Authors: Ginger Rapsus
Brandon knew all the sports clichés and used them well, Greta realized.
The second period started. Fans yelled, “Let’s go, Bandits!” They groaned when Mike missed a goal that bounced off the pipe. They moaned louder when Kyle had a goal taken away by the Capitals’ goalie, who had already tied a record for the most saves in a game with Quebec.
Greta was still learning the game, but she could see that the Washington Capitals were a fierce team that kept coming at you and wouldn’t give up anything easily. The game moved so fast, she could hardly keep track of where the puck was. The players on both sides seemed to fly down the ice, racing after that puck, colliding, falling, getting back up, spraying ice. Both goalies protected their nets, assuming butterfly positions, splaying every which way. The Ice Bandits’ goalie did the splits and saved a goal.
One of the Capitals got the puck and controlled it, then broke away.
Brandon skated at top speed after the Capitals player.
No one, including Brandon, was quite sure what happened next. Did he trip on his skates, or on some irregularity in the ice, or was he pushed?
Brandon crashed into the boards. Hard.
The crowd gasped at the impact of the hit. The sound reverberated throughout the packed Arena.
When Brandon didn’t get up, or even make a move, two trainers rushed to his side.
Brandon did not move. He lay still on the cold ice.
The crowd was so quiet, Greta could hear her own heart beating. And it beat harder, and it hurt, when Brandon didn’t move a muscle.
His teammates stood nearby, in shock. The Capitals players, too, watched the trainers bend over the fallen player.
No reaction from Brandon.
The game clock stopped. Time stopped.
Brandon did not move.
The crowd stayed silent as Brandon was placed on a stretcher and carried off the ice.
He didn’t wave, or give a thumbs-up. He lay still.
His teammates stood watching the area where Brandon had gone down, staring at the ice, as if their anxious looks could bring him back. The other Ice Bandits sat on the bench, as quiet as they had ever been. Zach buried his head in his hands. Vyto turned away and held on to the pipes. Even the usually upbeat Mike DeBerry, the one Brandon called “Dingleberry,” stood with a pained look on his face.
Most pained of all was Greta Patton. Her head swam. She couldn’t believe what she had seen, and prayed to wake up from the nightmare.
The game had to continue. But no one wanted it to. Some of the fans walked out of the Arena, stunned by this turn of events. Sure, hockey was a violent game, but who expected this?
Everyone, including the Washington players, wanted to know how their teammate and fellow hockey player was, if he was all right.
If he would ever be all right again.
Coach Jock, as anxious as any of the players, rallied his troops to keep going. They didn’t have much choice. The show must go on.
Within one minute after play resumed, Zach slammed the puck into the net. The Ice Bandits scored and led 1-0. The fans roared.
As the red light flashed on and the horn sounded, Zach pointed to the exit where Brandon had been carried on a stretcher, as if to say, “That goal was for you, Sparky.”
Greta sat still and didn’t stir when Zach scored.
The seconds of the game ticked on. Some fans stayed in the aisles and continued to watch, after the goal, but there were empty seats now. A few younger fans, older ones too, were spooked by the sudden injury to a star player.
Greta watched the clock. She couldn’t look at the game, wondering where and how Brandon was, and if anyone else would get clobbered and knocked out of the game.
An usher approached her. “Are you Greta Patton? Can you come with me, please?”
Her entire body trembled as she walked up the stairs, out of her section, and down a long hall, a very long hall, all the way to the trainer’s room.
Maybe he was asking for her. That would mean he was all right. That had to be it, why they called her to go see him.
The usher brought her at the door of the trainer’s room. No one said a word.
The door was closed. Just as the usher was about to knock, the door opened and the trainer came out. When Greta tried to peek inside, he abruptly closed the door.
“Miss Patton? I have to tell you…”
Greta’s heart dropped to the ground.
“Don’t tell me he died!” She burst out. “Please, don’t tell me he died!”
What the hell was going on?
Last thing Brandon knew, he was skating and defending the puck in Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Final. Now he lay on his back in the trainer’s room, while a bunch of men shouted questions at him.
“Brandon, where are you?”
“Can you squeeze my hand, Brandon?”
“What day is today, Brandon?”
He could give a shit what day it was.
“Game one…” he managed to say.
“Right, Brandon! Do you know where you are?”
He blinked his tired eyes and looked around. His vision cleared, and he stared at the far wall. “The ice…the Arena…”
“Brandon, can you…ouch! Good grip.”
“Do you know who you’re playing, Brandon?”
He tried to move his aching body. Well that was a good sign. He could feel pain. Yes, he certainly could.
“Brandon, what team are you playing?”
He found his voice.
“We are playing the goddam Capitals.”
Greta grabbed the trainer’s shoulders.
“Where is he? Where did you…”
“Calm down, Miss Patton.” The trainer talked in a low, soothing voice. “Brandon is not dead. He took a bad hit, and he was knocked out, but he is not dead. In fact, he’s asking for you…”
So she was right the first time. He was asking for her.
“Brandon is being evaluated for possible injuries. He is awake, and aware of his surroundings, and…”
“God damn it! I told you, get me back on the fuckin’ ice! I gotta play my shift!”
“Sounds like he is awake and alert.” Greta walked to the door of the trainer’s room. “I gotta see him.”
“Miss Patton, we don’t want…”
“I said, I gotta see him. Right now.” She walked straight into the room.
She saw Brandon’s feet, still with his skates on, and a bunch of men surrounding the table where he lay.
“Are you his girlfriend? Miss, you can’t come in here.”
“I already did.” She saw his face then, pale, with his blue eyes looking around the room, looking at her.
“Greta.” His eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and looked incredibly tired.
It took all of Greta’s willpower to keep from embracing him on the table. She had to stay calm.
“Hey, Brandon. What did you do? You scared a lot of people.”
“Including your coach.” The trainers parted to allow Coach Jock to see his fallen player. He bent low, and spoke to Brandon. Greta couldn’t make out what was said.
Coach turned to Greta. “We’re taking him to the hospital, for observation. Did they tell you that, er…sacre coeur, I forgot your name.”
“It’s Greta. Greta Patton.”
Coach could have sworn Brandon was seeing someone named Terri, or Theresa, or something like that, but he couldn’t always keep track of his guys’ social lives.
Brandon was loaded onto a gurney, among his protests that he could get up and walk.
“They’ll evaluate you at the hospital, Taylor,” the head trainer told him. “So far, everything looks okay, but we cannot rule out a concussion. And we have to make sure all is well.”
Greta watched as Brandon was carried out the door and into a waiting ambulance. Damned if there weren’t a bunch of fans hanging around. What did they want, an autograph?
She had no heart for the game anymore, although the Ice Bandits led 2-0. Tony scored right after Zach did. Just as she left the Arena, she heard the P.A. announcer tell the fans that Brandon Taylor had been taken to a hospital for observation, that they suspected a concussion, but he was alert and talking.
Greta had half a mind to follow the ambulance to the hospital, but she figured Brandon would call her as soon as he could. Who else would they call? She was his girl—even Coach Jock knew that—and Brandon’s family was in Pickle Lake, Ontario.
Greta, exhausted and sick after the events of the evening, was ready to fall into her bed when she noticed there was a text message on her cell.
“Greta. Saw the game. Sorry. Pls call & let me know it’s OK. April.”
Her former best friend April got back in touch with her, after Brandon’s scary accident.
Greta guessed all was forgiven, and forgotten, in the wake of what happened to Brandon. Sometimes, after a disaster or a near disaster, arguments and disagreements faded away. What was left was a real friendship. Even after Greta ditched her for Brandon that night at the Sox game.
April had been the best friend anyone could ask for. They’d met in high school and shared all their ups and downs, schoolwork, hassles with their mothers and with assorted boyfriends. Complaining about their jobs. And sharing so many good and fun times.
Greta loved her dearly, and still missed her.
She texted April back. “Pls call. Want to talk.” And apologize.
Greta knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, and looked around her kitchen for something to eat. She found two bags of chips in her cabinet. The label said “low calorie,” so she ate both bags.
She found a hockey game, of all things, to watch on TV. It was the Western Conference Final between the Vancouver Canucks and the San Jose Sharks. Brandon had told her that series would be brutal, and no matter what team the Ice Bandits faced—assuming they’d beat Washington—it would be a battle royal for the Stanley Cup.
At the bottom of the screen, a final score flashed: Chicago 4, Washington 1.
Greta could follow the game better now, and watched as Vancouver tied the game at 2 goals apiece, and it went overtime. All these overtime games. That meant these teams were pretty evenly matched. If only she knew the game a bit better…
Her cell buzzed. April already?
“Miss u & yr talk abt gargoyle. Think 1 hit me.”
Then she knew Brandon would be all right.
“Your beard is really grown out, Zach.”
“Eat your heart out, Vyto. You wish you had all this.”
“When I see a big, full beard,” Vyto responded, “I wonder if there be little crawling things in that beard.”
“Hey, lazy bum.” Zach greeted Brandon as he entered the locker room. “When are you playing again? Don’t do us much good, sitting on the bench.”
“I wish I could play tonight. But I gotta be cleared. I want to do more than just ride the damn bike and skate around.”
Concussions were taken seriously by the Ice Bandits and every other team in the NHL. Brandon had to be checked out every day by the team physician, and had to be cleared by an independent doctor, before he could resume his place in the lineup.
“We need you to beat goddam Capitals.”
“I know that, Vyto. You think I want to just ride the stationary bike all day? I haven’t been cleared for non-contact practice. Not yet, anyway.”
One good thing about not being able to take part in heavy duty practice. He could spend more time with Greta. He found himself spending more and more time at her place. And they weren’t talking about hockey. They were discussing future plans.
Greta would be waiting for him after his light workout at the Arena and his latest checkup. She said she’d make early dinner for him, and they’d pick up their conversation right where they left off.
Brandon got a surprise that afternoon. The team doctor checked him out, evaluating just about every body part. He asked Brandon many questions. And the doctor kept looking into his eyes, watching them track, observing. And then he cleared Brandon to participate in non-contact practice.
“I know you want to get back to work, Brandon. It’s the Conference Final and all. But you can’t fake this. You can tell me you’re feeling better and up to playing, but your reactions don’t lie. After that bad hit you took, I’m surprised to see you are recovering so quickly.”
Tony Goldina got his first start in a playoff game since his days with the Penguins, on the line with Kyle and Mike. Tony was the first star of the game, scoring two goals and an assist. The Ice Bandits were ahead in their series three games to two, and were one win away from the Stanley Cup Final, against either San Jose or Vancouver. Their series was tied 3-3, and whoever won tonight would advance to the Final.
Greta had a lunch date one day that week that was not with Brandon. She took her friend April to lunch at a new place near downtown, where they served April’s favorite kind of food, barbecue. She told April to order as much and as many sides as she wanted.
When they met at the entrance of the restaurant, it was the first time they’d seen each other since the night of that Sox game.
They embraced. Greta told her, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said April. “When I saw what happened to Brandon, I cried. I thought about you right away. I want you to know, I got your texts, and I came so close to just picking up the phone and calling you and trying to straighten things out.”
“You know what, April? I think we should just pick up where we left off. OK, we went to the White Sox game. It’s over. What’s new since then?”
“Well, I have a new job.”
“Really? How do you like it?”
“May I take your orders, ladies?” A waiter stood at the head of the long line of patrons. Customers would give their orders, find their seats, and their meals would be brought to them. It was the best way to take care of the many customers of this restaurant, the best barbecue joint in the area.
Greta ordered a pulled pork sandwich with extra fries, and April ordered a half slab of ribs with corn bread. A hostess found them a table in the back, where the girls could talk and not be bothered.
April told Greta about her new job, an Advanced Practice Nurse, in the Nursing Education department. “I make sure the staff on my units have all their inservices done. I make sure their licenses and CPR stay up-to-date. If there’s something new to learn, sometimes I give the inservice myself. I like it. It’s better than floor nursing, with that head nurse always on your back. And some of the patients could be difficult.”