On the Surface (In the Zone) (29 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Finally home from the road trip, the Barracudas were playing the San Jose Sharks. The Sharks were one of the most physical teams in the league. A couple of years ago, they’d fought Los Angeles so hard in the Conference Semi-Finals that the Kings never fully recovered and eventually failed to win a spot in the Finals. But Tim knew the Barracudas could beat them. In the wild, Barracudas were wily and lightning-quick. Sharks were slow and stupid, and those characteristics seemed to hold true with the hockey teams as well.

Only a few minutes remained before the on-ice warm-ups. Tim bobbed his head to the heavy pounding beat of the song playing in the dressing room. With the exception of rap, Tim pretty much liked it all, as long as it got the team going. They talked about the upcoming match and guys pointed out shit to focus on.

“Sharks killed us with possession last month,” Carpenter said. “I heard Summerhayes yakking it up on Fox about that game.”

“What’d he say?” Tim asked, tightening the straps on his elbow pads.

Carpenter pulled on his shoulder pads. “Basically, he said we played like pussies and should leave hockey to guys that can hold onto the puck.”

The determination in the room ratcheted up a couple of notches.

“I’m gonna shoot the puck right up Summerhayes’s condescending asshole,” Alex said.

Tim laughed. Alex Sullivan was always wanting to shove, shoot or ram shit up other guys’ assholes.

Jason wrapped tape around the top of his sock, around and around. “I’d rather see you shoot it in the net, Sully.”

Everyone knew Alex had been pissed off about not scoring in the past five games.

There was laughter as Alex flipped Jason off.

Tucking the roll of tape under his arm, Jason returned the favor. “Just keep it out of their zone, guys. Out-skate them. Choose your hits. And poke-check like a motherfucker.”

Chapter Forty-Two

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE MESA ARENA, HOME TO YOUR SAN DIEGO BARRACUDAS!”

Erin put her purse underneath her seat as the emcee continued his pre-game announcements. Claire got settled next to her.

So much had changed since that first game they’d attended together. Erin remembered arguing with Tim about the absurdity of all the fighting. She’d thought it was empty-headed, testosterone-driven posturing, and granted, some of it was. Once, a few moments before a face-off, she saw Alex Sullivan calmly invite one of the Calgary Flames to a little dustup. Tim told her later they’d done it because the play had been stale up until that point. Both teams needed a little boost of energy. So, the moment the puck dropped, the two of them flung their gloves aside and whaled on each other, slipping and sliding and probably landing one punch out of six until Alex lost his balance and they both fell. The officials swept in and broke it up but she could feel the energy in the arena had risen considerably.

“ON TONIGHT’S INJURED LIST FOR THE SAN JOSE SHARKS...”

The violent checks against the boards she now understood were part of the game, like tackling was part of football. Sometimes they slammed into one another to gain control of the puck or make the other guy lose it. Sometimes it was in retaliation. Sometimes it was intimidation. Many games were won and lost in the players’ heads. Confidence was key, and size and ferocity played an important part.

“AND PLAYING TONIGHT FOR THE SHARKS: NUMBER 42, RIGHT WING, JON SUMMERHAYES...”

These days, when she saw Tim upend someone in the neutral zone or slam into a guy so the glass rattled and the boom echoed even above the noise of the crowd, she felt a thrill of excitement and pride. She was proud of his athleticism and how he rarely got put in the penalty box for boarding or roughing.

“AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME YOOOOUUUR SAN DIEGO BAAAARACUUUDAS!”

As the bright white lights dimmed and blue laser beams swooped this way and that, the air vibrated from the dramatic tympani drumbeats and the Barracudas took the ice. The starting home players circled their half of the ice, while the Sharks zipped around theirs. Erin spotted Tim right away. As he drew near, she blew him a kiss and he gave a slight nod like he always did, looking calm and focused. She realized she’d miss this almost as much as he would when he retired.

After the national anthem, the lights came up and everyone assumed their positions. Jason had the opening face-off. Tim stood to the side, stick at the ready, body angled toward center ice. Erin leaned forward too. Her body thrummed with anticipation as she trained her eyes on Tim. The puck dropped. The clock started. Game on.

Chapter Forty-Three

Eight minutes into the first period, Tim had the puck and was heading toward the Sharks’ zone when another player body checked him. Tim hit the ice hard. The play continued past the blue line, but he was slow to get up. Wisely, he headed directly for the bench.

As the stars continued to circle in front of his eyes, Tim squirted water in his mouth and spat it out. He took deep breaths, hoping the oxygen would help clear his head.

Yarnell, one of the doctors, leaned close. “Hey, Tim, how you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“Can you tell me what team we’re playing today?” This was standard procedure to determine if a player had sustained a concussion.

“The Sharks,” Tim replied. Water. Spit. Breathe. Repeat.

“What period is it?”

“First.” He watched the action down by the San Jose net. The Barracuda offense was setting up a play they’d practiced just that morning.

“What’s the score?”

“1-1.”

But a moment later, Alex buried one in the net, the horn sounded and the red lamp lit up.

Tim grinned as Alex slapped the glass jubilantly before bumping heads with his teammates on the ice. “Correction. The score is two fucking one.”

* * *

After the second intermission, San Jose came out all fired up. The score was tied at three, and Tim had scored two of those three goals, so the fans were looking and hoping for one more from him.

Against all odds, Tim had scored five hat tricks this season, more than he’d scored in his entire previous career. He’d never been so on fire. No way he could surpass Gretzky’s lifetime stat of fifty, but if he continued at this rate and stayed with the Barracudas, he had a shot at the franchise record of twenty-one. It had gotten to the point where after he’d scored twice, the home crowd would wave their hats in the air whenever he was on the ice, encouraging him to nail the hat trick. A staffer had told him hat sales at the arena retail store continued to climb. As a result, he’d begun to really feel the pressure. Under normal circumstances, he wanted to help his team as much as possible, whether by being in position, assisting or scoring, whatever it took. However these days, when he had two goals, all he could think about was scoring the third. Erin had no idea he was shooting for the franchise record, but if and when he made it, he wanted to be the one to tell her about it.

Now Tim’s line came out for a face-off. Mike Primavera was in the penalty box for interference, so the Barracudas were down one man for the fourth time tonight. Number-one priority right now was to kill the penalty and clear that puck out of their zone for the next two minutes.

Locke won the face-off and Alex nabbed the puck. Finding himself largely alone, Tim hauled ass toward the Sharks’ zone, hoping for a short-handed goal, but Summerhayes stole the puck.

In addition to being physical, the Sharks were a fast team. Summerhayes was one of the fastest and looked good for a breakaway of his own. The tension in the arena spiked.

Clear the puck.
Clear the puck.

Suddenly, the puck got away from Summerhayes, and Tim was right there to snap it up.

Instantly, both teams shifted the other way.

Adrenaline pumping, Tim could almost taste his sixth hat trick. The fans were waving their hats and roaring as he sped through the neutral zone. Alex shouted at him as he glided into a beautifully open area to the left of the crease. Tim pretended he didn’t hear. No way was he passing that puck. He could make this shot. He had to make this shot.

A small shift in direction.

A marking of the trajectory in his mind.

He had his stick back, ready, his gaze locked with their goalie, when at the last moment he noticed Scott Hickey, the Sharks’ biggest player, coming right at him.

Chapter Forty-Four

“Watch out!” Erin cried out in alarm.

But she was too late. Tim had already taken another hard hit.

Oh God
,
not again.

She jumped to her feet, one hand over where her heart would be if it wasn’t lodged in her throat.

Alex Sullivan sped over to shove the Shark who had checked Tim. The guy shoved back. Most of the attention was on the two shouting, belligerent players, but Erin watched Tim. She was at the glass, her hands flat on the cold surface. He lay chillingly still fifteen feet away.

Claire whimpered, wringing her hands. On the ice, the referees stepped in even though nothing had come of the shoving match.

The arena was largely silent. One of the linesmen steadied the doctor’s arm as they both hustled toward Tim, some twenty feet away. Players from both teams milled around, concerned. Tim was still motionless. Two more men hurried with a stretcher and gurney, and Erin felt the beginnings of panic in her intestines. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t do anything except watch.

God
,
please let him be okay.

The crowd gave a low murmur of encouragement as Tim finally moved. The doctor put his face close to Tim’s. Suddenly, as if someone had applied a defibrillator to her chest, her body restarted. He wasn’t dead. The doctor was talking with him.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t have some other horrific injury. He had a grade-three concussion for certain. Any loss of consciousness no matter how short qualified as grade three. He also might have a fractured clavicle, a spinal fracture, an epidural hematoma... With each possibility, the anxiety built. Powerless and afraid, she realized this was what Tim must have felt like when Mollie was sick and dying. Except he’d had to endure it for an agonizing two years.

The on-ice consultation continued as the doctor crouched next to Tim. Claire was talking, but Erin didn’t pay any attention to her. The medical staff and players blocked her view no matter how far she leaned left or right. The crowd erupted into a cheer when they got Tim onto the gurney, but Erin didn’t join in. She still couldn’t see if they’d put a cervical collar on him, not even on the big screen. Wrong angle there too.

“Oh my God, what do we do, Erin?” Claire asked. “They’ll bring him to the hospital, right?”

“Yes, they will. Just be quiet and let me think.”

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. What hospital would they take him to? Her mind raced. The Harbor Med Center? Newton Presbyterian?

A gate opened where the Zamboni usually came out and they wheeled Tim off the ice, the entire group moving in unison. Too many people around him still. The cheering continued, making it hard to think. Stupid people! They had no idea how he was doing. He could be paralyzed. He could be bleeding internally.

She stopped that train of thought. It didn’t do any good to barrel down that road.

Who would know where he was being taken? She could call Jason Locke or Alex Sullivan, but their cell phones were probably in their dressing room stalls. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d physically charge the bench and demand the coaches or one of the other players tell her. But security would be on her in a flash. Sure, they were all nice when a player cleared it ahead of time...

Suddenly, she realized who could give her the information she needed. James Atwater. He would know where they were taking Tim, and if he didn’t, he could find someone who did.

Thank God she had his phone number.

Chapter Forty-Five

Tim woke with one mother of a headache. He opened his eyes just enough to register the dim hospital room, then closed his eyes again. Fuck.

He remembered coming to, face down on the ice with serious, teeth-gritting leg pain. One of the Barracuda docs had been there, asking questions he couldn’t seem to understand. He didn’t remember the ride to the hospital. He did remember trying to talk to medical personnel. He thought Erin had been there at some point, but he couldn’t be sure. Everything was so damn fuzzy.

His Swiss cheese memory of the night before scared him. Ever since the deaths of those three enforcers and Sid Crosby’s well-publicized struggle with persistent concussion symptoms in 2011, the dangers of brain injury had become more worrisome to Tim. The long-term effects of repeated concussion were a hot topic in professional sports. No doubt about it, hockey was dangerous, but every player knew this going in. No one joined the NHL ignorant of the dangers.

Hell, Tim clearly remembered the first time he’d been seriously hurt during a game—a torn MCL, very painful. He’d been eleven. During that same game, a teammate separated his shoulder and ended up quitting hockey because of it. Not Tim. No way. He loved the game too much. He’d begged his parents to move to Canada, or at the very least get a house that had a backyard big enough for a homemade rink, neither of which ever happened. Still, he’d made it into the NHL, the most elite hockey league in the world.

Knowing sleep allowed the body to repair itself, he dozed off and woke up what he thought was a couple of hours later. Sunlight peeked through the blinds, which had been drawn pretty tight. Carefully, he turned his head. His movement caught Erin’s attention. She jumped out of the chair near the corner and was at his side at once.

She palmed his cheek gently, her eyes filled with worry and concern and love. “Hey,” she said softly. “How do you feel?”

“Did we win?”

She frowned. “You’re impossible. You’re lying there with a grade-three concussion and a broken tibia, and the first thing you want to know is did you win?”

“That about sums it up.”

She sighed heavily. “No. You lost.”

“Shit.”

“Now answer my question.”

“I’ve been better,” he admitted.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Bits and pieces. Enough.” He lifted up the covers and saw a splint on his lower leg. “A broken tibia. How long does that take to heal? After rehab and shit, could I be back on the ice by April?”

Erin stared at him for a long moment with a tight expression.

“You’re worried about the Cup Finals,” she ventured.

“I sure as hell am. That’s the whole point of everything I do every day. The strict diet, the workouts, the practice...” Jesus, his head hurt.

She reared back slightly, as if he had bad breath. Which he probably did. He should probably have softened his tone, but he really wasn’t in the mood to argue.

Then her eyes narrowed.

“You know, I have no idea whether you’ll be healthy by April,” she said with fake flippancy. “I don’t know if you’ll be healthy ever. Because you have a fucking grade-three concussion, Tim! Don’t you get that?”

He scowled at her. First off, he didn’t like hearing the F-word come out of her mouth. Not in this context anyway. Second, he was injured in the hospital and she was giving him shit for caring about the Stanley Cup.

“Erin, I got my bell rung. It happens probably every 8.6 minutes in hockey. It’s no big deal.” He said that, even though it was utter bullshit. He knew damn well anytime a player was knocked unconscious, it was cause for concern. But he was a man, goddamn it, and he wasn’t going to take this lying down. Even if he was, technically, lying down.

“It
is
a big deal,” she cried. “It’s a huge deal to me. I love you. We’re getting married. You know what that means? It means that when you get knocked out on the ice, I get scared. Like, I-want-to-vomit scared. So the least you can do is not treat me like I’m freaking out over a black eye.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, like somehow that would alleviate the pain building behind his eyes.

“Furthermore,” she went on, “I don’t care if it’s hockey or football or F-ing hopscotch, a grade-three TBI could be serious shit. We’re talking brain damage.” She jammed a forefinger against her temple for emphasis. “If you rattle your brain around too much, bad things happen. If you want a list, I’ll be happy to print one out for you, but on top of the list is depression and a tendency to commit suicide.” He opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. “I know. That’s all speculation, but if there’s even a one percent chance of that happening, I think it’s worth avoiding.”

He scoffed. “So, what...you want me to quit hockey? Because of a one in ten thousand, or whatever the hell it is chance I’ll decide I hate life and swallow a handful of sleeping pills? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Only a moron makes decisions based on odds like that. Now if it’s all right with you, I’m really tired and I’d like to take a nap.”

That was no lie. He suddenly felt drained of energy. He was tired of fighting with her. He just wanted to be left alone so he could fucking go to sleep.

Erin’s chin went up. Her mouth tightened. “Oh, sure. That’s fine. The best thing for you is rest,” she snapped, grabbing her purse as if it were a toddler who had wandered off one time too many. “But when you wake up, I want you to think about something. You said only a moron makes decisions based on impossible odds. But you know what? That’s exactly what you did when you decided not to have any more children.”