Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“We can all get taken out that way, Jay.”
Why is he not getting this? Saliva builds in my mouth, and I swallow it down, but it doesn’t help. Turning quickly, I grab the trashcan and vomit, collapsing to my knees as the pain swallows me whole.
Everything is falling apart, and I don’t have the strength to hold on anymore, not to the ragged edges of myself, not to the game that’s devoured me until there’s nothing left, not to my brothers, who’ll leave me behind when they go pro, and not to Riley, who’ll never want to be with a man weak enough to fall before her like a stack of cards toppled by the wind.
“Just get out,” I hiss as fresh nausea surges through me. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
They don’t leave immediately, lurking in the doorway, their silent communication like a charge in the air, but I can only grit my teeth and wait. When they eventually leave, the silence that follows is heavier than any hit I’ve ever taken.
***
The next day at practice, my head is still pounding. With no pills, the pain in my head is so severe it makes me sweat, and the edges of my vision blur. With every drill, it grows worse. With every sharp turn, every slapshot, I’m closer to crumbling. By the time we scrimmage, I’m hanging on by a thread. And then Hayes checks me, hard, but clean, and my vision contracts to a pinprick, distorting what’s in front of me, clouding my perception and my reactions.
I shove him hard enough to send him stumbling.
“The fuck.” He regains his balance, narrowing his eyes.
I step closer, shoving him again.
“It was a legal hit.”
“Cut it out, Jacob.” Shawn steps between us, but I can’t. I can’t. I fucking can’t.
I shove him again, snapping, “Stay out of this.”
Shawn tries to grab my gloved wrists and hold them tight, but the rage inside me, the frustration, the fear, the desperation is like a wave, cresting high, totally out of control.
I rail against him, and before I know it, I’m throwing punches, and Shawn is using his arms to protect his head while Hayes tries to restrain me. The rest of the team circles us, shouting, but I barely hear them. All I can hear is my dad’s voice in my head, yelling at me to be tougher, to hit harder, to be better.
“Enough!” Coach Thornton’s voice cuts through the chaos like a gunshot. He pulls us apart, glaring. “You three—off the ice. NOW.”
I’m breathing hard, and my hands go automatically to my head, but with my helmet in the way, there’s no relief. I fall to my knees, taking Coach by surprise. I can’t get up. I have nothing left. Pain scores through my brain like a serrated knife. I twist to stare up at Hayes and his face blurs and spins as the edges of my vision contract.
“He needs help,” Hayes says softly, and it takes Buttons, Collins, and Edwards to lift me back up and help me off the ice.
“What the fuck is going on?” Coach yells as he trails us.
“He needs a doctor,” Hayes grits out.
“What for?”
“His head,” Hayes says, and as soon as the words leave his lips, the world closes in around me.
40
HAYES
Doctor Ableman is a middle-aged man with a kind face, a large mustache, and a no-nonsense demeanor. He asks Jacob about his symptoms, taking notes as Jacob hesitantly describes the migraines, light sensitivity, trouble sleeping, nausea, and mood swings. As I hear him list what he’s been going through without sharing it with Shawn and me, I lean against the wall. We’re supposed to be brothers who share everything. He kept telling us that, but I guess it only works one way.
On the bed, Jacob looks pale and drawn, his eyes watery and mouth tight. He’s removed his helmet but is still wearing his gear, which the doctor asks him to remove for a brief examination.
When the assessment is complete, Doc takes a seat on the edge of the bed and folds his hands in his lap. “Jacob, these symptoms are consistent with concussion, more specifically post-concussive syndrome. We’ll need to run more tests to confirm, but, for now, I’m recommending immediate rest and a complete stop to all hockey-related activities.”
Jacob’s face pales, and his eyes close. “For how long?”
The doctor hesitates. “It depends on how your body heals. Recovery can take weeks, months. Sometimes even longer. The important thing is to give yourself the time and care you need.”
Coach, who’s been listening quietly, exhales heavily. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Drayton?”
Jacob stares at his feet, the official diagnosis weighing on him in a way I can’t appreciate. How would I feel in his shoes? Raw. Terrified. Relieved. I don’t even know.
“I didn’t want to let the team down,” Jacob says, his voice cracking. He clears his throat. “And… I need to get drafted to win the cup.”