Page 21

It was the third period, and we were up two to one against Montreal. I was skating along the boards with the puck on my backhand, my head up, reading the ice. Ashford was on the far wing, gliding toward the net with his stick on the ice, calling for a cross-ice feed. I saw the window and loaded up to make the pass only I didn't see the defenseman coming at me.

He came from my left, their shutdown guy, six-three, two-twenty-five, the player whose entire job was to find players with their heads down and rearrange their evening. His shoulder hit my hip at full speed. The impact folded me sideways, my left leg going one direction and my torso going another. I hit the ice with a sound I felt more than heard. A dull, wet thud that traveled through my shoulder and into my skull.

The whistle blew. The noise from the crowd got louder as it always did when someone from the home team went down hard.

I lay there for a couple of seconds, taking an inventory of my body. Everything seemed fine, except for my hip. The left hip, the one that had been giving me issues since preseason. I could feel something in my groin, the inner part of my left thigh where the abductor attached to the pelvis, pulled so tight it felt like it had been stretched further than it wanted to go.

I got up. That was the rule. My cousin had beaten that into me. You take the hit and you get up; you skate to the bench, and if something is wrong, you deal with it in the tunnel where no one can see your face or read your pain. The moment the coaching staff uses a word like fragile in a conversation about you, your roster spot shrinks.

I skated over to the bench, each stride sending a pulse of heat through my left groin, which made me adjust my weight to my right side.

Ryan tapped his stick on the ice as I passed the crease. I nodded once, letting him know I was upright and not to worry.

Dr. Reeves, the team doctor, met me in the tunnel. She was a woman in her mid-forties with cropped gray hair and a no-nonsense attitude that reminded me of my high school principal. She'd been with the Enforcers for six years and didn't tolerate bullshit from anyone, not from players or from coaches. She had a reputation for telling guys the truth even when they didn't want to hear it, which made her either the best or the worst person to see after a hit, depending on how much truth you were ready for.

"On the table," she said.

I lay down on the training table, the cold vinyl pressing against my back through my soaked undershirt. She got right to it, putting me through a series of movements: hip flexion, extension, internal rotation, external rotation, adduction against resistance. Each test was a measurement of how much time I was going to lose, and judging from what I was feeling, I was going to miss some time.

She straightened up and pulled off her gloves. "It's a groin strain. Adductor. Grade one possibly a grade two. I'll want imaging to confirm, but from what I can tell I'd say it's a grade one with some fiber disruption. I want you off the ice for the rest of the game and resting for a minimum of three days. We'll reassess after that."

I lay there for a few minutes, thinking about what she'd said before sitting up.

"A few days?" I questioned.

"Yes, a minimum of three, possibly five." She looked at me over the top of her glasses. I could tell from her expression she'd had this conversation a thousand times with a thousand players. "I know it's not the news you want to hear. I also know that in your position and as a rookie, every day off feels like a day someone else takes your spot."

"Correct. So, I will be careful and play through it." I said, moving to get off the table.

"Marshall, I'm only going to say this once. If you play through it, it will get worse. That grade one injury becomes a grade two, and a grade two will put you out for two to four weeks. And if you're stubborn, which I've been told you are, and you play through a grade two, it becomes a grade three, and a grade three means surgery and many months off the ice. So, do yourself a favor and take the days off."

I knew she was right. I wasn't a stranger to this type of injury. I'd pulled the same muscle group in college during my junior year, and I'd tried to play through it because my team needed me. I was also twenty, invincible, and didn't understand the difference between being tough and stupid. Instead of missing five days, I missed four weeks and spent every one of them in rehab.

"No problem, I'll take your advice." I said, taking the ice pack from her.

I hopped off the table and sat in the tunnel, listening to the crowd roar, while my left thigh throbbed with a dull, persistent pulse. I pressed the ice pack against it and stared at the concrete wall in front of me, trying to think of what Briggs was thinking and whether he was recalculating his choice, because I was sure that the minus column next to my name was only getting longer.

The guys came through the tunnel, slapping gloves, laughing with that winning energy that was like a drug. We'd won the game three to one. Briggs came through last, his clipboard under his arm, his expression like granite. He stopped in front of me, looked down at the ice pack I held in my hand, then looked at me.

"Make sure you listen to Reeves. I need you healthy."

I nodded and watched him walk away.

The mood was high in the locker room. Guys peeled off their gear, talking about the plays and reliving the goals of the night. Jeremy dropped onto the bench next to me and looked at the ice pack strapped to my thigh, thanks to Dr. Reeves.

"How bad?"

"Grade one. A few days off." I shrugged.

"Good. Take the time you need. Now we are going out tonight. It's a team tradition: after three wins in a row, we celebrate. Non-negotiable."

"I'm nursing a groin injury, Jeremy."

Jeremy chuckled. "You, my friend, are nursing a beer at a bar. You don't need your groin for that." He paused and then looked at me. "Well, unless you plan on using your groin after the bar, in which case, you may need those five days off."

"I hate you." I chuckled.

"Everybody does, rookie. Part of my charm." He said, smacking me on the shoulder.