When it opened, Dylan emerged with a scowl on his face.
She resisted the urge to pounce on him. "Well?"
"I'm fine. I need to get back to the locker room. The second period starts in a few minutes."
Her mouth dropped open. The doctor had seriously cleared him? "You can't go back out and play."
He shoved his hand through his hair and huffed out a sigh. "I'm not staying out of the game because you think I have cartoon birds flying around my head."
"It's a little more serious than cartoon birds. You know concussion symptoms can take a while to show up. Repeated mild concussions occurring within a short period of time, like hours, days, or weeks, can be catastrophic or fatal. You're playing with fire."
"Blair. I need to go." Shaking his head, he stepped around her and headed into the locker room.
Dr. Bisson came out of his office just as Peter arrived from the training room.
Blair stepped in front of the doctor. "Did you even see what happened on the ice? How Dylan's head slammed into the boards? Why didn't you put him in concussion protocol?"
He ran a hand through his silver hair and peered at her through his glasses. "He didn't need to be in it. I checked him out, but he didn't exhibit any concussion symptoms."
She should have expected this from a man who'd cleared Dylan to return to the game mere days after sustaining a concussion. "You know as well as I do that symptoms don't always appear right away. Given his history of head injuries, letting Dylan return to the ice is a reckless decision."
The doctor's face turned red and he puffed up his chest. "I'm not going to stand here and listen to some kid tell me how to do my job. I didn't feel a concussion evaluation was warranted. You're not being objective, Ms. Proch. Your personal relationship with Dylan is making you overprotective."
"Overprotective? The man has had three concussions, two of which were serious, within the past few months. The last one was only a few days ago. I'm not overprotective. I'm taking his medical history into consideration. Like a professional would. Dylan's head slammed into the boards a few minutes ago. He was slow to get up, visibly disoriented, and holding his head. A professional would have pulled his ass from the ice and entered concussion protocol. I've been here long enough to prove that I'm damn good at what I do, to be trusted. My feelings for Dylan aren't getting in the way."
Peter swept in between them. "Guys, that's enough."
The redness in Dr. Bisson's face extended to his ears, burning deeper as the rash worked its way to the tips. He glowered at her. "You're hardly qualified to criticize me. I've been at my job longer than you've been alive."
She glared right back. "When I treat an athlete, I see them as a whole person. All you see is a symbol on a uniform. You're way too cozy with this team. You're more concerned about being associated with a Cup winner. You can't even back up your decision with anything more than a veiled insult at my age."
A shrill blast startled them both into jumping back. Peter dropped the whistle hanging around his neck. "That's enough. We don't need a shouting match in the middle of the hallway. Retreat to your respective corners, or I'll throw ice water on both of you."
Dr. Bisson fixed his glare on Peter. "I've wasted enough time here."
He retreated to his office and slammed the door behind him.
Breathing hard, heartbeat racing, Blair pressed a hand to her chest. "Peter, you don't think I'm wrong, do you?"
"No." He guided her to the empty training room. "I'm not happy that Dylan is allowed to return to the ice either. But the guidelines are crystal clear. Physicians, not trainers, have the final say."
"The wording in the protocol needs to be changed. If the league isn't putting his safety first, and if the team isn't going to insist on it, then what are we even doing here?" She whirled around, gesturing at the tables and equipment. "His life could be on the line."
"Blair..."
Unable to catch her breath, she fought back tears as anger, hurt, and fear swirled into a perfect storm in her soul. "No one knew enough to protect my father when he suffered his concussions, but they sure as hell know better now. Dylan shouldn't have even been allowed to play today. I don't care if he was skating and participated in practice yesterday and insisted that he was fine. He isn't fine. I know him. He hasn't been his usual self."
"One of the things I've always liked about you is your ability to read the players."
"It should be clear to anyone who has watched him over the last several days. The media, the league, the team." Her stomach sank like a lead balloon. "I honestly don't think I want to keep working for an organization that ignores serious issues."
"Before you make any decisions, why don't you take a day or two to think about things?" Peter patted her shoulder. "You're a damn good trainer. The best assistant I've ever had. Whatever you decide to do—stay, go, or send a letter to the league—you'll have my full support."
"Thank you."
Throughout the rest of the game, her thoughts strayed back to Peter's mention of a letter to the league. She needed to get down her thoughts. She also needed to talk to Dylan. He played every shift with his line mates, and the penalty-killing and power play units. Something still seemed off to her. He appeared to be a step behind, to take an extra second to make a decision, things other people might not notice. But she did.
She wondered if he noticed. If he did, then he'd been hiding things from her and the training staff, and that wasn't okay.
The Bedlam won the game. As soon as the final horn sounded, she returned to the training room. She went through her duties and then waited for him in the parking lot. He came out of the building with his brother.
Rod waved. "Are you coming over to the house?"
She looked at Dylan, but he didn't say anything. "I'd like to."
"Cool. Then I'm guessing D will want to ride with you." Rod opened his car door and tossed his gear bag on the back seat, then he took Dylan's bag and piled it in. "I'm gonna swing by Ben's coffee shop for a while. See you guys at home."
He hopped in the car and sped away.
Blair unlocked her car doors. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." His stiff movements could have been due to anger or injury. She couldn't tell. But he climbed into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt into place.
They drove in silence. When they reached his driveway, she cut the engine but didn't move to get out of the car. "We need to talk."
He twisted toward her. His eyes blazing, he spoke through a tight jaw, "Think so?"
Angry. Definitely angry.
He held up his hand. "I'll start. I heard you and Dr. Bisson going at it in the hallway. The whole team heard it. The coaching staff, the equipment staff, the people in the hallway—everyone. I didn't appreciate that."
"I'm sorry. It got heated pretty fast, and we should have moved it to a more private area."
When he didn't say anything further, she continued, "Look, I really don't think you should play anymore. It's too risky. What happened today was like a worst-case situation. It's your first game back after being diagnosed with a concussion five days ago, and you go slamming head-first into the boards."
He blew out a breath. "Listen—"
Ignoring his interruption, she continued to tick off the instances on her fingers one by one. "You missed three weeks with your first concussion, then you came back to play and got your second concussion one week later. You missed six weeks dealing with your symptoms. Then you come back and one month later, boom, you get another concussion. You missed a few days, and on your first game back, bam—another major hit to your head."
"It's not that—"
"Concussions are brain damage. I don't know if you truly don't understand that or if you're just refusing to take it seriously."
He leaned his head back and stared at the sunroof. "I do understand. But we're so close to winning it all. We can finish this in one more game."
"What if you lose? What if they manage to pull off a comeback? Are you goi
ng to play again next year, go through a long, grueling season so you can chase the Cup all over again?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "I don't know."
"This is your brain we're talking about. It's not like a torn ACL or a broken leg. You can suffer long-term effects for the rest of your life. Look at all of the players who have been diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome. Some of them are suffering a lot." Like her father. The depression, the mood swings, the headaches and memory problems. She shivered against the rising fear that Dylan was next. "You're hurting yourself. You need to stop playing. All of those checks and hits add up too. You haven't been playing like your usual self. You haven't been your usual self. If I could keep you out of the lineup, I would."
A scowl darkened his features. "Then I'm glad you don't have that authority."
Gaping at him, she placed a hand over her stomach. His words gutted her. Didn't her feelings, her fear, matter? Didn't her opinion carry any weight at all? Would it always be this way between them?
She forced her anger to cover the hurt. "But I did call the league's player safety committee during the second intermission to express my disapproval over the wording in the protocol guidelines. If they watch video of your fall, they'll see how hard your head hit the boards. That should be grounds for immediate removal, same as it is for a head hitting the ice."
"You called the league?" Icy fury frosted his gaze. "Reaching the Cup finals is what I've been waiting for my entire life. If you really cared about me, you'd see how much I need this and you'd give me your support, not try to take me away from it."
"You know what I live with, dealing with my dad's post-concussion issues. You know how much it scares and hurts me to see you out there stubbornly putting yourself in danger. If you cared about me, you'd put your health first. There's a lot more to life than playing hockey. You're only thirty-one. You should be thinking about the future, about what happens once your career is over."
His gaze narrowed and his brows drew together. "It sounds like you're giving me an ultimatum: hockey or you."
Breaking inside, she wrapped her arms around her torso. She would put his health first, even if he wouldn't, and even if it costs her a relationship that she was beginning to count on. "I guess I am."
"I don't think that's fair. I do care about you but..." He rubbed his hand over his forehead. "I'm not going to stop playing. I can't."
She nodded, feeling her heart turn to straw in her chest. "Then I guess there's nothing more to say."
Dylan clicked open his seatbelt. His gaze held hers, then roamed over her face. Regret, sadness, want, and defiance swirled in his eyes. He opened the door, and a moment later, he was gone.
Blair started the car and pulled out of the driveway. Deflated and defeated, she headed home.
Writing down her grievances in a letter to the league was a good idea. Sharing it with the world was an even better one. If it was too late to help Dylan, she would make damn well sure that she was able to help someone else.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AS THE MINUTES COUNTED down to the start of game four, Dylan sat in the locker room, observed his fellow teammates, and tried to get a handle on his thoughts.
The pounding in his head was impossible to ignore. The pain relievers he'd downed hadn't kicked in, and the lights in the room were too damn bright. He needed the series to be over after the game. He wasn't sure if his body could take going through another sixty minutes of play, not the way it felt.
Blair had been right. He knew it. Not that he could tell her. Not that she would listen. He'd ruined things there, and she was nowhere to be found. But the open letter she'd written, a scathing report on concussions and protocol and changes that needed to be made—that had gone viral. Every media outlet and sports site had picked it up, and linked him to it. The team and the doctor had drawn strong criticism and the topic had dominated the series.
He didn't like the extra scrutiny and speculation. He was sure the team and the league didn't either. But again, she'd been right.
Standing, he tucked thoughts of Blair away and prepared to lead his team to victory. He needed to make the win happen. Too many people depended on him. Hell, the entire city was in a frenzy.
And if playing today was going to cost him his shot with Blair, then there damned well better be a win and the Cup at the end of the game.
He walked to the middle of the locker room and waited until the guys quieted down. "I'll keep it simple. Play for each other. This is our time. Our chance. Our Cup. You know your roles. Let's get it done."
He raised his hand in the air. "Bedlam on three. One, two, three..."
"Bedlam!" The combined shout of twenty-two voices made him wince. He forced a smile and strode to the door, tapping each teammate on the shoulder as they exited the room.
Leo, Rod, Vince, and Celek hung back. Rod waited until everyone else had exited the room. "You okay?"
Dylan averted his gaze to the back wall. "Sure."
"Dylan." Leo stepped forward. "You're not okay. You were slower than usual during the warm-ups."
"Just a little headache. Come on, let's get out there."
"What if it's not a little headache?" Rod's voice had grown quiet. "You're wincing at the lights. What if it's another concussion? Just like Blair was worried about. Dylan, you should let Dr. Bisson know that you're not okay. It's dangerous to go out there if you have one."
"I'm getting out on that ice." Anger, frustration, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, heating his blood and firing his muscles in a vicious surge. The worry on his friends' faces loaded him with guilt, making him feel even worse. He rubbed his hand over his chest. "It's so close, guys. So close. I can't not play. I figured if anyone would understand, you would. If we can just win today, and get the sweep... then I won't have to worry about trying to play through a game five, six, or seven."
Leo stepped between them and laid his hands on both Dylan and Rod's shoulders. "All right. Everyone needs to calm down. If Dylan is going to play, then we're going to have his back and help him out."
Celek stepped forward and placed his hand on Dylan's other shoulder. "You've always been there for us. We'll get you through the game."
Beside him, Vince nodded. "You've led us for years, captain. You can count on us now."
Rod still looked unconvinced, but then he sighed. "I'll keep the puck out of the net. The rest of you better keep my stubborn brother in one piece and get a win for him."
"I wanted this win for all of us, not just me."
Rod met his gaze again, and the light of battle glinted there. "Then let's do it. Together."
As a unit, they walked down the hall.
The crowd's roar was deafening as the team skated onto the ice. Energy poured through the arena. The pressure in his chest tripled. So many people were counting on them. They'd come so far, they couldn't fail now.
When the puck dropped, he focused on the game, the next play, and then the next. Adrenaline spiked and remained so high, the pain in his head faded from awareness.
Hard-fought and heavy hitting, the game flew by. Leo and Celek checked hard, banging bodies away from him. The team rallied around them. No stupid penalties, no big mistakes, but the puck couldn't find its way into the net.
The third period ticked down to its final minutes and both teams were still scoreless.
"Last minute of play in the third period." The PA announcer's voice, normally calm, was tinged with excitement.
From his place on the bench, Dylan cursed, drawing a tap from Leo. Their line had received the most ice time. His headache had revived, and his limbs felt like rubber. He didn't want to sit through another intermission and then overtime.
Coach LeClair sent his line back on the ice. They kept up pressure in Edmonton's zone, getting two shots on goal. Their goalie deflected the first one right onto Celek's stick. He fired the puck but the shot went wide. Nylander, the Edmonton defensemen who'd cross-checked Dylan in game one, knocked
the puck toward the boards, but it careened off and headed to Dylan at center ice. He let his slapshot fly, his heart in his throat, a lifetime of dreams soaring with it. The puck sailed over the goalie's shoulder and hit the back of the net.
Dylan's mouth dropped open. He blinked.
The puck was definitely in the net. The goal light and horn went off. The arena shook with the cheers from the fans.
Leo grabbed him in a hug. "You fucking beat him. Finally." He shifted his body so that he took the brunt of the weight as their teammates on the ice crowded around them.
He quickly skated to the bench and high-fived his teammates. Coach told his line to stay on the ice.
Fifteen seconds remained in the game. Edmonton pulled their goalie and put on an extra forward. Desperation and determination fueled Dylan's every move as he skated and checked and blocked with everything he had. They just had to hang on...
The seconds counted down. Whistles and cheers came from the crowd. They were already on their feet. He couldn't let them down. He threw his full weight into his next check. He stopped the player but not the puck.
It headed toward Rod, with an Edmonton winger and Leo battling to reach it. Rod would handle it. He had to. Rod skated forward and sent the puck to Vince. The defenseman zoomed down the ice and shot the puck at Edmonton's empty net as the time clock ticked down to zero.
The horn sounded, announcing the end of the game just as the puck crossed the goal line.
The crowd erupted in cheers. He'd never heard them that loud. Confetti and streamers rained down from the rafters.
Breathing hard, Dylan tossed his stick aside and rushed to join his celebrating teammates. The bench players spilled onto the ice, throwing themselves into the throng of blue jerseys.
Dylan found Rod in the chaos. His brother's smile was as wide as his own. Rod pulled him into a hug. "Man, we did it."
"Together." Dylan rested their helmets together for a moment. This was special. They'd talked about it countless times as kids—playing on the same team as their dad and winning a Cup together. He searched the crowd until he saw his parents. Tears streamed down his dad's face and his mom looked so proud. He owed them so much for all they'd done over the years. He caught Kelsey waving at him from the tunnel. Having her as a part of the team, as a part of the experience, was more than he could ask.
Taking His Shot Page 7