Page 49 of Lucky Puck

“I didn’t.” I’m not lying. I’m not counting the near misses.

“Nausea?”

“Mild, but not in the past twelve hours.”

He gives a harrumph and picks up his ophthalmoscope and zeroes in on my left eye first. I remain still and force myself to breathe.

What the hell is my problem? I’ve been through plenty of these exams before.

Shit. That’s the exact problem. I can’t pretend that repeat concussions don’t have a cumulative effect. I’m not a dumbass.

But fuck. I’m just starting out, and I need to play. I need to become the player the hockey world expects me to become, the player I expect to be. I’m the fucking generational player who is going to light the record books on fire.

There’s no way one small concussion is going to sideline my spectacular future and leave me as a footnote about what could have been.

I’m not letting that happen.

Okay, I take another deeper breath. I’m really not a dumbass, and I don’t want to end up talking to walls by the time I’m forty, but it’s not crazy to expect the marvels of modern medicine to find ways to fix the damage from too many concussions in the future. Someday.

Doc has me following his finger back and forth with my eyes when he’s finished with his ophthalmoscope, remaining silent while I concentrate on exercising my lungs.

Next, he taps my knees with his rubber hammer, and my legs dutifully jerk forward—thank god.

“Any balance issues?” He stares me down as he straightens, the crinkles around his sharp old eyes demanding the truth.

“Minor stumbles. Nothing much. I’m⁠—”

“Fine? Is that what you’re going to say?” He shakes his head. “I’ve arranged a CT scan. They’ll take you as soon as we can get there.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” I don’t know why I bother, but fear makes me unreasonable. I’d rather live with the unknown in this case than find out the truth of my condition because I fear knowing the worst.

“Don’t be a wuss. The worst outcome is you take it easy and work back into the lineup in a week or two. It’s better than the alternative—I send you out there in a game and you get clobbered again—because you know they’re gunning for you and you’re probably not as quick as usual.”

I’m nodding, staring down at my Zamberlan Icona boots—another sponsor whose product I wouldn’t normally buy—when Coach Logan lets himself into the office without knocking. He closes the door behind him and nods at me before turning his attention to Doc Scully.

“What do you think, Doc?”

“List him as doubtful for tomorrow’s game. We’ll get the CT scan now. I’ll get the results tomorrow and let you know.”

“Shit,” Coach mutters. “Sorry, Brody. You’re on game-time decision status.”

“I’m fine to play. I’ve been sleeping well.” Not a lie.

“You shouldn’t have skated this morning,” Doc says, and I notice Coach flinch. “After the CT scan, you should take it easy the rest of the day,” Doc says.

“Jimmy will give you a ride to the imaging center,” Coach says. “You’re out of the afternoon scrimmage.”

“I’m taking him for the CT scan,” Doc says, wearing an expression as steely as a skate blade. Coach doesn’t say a word. He takes the inherent reprimand head-on, not cowering.

I give Doc a look, and in truth, I’m touched that he’s making the effort. “You sure?” I ask in a voice for his ears only. “You don’t need to do that.”

He gives me a look that says shut up and accept the ride without making a big deal out of it.

I jump off the table, partly to prove to myself that I can. The landing barely jars me and doesn’t spike the headache-ometer significantly, so I’ll take that as a win. Grabbing my Canada Goose bomber jacket, I follow Coach through the door. Doc is behind me.

Trying not to dwell on how seriously Doc is taking this, personally chauffeuring me and all, I spot Sabien in the hallway outside the office.

My smile is automatic. “What are you doing here?”