Taking His Shot

by Susan Scott Shelley

  Dylan continued to lie there and talk to the doctor. He rolled to his side, then curled up and shifted onto his knees.

  Peter kept his hand on Dylan's shoulder. "That's it. Nice and slow."

  He raised his head and torso, kneeling on the ice. Celek and Vince got their arms under his and helped him to his skates.

  "Guys, I want to skate to the bench on my own." Determination laced through Dylan's voice. But then he winced and bent down, resting his hands on his knees.

  Peter waved the guys away and nodded at Blair. "We'll help him off."

  She rounded Dylan's body and placed her hand on his back, directing him toward the door by the bench.

  They helped him to the locker room. There, the doctor performed his evaluation, asking about symptoms, checking his balance and coordination. Dylan exhibited some confusion over the name of the arena, the current period of play, and the score. He admitted to a headache, slight nausea, and ringing in his ears.

  They administered the test again at five-minute increments for the next fifteen minutes. Dylan's confusion faded. But the rest of his symptoms remained.

  The doctor met Peter's gaze and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dylan. I can't allow you to return to the game."

  Dylan's brows knitted together. "What about game two? Will I miss that one too?"

  "That's two days away so I can't answer that yet. I'll evaluate you again tomorrow. You've had concussions before. You know we can't predict how long it will take you to recover." He shook Dylan's hand, and Peter accompanied him into the hall.

  A scowl darkened Dylan's face as he watched them leave. Blair sat beside him and rested her hand on his thigh. She was scared. Another concussion, however mild, wasn't good. He would be more vulnerable to repeated concussions given his record of them.

  He cast his gaze in her direction. "I don't know that we should trust the other team's doctor. Maybe we should fly Dr. Bisson up here."

  "Dr. Bisson had to miss the trip because his wife had surgery. If Peter or I had administered the same test, we'd have come to the same conclusion. You have another concussion."

  Dylan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Peter returned. "Dylan, Blair, I'm arranging for a ride for you back to the hotel. There's no sense in waiting here to travel back with the team, whenever they finish. Dylan, I want you to lie down and get some rest. I know the diagnosis wasn't what you wanted to hear."

  "You've got that right."

  "Blair, I want you to go with him. Make sure he's settled, and keep an eye on him. I'll handle your duties here."

  "All right." She hurried to the training room to gather her things. Peter stayed with Dylan in case he needed help while changing out of his uniform.

  She met them in the hall. Dylan wore his travel suit and the most devastated expression she'd ever seen. Needing contact, she clasped his hand. He stayed quiet for the short ride to the hotel and didn't speak until he sat on the edge of the bed in his room.

  "I can't believe this happened again." Elbows on his knees, he cradled his head in his hands.

  "Is the headache getting worse?"

  "No." He dropped his hands and slowly raised his head. His eyes were clear but troubled. "I don't like this. It makes me feel so damn weak."

  She crouched down and pulled off his shoes and socks, then worked on the row of buttons on his shirt. "You're not weak. But you are more vulnerable to repeated concussions given your record of them. The threshold is lower."

  His hand closed over hers. "You look upset."

  "Of course, I'm upset. I don't like to see you hurt. I hate that this isn't something I can fix."

  His eyes softened, and both of his hands framed her face. "Having you with me helps."

  Warmth fanned out from her chest. She brushed her lips over his, then resumed opening the buttons. "Let's get you out of these clothes."

  "Is that an invitation?" A half-smile curved his lips and his strong hand cupped her breast. She leaned into his touch for a moment, craving the closeness and needing more.

  "As much as I want to, no. You need to rest. Doctor's orders."

  "He didn't specifically say 'don't have sex'."

  Smiling, she pushed off his jacket and shirt. "Tell me the truth. Do you still have the headache, the nausea, the ringing in your ears?"

  His smile faded and he focused on opening his belt. His silence spoke volumes.

  A touch on his shoulder brought his gaze back to hers. "I want you too, including what's best for you, and right now, that's getting some rest. Your brain needs to heal."

  He kicked free of his pants and eased back until he reclined on the mattress. "You've been with me through both of the other concussions. How long do you think these symptoms will last?"

  She slowly pulled off her shirt and pants and gathered her thoughts. Damn it, he wasn't going to like what she had to say. But downplaying an injury—giving any player a false sense of hope—was never a good idea. And she certainly wasn't going to start lying to the one player who'd staked a claim on her heart. She joined him on the mattress and stretched out by his side. "The best indication of how long a recovery will take is how many symptoms you have and how severe they are. No one can predict how long it's going to take to recover from a concussion just because you've had one before or just because the previous concussion symptoms lasted for a specific period of time."

  He tucked his hand behind his head and faced her. "I can't be out for weeks again. This is it. I have a minimum of four games and a max of seven. Then it's game over."

  "Do you remember the video I showed you of what happens to your brain during a concussion? Playoffs or not, you need to understand the importance of making sure you're really healed before you're allowed back. If you're allowed back."

  His gaze narrowed. "I don't like 'if.' I can't not play."

  Frustration rushed out in her sigh. "Did you hear anything else I just said?"

  "I did. I just... I can't think about that right now." His hand landed on her hip and he pulled her closer. "Please. Just be here with me."

  "Let's get some sleep. We'll see how you're doing in the morning." She switched off the bedside lamp. Sleep would be good for him, it helped the brain recover. He didn't have any of the warning signs; he was awake and able to hold a conversation, his pupils weren't dilated, and he hadn't had any trouble walking.

  "You're staying. I need to know you're here." His eyes drifted closed, and he shifted until his head lay on her chest.

  "I'll be here the whole time." She stroked his head from his temple to his nape in a gentle rhythm. Soon, his breathing grew deep and even.

  Blair lay in the dark staring at the ceiling.

  Three concussions in the span of four months. All of the studies she'd read, all of the data, and all of the symptoms Dylan had previously experienced swirled together.

  Her stomach was sick with worry.

  He shouldn't keep playing. She had to make him understand.

  BENCHED.

  Dylan strode from the doctor's office, riding a wave of anger and frustration. The second game of the finals was only hours away, and he would be forced to watch it from the safety of his hotel room. If he didn't know better, he'd think Blair had been in the doctor's ear. She'd spent hours with him since the concussion diagnosis two nights prior, almost like she'd been afraid to leave him alone.

  His body was betraying him with the stupid headaches that had annoyingly continued. And she knew it just by looking at him.

  Damned inconvenient.

  Blair met him in the hall and slipped her arm around him. "What happened?"

  "No dice."

  "That's not surprising, or a bad thing. Your brain needs rest in order to heal."

  He shook his head. He didn't want to hear that right now. "I need to talk to Coach LeClair."

  "All right. I'll see you later." She kissed his cheek and let him go.

  He found his coach in a windowless room with a laptop open to scouting reports. The TV on the wall disp
layed a cluster of clips from the Bedlam's video software program. "Got a minute?"

  Coach waved him in. "Close the door."

  He closed it hard, then paced to the desk. "The doctor won't clear me. And that's crazy. I'm fine. Can't you do something?"

  Coach sat back in his chair. "You know that's not how it works."

  He did. But still, he needed to feel like someone was on his side. "The collective bargaining agreement states that I'm entitled to a second medical opinion. I want to exercise that right."

  "Dylan, we're in freaking Canada. It's not like we're back home. You're too keyed up to choose a doctor right now. By the time we get the doctor vetted, it would already be game-time. Besides, if his diagnosis doesn't agree with this guy here on whether you're healthy enough to play, then the two of them have to find a third independent physician to make a ruling. There isn't time for all of that. We're flying home after tonight's game so you can see Dr. Bisson and our team neuropsychologist tomorrow. If you pass your baseline testing, and participate in a full practice without issue, then we'll get you back in the game."

  The helpless feeling in his gut threatened to swallow him whole. "The guys need me out there on the ice. I want to be there for them."

  "I know how you feel. I felt the same way when I played." Coach stood and rounded the desk, then put his hand on Dylan's shoulder. "It's only one game."

  "But it's the finals." There weren't that many chances left. Every single second counted.

  "Then take it easy today so you're as healthy as can be for the rest of the series. Hopefully, we'll get you back for game three. That's still a few days away, and a possibility. We do need you in the locker room and on the ice, but we need you to be healed up first."

  "I'll get out of your way and let you figure out how to replace me." He back-stepped to the door. Coach would need to rework the lines or move some guys around.

  "There's no replacing you. The rest of the guys will have to step up to fill the void. They'll do that for you. They did it the other night, playing their hearts out for you after that hit. Don't worry. Go back to the hotel and get some rest."

  "I'm gonna stop by and see the guys first." It didn't matter that he'd see some of the guys when the returned to the hotel for the lull between the morning skate and when they would return to the arena for pre-game. He needed to see them all together as a team.

  Coach raised one brow. "Just make sure you stay off the ice."

  "I'll only go as far as the bench."

  When he reached the rink, his gut twisted. His teammates were on the ice, where he was supposed to be. All at once, he was transported back to the first practice he viewed after his concussion. The isolation had sucked then, and it sucked even more now.

  Vince spotted him and waved.

  Dylan shook himself out of the memory and walked to the bench. All of the guys had noticed him and had skated over.

  Rod pushed off his mask and his face creased in concern. "He didn't clear you."

  "No."

  A mix of huffs and sighs and murmurs of I'm sorry, man and Hang in there followed.

  Dylan eyed Vince, Leo, and Celek. Vince and Celek were the alternate captains, and everyone listened to Leo. The trio would need to keep up the morale and the momentum in the locker room and on the bench. "I'm pissed that I can't be out there with you tonight. So pissed."

  Celek gave him a nod and then turned to the group. "We'll handle it."

  And in that tone of voice, 'handle it' meant play hard and get the win, no matter what.

  Slater pulled off his helmet and ran his hand through his red hair. "If that asshole Nylander is playing tonight, I'll take him out for you, D. No one messes with our captain."

  He had to smile at that. "Thanks, Slater. But they need you on the ice. So don't take any stupid penalties, okay?"

  "I'll only bang him up a little." The rookie didn't look too happy about having to hold back.

  Leo patted the kid on the shoulder. "Getting the win tonight will be a better revenge. So play smart. And yeah," his lips quirked, "only bang him up a little. I plan to do the same, because as you said, no one messes with our captain."

  "He's gonna get 'banged up a little' from all of us tonight. I almost feel bad for the guy. Almost." Vince skated closer and grabbed a water bottle from the bench. "We'll win this tonight for you, D. Use your anger for fuel, channel it into getting better. We'll use ours tonight and kick some Edmonton ass."

  "I wouldn't mind kicking some Edmonton ass." Specifically, Nylander's.

  Celek nodded at him again. "We have your back, man. And we need you back here. So take the doc's advice and get some rest."

  "I will. I'm going." Seeing the guys and talking to them had helped.

  Rod met his gaze. "I'll stop by your room when I get back to the hotel."

  He nodded and waved to the guys, and then walked away from the ice.

  His frustration rebuilt as he exited the building and went back to the hotel. The headache beating like a drum in his skull wasn't helping his mood. But Vince was right, he'd use the anger for fuel. Lying on the bed, he rested while he called his agent, his father, Dr. Bisson, and the neurologist.

  He couldn't wait to get back home to Buffalo, back to his home turf, his own doctors, and to people who would do everything in their power to get him back on the ice as fast as possible.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE HOMETOWN CROWD was electric for game three of the Cup finals. Throughout the first period, the packed-to-capacity crowd had cheered for every goal, every hit, and every penalty killed. After spending the last two games in Edmonton, Blair was happy to be back home in the Bedlam's arena for games three and four of the series.

  She wasn't happy that the doctor had cleared Dylan to play in the game. Only five days had passed since he'd sustained his third concussion of the season. He'd claimed to be completely symptom-free for the past three days, but she had her doubts. She knew him, knew where to look, and he wasn't himself.

  He climbed over the boards for a line change. The ache in her chest bloomed as he glided across the ice. Her concerns hadn't mattered once he'd passed his baseline.

  Beside her, Peter fixed the tape on Slater's wrist. Blair scanned the ice again, checking the players for any apparent injuries. The game moved at top speed and keeping an eye on everyone at the same time was impossible.

  Dylan and Celek chased a loose puck to Edmonton's net. Their skates collided with the sliding body of an Edmonton defensemen who dove to the ice to block the puck from hitting the net. Both men flipped forward, and their feet left the ice. Air-born and upended, they crashed into the boards with a sickening thud. Dylan head-first and Celek landing on top of him.

  Blair gasped. Not again.

  Celek immediately pushed off, patted Dylan's arm, and rejoined the play. Dylan rose very slowly to his feet. Features furrowed in confusion and bewilderment, he raised his gloved hand to his face, then skated down the ice at a slower than normal pace to rejoin the play at the opposite end.

  The whistle blew as the puck went out of play. The ref skated by Dylan and said something as he made a slow loop around Rod. Dylan still seemed to be confused, but he nodded and got in position to take the face-off.

  Blair's stomach turned at the replay on the Jumbotron. She grabbed Peter's arm. "Why is he staying out there? You can see he's shaken up."

  "We'll talk to him when he comes off his shift."

  It was the longest fifty-two seconds of her life. She kept her focus glued to him the entire time. When he got to the bench, Peter laid a hand on his shoulder. "You hit your head pretty hard out there."

  Dylan lifted his shoulders. "I'm fine."

  Blair leaned around Peter as he asked the standard concussion questions and checked Dylan's pupils. He was coherent, but that didn't mean he was completely fine. "You should go in the back so we can properly evaluate you."

  He raised a single brow. "Did the league concussion spotter say that I had to go?"

  "No
."

  "Then I'm not going." Mouth set in a firm line, he faced the ice.

  Discussion over.

  Speechless, Blair looked at Peter. The concussion spotters sat in the press box at every game, equipped with a two-way radio to communicate what they saw with the training staff on the bench. They would properly notify a team of a player demonstrating possible signs of a concussion. Peter's radio had stayed silent. He hadn't received any communication. Frowning, he stepped away, toward the tunnel, and spoke into the radio.

  Blair followed him, glancing back at Dylan every few seconds.

  With a sigh, Peter put away the radio. "The spotter said he doesn't have the authority to have Dylan pulled because his fall didn't fit the guidelines for removal. Protocol states a player must be removed if a spotter sees symptoms in a player who takes a blow to his head or upper torso from another player's shoulder, his head hitting the ice or from a punch to the head. A head-first collision with the boards is not a "mechanism of injury" that allows removal under their guidelines. Being slow to get up does not trigger mandatory removal. The protocol has to be interpreted literally so his hands are tied. They are leaving it up to the medical staff."

  "So we have to wait until intermission and have Dr. Bisson look at him then."

  "Dylan won't go willingly now, and he isn't exhibiting any signs of a concussion so I can't make him go back now for further testing."

  The horn sounded, signaling the end of the period. The players trooped past Blair. She caught Dylan's sleeve. "We want Dr. Bisson to take a look at you."

  "I'm fine. I just had the wind knocked out of me for a second. That's all."

  She didn't back down. "Then let him check you out."

  Peter patted Dylan's shoulder. "Come on, D. I can't force you to go, but I recommend that you do."

  "Then Doc better make it fast." He strode down the hall to the training room and disappeared into the doctor's office.

  She glanced back at Peter. He lifted his shoulder and headed to the training room. Blair followed him, taped up Slater's wrist, and then returned to pace outside the doctor's door.