Page 84 of Slapshot Baby

He watches the drill resume without me.

Players glance over. Wyatt's grin has disappeared, Theo's hands stop moving on his stick.

"We need to talk in my office," Brennan says.

"We can talk here. Why am I off the ice?"

He turns to face me. "You've been placed on long-term injured reserve."

The rink noise fades. The sound of blades and pucks and Wyatt's voice calling for a pass all drop to a low hum beneath the ringing in my ears.

Long-term injury reserve. Meaning I can’t play hockey games till whenever they decide.

"Since when?"

"Since last week. The decision was made in coordination with the medical staff and front office."

"Last week." I repeat it to make sure I'm hearing him right. "I've been on LTIR for a week and nobody told me?"

"The timing of the notification was being handled."

"Handled by who? Because it wasn't handled by anyone who thought the captain of this team deserved a phone call."

Brennan's eyes narrow. "Step into my office."

"No, you pulled me off the ice in front of my team. You can explain it in front of my team."

Silence. The drills behind us have slowed. I can feel every pair of eyes on me.

Brennan uncrosses his arms. "LTIR is a roster designation. It protects your cap space while you recover."

"I've recovered. I have a signed clearance form from Dr. Harold dated this morning. Full practice, contact at coaching discretion. My balance tests are clean. My cognitive screens are clean. Every metric your medical team asked for, I hit."

"I'm aware of your medical status."

"Then what exactly is the problem?"

"Medical clearance means your brain has healed enough to take contact without catastrophic risk. It doesn't mean your game is where it needs to be."

"You watched me skate. My shots are on target, and I read every play before it developed."

"Minutes of drills isn't a game, Kai. It's not a forecheck at full speed with two hundred and twenty pounds coming at your blindside. It's not the third period of a playoff game when you're gassed and making reads on instinct."

"So let me play and prove it. Let me practice with the team and show—"

"No."

The word drops like a gate slamming shut. My fingers tighten around my stick.

"I've spent months on rehab, therapy, conditioning. I did everything your staff and the doctors asked. And more than both of them combined."

"And I respect the hell out of what it took."

"So what’s the problem?"

"Respect doesn't override my responsibility to this roster. You lost four years of memory, Kai. Four years of game film you can't recall. Defensive schemes you learned and forgot. Tendencies you read on instinct that your brain may not reproduce under pressure. Your mind has a processing issue."

"You're benching me because of my amnesia?"