Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Toronto had a power play with three minutes on the clock. Not good. Jake skated to the net just as a Toronto’s wing one-touched it to a teammate for a quick slot goal. Jake saw it, darted in front of the puck to kill the play and got shoved in the process—hard enough to send him flying into the boards.
He’d done his job, score averted. Toronto groaned, and the few Syracuse fans went wild. Including me.
But Jake didn’t get up.
Syracuse has a player down…
He lay flat on the ice, one hand lying limply over his chest, his stick loose in the other.
One second, two seconds…
He didn’t move a muscle.
My heart stopped. Blood drained from my face, and cold dread twisted in my gut.
“Get up,” I whispered. “Get up, Jake. Get up.”
Smitty shifted to the edge of his seat. “Let’s go, Jake. C’mon.”
A whistle blew, and medics raced out with a board.
I couldn’t see. There were too many people in the way. Players stood waiting nearby, their faces etched with confusion and worry as the crowd parted for the medics to take him off the ice. Jake’s coach carried his helmet and followed. And he was gone.
I stood frozen and dizzy, unsure what to do. “I have to—I’m…”
“This way.”
Smitty tucked me close to his side and pulled me out of our row, up dozens of steps to the main concourse. We ran by empty kiosks and concession stands, down a flight of stairs to the players’ entrance.
“No entry. I—Smitty? It’s good to see you,” the security detail gushed.
“You too. Hey, my friend’s son got hurt. Jake Milligan. He needs to get to him. Fast. Help me out, Larry.”
Larry didn’t hesitate. “This way.”
More corridors. Everything was gray and white, squeaky clean. There were photos of former hockey greats on the walls, framed awards, a wide open door, and an ambulance screaming away.
I broke away from Smitty and ran toward the receding flashing lights. “He’s gone.”
Smitty caught up to me. “I’ll take you to him. I got you.”
After that…it all went fuzzy.
A hospital, tests, nurses and doctors, and that antiseptic institutional smell that reminded me of bleak times.
They said it was a concussion, but they said he’d be all right. I had no choice but to believe them. Jake’s breathing. No oxygen deficit, he’ll be fine. He was groggy, and in and out of consciousness, but not fully awake yet, so…I didn’t know.
I paced the narrow confines of the curtained-off space that didn’t really qualify as a room. I wanted to be here when he came to and I wanted—
“Dad?”
I jerked to attention and clasped his hand. “Jake. There you are. How do you feel, buddy?”
“My head hurts, and—are you crying? Geez, am I dead?”
“That’s not funny.” I swiped at my face. “I’m happy to see you awake, that’s all.”
He winced as he sat up. “I’m okay. Don’t worry. What happened?”
“Concussion,” a nurse spoke up, pulling the curtain aside. “How do you feel?”
Jake licked his parched lips. “Not too bad. Did we win?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“You won by one,” the nurse reported, adding with a smile, “I had a feeling you’d ask.”
“Cool. I’m ready to go home.”
The young nurse chuckled as she checked his vitals. “I bet. The doctor will want to run a few tests first.”
The doctor examined him soon after, grinning brightly as if nothing serious had happened. “Youth is on your side, Jake. I’m going to recommend a week off from heavy workouts, but you’ll be just fine.”
“Wait. That’s it? He was out cold…for a long time,” I argued. “Many minutes.”
“And now I’m fine. I’m ready to go,” Jake asserted.
“Soon enough,” the doctor said. “We’re going to keep you here for a few hours for observation.”
“Hours?”
“Patience, Mr. Milligan. Your audience will still be there.”
The doctor left and the nurse took over, examining the bandage on Jake’s forehead.
Jake frowned. “What does he mean? What audience?”
“There’s a circus in the parking lot with news crews. You’re kind of famous, Mr. Milligan.”
He grinned. “Me?”
“Sure. I’m a big hockey fan, and you’re having a great season.”
“Thanks.”
The nurse smiled. “I bet there were some NHL bigwigs there. Oh! And there was a Smitty Paluchek sighting in the hospital waiting room. I bet those idiot reporters want a side story about a rematch between you off the ice. You know…a carryover from that punch last year.”
“Smitty?” Jake repeated, clearly confused.
“He was at the game with me,” I explained, squeezing Jake’s hand, adding for the nurse’s benefit. “He lives in our town.”
“He was always one of my favorite players,” the nurse gushed as she moved to the door. “Glad to see you awake and well, Jake. We’ll spring you out of here in no time.”
“Thanks,” Jake rasped. He blew out an exasperated breath and stared at a monitor. “I didn’t know Smitty was coming today.”
“I thought I mentioned it,” I lied. “He’s moving out of his apartment and he has friends in Toronto and that’s his old team.”