense of his words, but I have no recollection of even being in a hockey arena.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter.
“What’s your name?”
I frown, drawing a blank. The skull-splitting headache strikes again, and I bring my hand to my temple. “Um.”
“It’s okay. Just relax. Don’t try to talk.”
We arrive at the hospital, and the paramedics roll my gurney toward what I’m guessing is an examination room. The stark white corridors are crammed with people lying on stretchers, various cuts and bruises peeking from beneath hasty bandages. Others look like they’re about to pass out, and I’m pretty sure a hospital staff member is mopping up vomit from the floor. It’s a warzone out here.
“Wow,” one of the paramedicsbreathes, clearly in shock. “It’s even worse than it was an hour ago.”
“I know,” the other one says. “Between the influenza outbreak and the accidents from the new ice-skating rink, it’s going to be a long night.”
Finally, the gurney comes to a stop. My rescuers talk with a woman—a nurse or a doctor—about my situation.
“We’re swamped,” she says, dropping her arms at her sides, looking left and right. “I don’t even know where to put her, to be honest.”
“Still, someone should really take a look at her,” replies the paramedic who was with me in the ambulance. “She just took a pretty big blow to the head; she lost consciousness at the scene. Pupils are responsive, but she couldn’t tell me her name. And the corner of the plexiglass hit her right eye.”
“Okay,” the woman says, adjusting her white coat. She beckons someone to join her, and the gurney starts rolling again.
“What’s going on?” I mumble, but no one can hear me over the clamor of bustling staff and the moaning of patients.
Finally, I’m rolled into a room, and they transfer me from the gurney to a bed. The woman flashes her light in my eyes. “I’m Dr. Silva. What’s your name?”
I close my eyes, searching for the answer, but the pounding in my head is taking over. “Um. I don’t—my head hurts.”
“Okay.” She nods. “You probably have a concussion. Any other source of pain?”
“Yes, my right eye. I don’t know, something’s wrong. My vision is all blurry, and it hurts.”
“I’ll have a look without the light,” she says before asking someone to turn the lights off in the room. “Try to open them again.”
