Page 57 of Patrick

The words might be encouraging if they weren’t delivered with a sneer.

I take the face-off at center ice and can feel Vincent crowding the circle on my left. As soon as I get the puck, Vincent dives for me, leading with his stick. I twist out of reach, barely, as the stick crashes to the ice, but he’s not done as he hooks my skate and I go down.

In spite of the ref blowing the whistle, the action doesn’t stop. But instead of playing hockey, it looks more like a rugby scrum as gloves come off and Van takes a swing at Vincent. Getting up, I pull off my dangling helmet and push my way into the crowd of players squaring off, but Sully grabs hold of me and pulls me back.

“Let Van take care of Rossi.”

I smile because Sully called him Van and not Vaughn, his real name, and also because Van just connected with Vincent’s eye.

I nod and back off. Sully lets me go and tries pulling Henry off someone. Shit. That kid is really growing on me. That’s what I’m thinking when I get shoved from behind. I spin around with my fists up just as one of the B.C. defensemen pushes me into the fray.

Vincent turns and punches me dead-on in the eye, and I fall to the ice, hitting my head. Red-hot anger shoots through me, and I try to get up because I want to rip his head off. But my limbs are shaky, and a wave of dizziness stops me. Collapsing back down to the ice, I see Bog standing over me, but he’s blurry.

“What are you doing here?” He should be in the goal.

“I’m getting you off the ice.” He helps me up and over to the bench. As we make it to the boards, the announcer blasts the news that Vincent Rossi is getting a game misconduct for the fight. A ref shows up at my side as we get to the gate.

“You need to be checked for a concussion.” He points a finger to the tunnel.

Coach Zabra argues with the ref, but assistant coach Winnick intervenes, asking Doctor Larry’s opinion.

“Of course he needs to be checked for a concussion.” The doc glares at Coach Zabra.

Glancing up at the scoreboard, I try to focus. It looks like the second period is almost over, with the score 2-1. Then, leaning heavily on Coach Winnick, I sort of walk to the locker room and into the training room. My knees are wobbly, and things are still blurry, so I keep my head down.

The taste of blood in my mouth must be what’s making me feel slightly nauseous. I’m damn lucky the blood’s from a split lip and not a lost tooth.

Dr. Larry follows us, and Coach Winnick takes more of my weight as we head into the examining room. I manage to heft myself onto the exam table, closing my eyes against the nausea and spinning.

That’s when the headache starts.

Shit.

Doc says, “Lay back and open your eyes.” He pries my eyes open, shining a light back and forth and taking a good long look with all his worry lines trenched in full force around his mouth. That’s when there’s a knock on the door. Coach Winnick opens it, and my parents walk in.

Mom rushes to my side.

“How is he, Doctor?”

“I haven’t had a chance to fully evaluate him. Why don’t you two take a seat?”

“Of course, Doc,” Dad says as he nods at me and pats my shin pads as he backs away.

Doc Larry does some prodding at my eyelids and around my scalp, finding a lump on my head. Then he starts asking questions. “Nausea?”

I nod.

“Headache?”

I nod.

“Blurry vision?”

“Yes, but it’s getting better. I can almost see you clearly.”

He frowns and looks into my eyes again with the light. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”

I give it a try and blink because it makes me dizzy.