Page 35 of Offside

“You were motionless and couldn’t get up on your own,” Costa tells me as he and David hold on to my elbows and start heading to the bench. “Fuckin’ Russo really got ya, man. Motherfucker.”

The cheering of our fans fills the arena as I sit down, but all of it’s muffled for me.

It’s impossible not to have had concussions when you’ve played hockey as long as I have. It’s the nature of this violent sport. The helmets do little against the hard impact of ice, boards, or other bodies.

The fact that this is probably my fourth or fifth injury does not bode well for me starting this season. If it’s assessed as a concussion, I won’t even be able to start in our first regular season games. The league over the years has also implemented policies for concussion protocol. Guidelines to evaluate and treat head injuries during play.

“We’ll take care of Russo. You hear me, Keeners?”

That’s the thing about teammates. They always have your back. I have no doubt there will be some gloves off in the third period on my behalf.

And when I’m fully recovered—whenever that may be—there will come a time when I provide my own payback to Sergei Russo.

Mark my words. It will happen.

* * *

I’m usheredinto the medical exam area next to our team’s locker where the lights are too bright and they give me a headache.

Dr. Stanley, the team physician, and David poke and prod, and ask me a fuck ton of questions while examining me on the table.

“I’m sure you know the drill,” begins Dr. Stanley, an older gentleman with graying hair at the temples, a soft-spoken voice, and a kind smile. “But we’ll need to conduct a full acute assessment, starting with our SCAT5 test.”

I’m familiar with this testing app that is part of the NHL concussion protocol and it’s been used on me in the past. It’s the physician’s way of identifying and diagnosing the severity of my concussion and providing the baseline testing and analysis of my cognitive function. In a nutshell, whether my brain is messed up.

As the first round of tests begin, the door of the medical room bursts open and my head lolls in that direction, where I see an angel walking toward me.

Only,not just any angel.

Karis.

“Jesus Christ, is Ballas okay?”

Her voice comes out in a panicked rush as she scurries over to the side of the table where I’m propped up with the doctor in front of me. Most of my gear was at some point removed and I’m left in my long-sleeved compression shirt and my jock shorts.

The menthol smell from muscle lotions and the stench of sweat are barely noticeable as I’m surrounded by Karis’s fresh floral scent.

I close my eyes, which is a big mistake, and my body sways to the side and into the arms of this beautiful woman.

“You worried about me, sweetheart?” The corners of my mouth tip up into a lopsided grin. I’m acting like a sloppy drunk. I feel like one, too.

As if my words just bit her like a venomous snake, she stumbles backward so suddenly that David has to grab my shoulder to keep me from falling off the table.

All eyes are pinned on me, Karis’s blown wide.

It’s then that I realize exactly how I just addressed our team’s owner.

Oops. My bad.

David snorts at the comment, treating it like a joke.

“He must be concussed. He’ll probably call me babe next, eh?”

I would laugh, except nausea swirls in my belly and my mouth begins to flood with saliva. I gag and try to tamp down the sickness climbing up my throat. Karis steps back, picks up a nearby trashcan at the head of the table, and shoves it in front of me just as I hunch forward and vomit. Unfortunately, I don’t make it in time and I think Karis’s shoes get the brunt of it.

After emptying the contents of my stomach a second time, David removes the trashcan from Karis’s hands and I promptly fall back onto the pillow.

I close my eyes and smile. “Thanks, babe.”

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