Page 3 of Penalty Kiss
I aim for a grin and land somewhere near. “Tell me it was tasteful.”
“It was adorable.” She squeezes my wrist once, not flirty, morehuman. “You’re okay.”
I look at her badge again. The letters behave now. MAYA. The relief is so sharp it’s embarrassing.
A name loads. Place loads. Then, panic steps back.
“What did… I miss?”
She breathes in like she’s choosing how much empathy to deploy. “You were admitted for observation after a head injury sustained at the end of Game Six. You slept a lot. You woke up a little. You got sick once. You asked me three times if you were winning Game Seven.”
A small smile. “You didn’t. I’m sorry.”
My heart falls, and guilt sets in. I wasn’t there for my team. I don’t deserve a second Stanley Cup ring.
The cut under my eyebrow twinges. I yank the IV stand next to my bed close to me and squint at the sliver of reflection from the pole. I reach up. Butterfly closures. Tape. Someone’s neat work. There’s a bruise blooming along my temple that’ll photograph beautifully for all the wrong reasons.
“How long was I out?” I ask.
“Off and on since the night of Game Six.” She tilts her head. “Today is… four days later.”
I force a breath down past the catch in my chest. “Team doc say anything?”
As if summoned, the door opens. Three men shuffle in. A doctor I’ve never met, my team doc and my GM. Nurse Maya eases away but stays within earshot, the way nurses do when they care more about people than charts.
My team doc is mid-fifties, calm, a guy who’s seen every sports injury with a poker face and still keeps photos of his kids on his phone to remind himself people aren’t just ligaments. He’s been doing this longer than I’ve been lacing skates. Calm eyes. No drama. He runs me through the script.
Where are we? Who am I? What month? I speed through the answers while the room keeps trying to take a half step to the right.
He lights a penlight and my skull complains like an old hinge.
“Welcome back, Mr. Wilder,” his voice is warm. “How’s the pain?”
“Like I got run over by a Zamboni and then the Zamboni apologized but did it again.” My tongue feels thick; I push through.
“Okay,” he says finally, pen poised. “Let’s talk like adults, Cam.”
“Adults who want me back on the ice tomorrow,” I say.
“Adults who want you to be able to recognize your kids’ faces in thirty years,” he counters, deadpan.
I stare at the crack in the ceiling. “How bad?”
“You took a high-velocity impact to your helmet, had immediate symptoms, then a loss of consciousness in the tunnel.” The doc ticks off on his fingers. “Since admission: headaches, light sensitivity, nausea, cognitive fog, difficulty with short-term recall, a moment of misrecognizing faces, and… a few episodes of waking disorientation.”
Misrecognizing faces. The word lands like a puck to breastbone.
“So I’m benched.” I keep my tone flat.
“You’re shut down,” the GM says, arms crossed. “We’ll manage messaging. Stay off socials. We’ll protect your privacy and the brand.”
Control the narrative. I want to laugh and also break something.
“How long?” I ask, hating the edge in my voice.
“Could be weeks,” Doc says. “Could be months. It’s not linear. You push, it punishes. You pace, you heal.”
I stare at the ceiling crack until it blurs. “We lost,” I say, even though the nurse already told me.
