Page 8 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

I become aware of the cameras first. One over the glass. One near the bench.

And one camera is on the scoreboard, catching everything for the thousands of people holding their breath above us and in their living rooms. I hate that more than the pain.

The pain is mine. The rest of this belongs to everyone.

My teammates move into a tight half circle, protective, concerned.

Coach hovers with his jaw locked. Mark's hands are ready and useless. The officials wait.

Seventeen thousand people are watching the captain of the Frostholm Blizzards become a problem other people have to solve.

I've spent my whole career being the guy who gets up.

The guy who taps the rookie's shin pads and tells him to take the next shift.

The guy who turns toward the room after a bad loss and says the things nobody else can say yet.

The guy who carries it.

Now two medics and a trainer are deciding how to lift me onto a gurney.

My throat tightens. I tell myself it's the ribs.

Annette leans closer. "Captain Walker."

"Jamie."

The correction slips out before I can stop it.

Her eyes soften for half a second. Only half.

"Jamie, listen to me. I suspect a clavicle fracture along with multiple rib fractures. Your breathing concerns me. If one of those ribs has caused a pneumothorax, standing up is not brave. It's dangerous."

That shuts down every argument I still have lined up. I know enough about injuries to know the word.

Pneumothorax.

Collapsed lung.

Not good.

Not skate-to-the-bench-and-take-an-X-ray-later good.

I look at Mark, who gives the smallest nod. Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just honest.

I close my eyes for one second. The ice is cold beneath me. My hand is still clenched around nothing because my stick is gone.

When I open my eyes again, Annette is watching me like she already knows the exact moment I stop fighting.

"Fine."

"That isn't the word I'd use."

"Gurney."

"Smart choice."

"Don't sound so pleased."