Page 96 of Game Misconduct

Amelia and Derek jump into action. The head athletic trainer holds a piece of gauze to my lip.

Gonzo skates over, concern sketched on his face. “Dude, you’re bleeding.”

“Bit my fucking lip when I fell.” I shake my head. “Assholes.”

“You good?”

I raise my eyebrows at Derek. “I’ll clear you, but we have to stitch your lip. You can’t go out there spilling blood everywhere.”

Frustration and bitterness war within me. “No, that’s their job.”

I have to sit out a shift while Derek patches me up. I’m helpless on the bench as Gonzo, Jenkins, and Reynolds take the ice, and even though they land two shots on goal, nothing goes in.

My knee bounces while I wait, itching to get out there. To prove my worth.

Finally, Coach taps my shoulder, and I vault over the boards.

But when we shift back onto the ice, an eerie silence falls on the normally raucous crowd. Anticipation crackles in the air. Dread is a lead weight in my stomach, and I already know this won’t be good.

Skating out to the left point, I keep my head on a swivel, staying aware of my surroundings. In this game, in this particular game, I can’t get complacent.

Sinclair sends the puck my way, and it lands perfectly on my stick, a tape-to-tape pass. In a completely legal maneuver, Hastings plows into me.

I go airborne for what feels like an hour but can’t possibly be more than seconds. Wind rushes past my face, and I turn as best as I can, anticipating the landing.

The ice rushes up to meet me, much too fast.

I hear more than feel the sickening crunch of plastic as my helmet collides with the ice. The sound reverberates in my head and down my spine. A wave of pain washes over me.

And then everything goes dark.