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*   *   *

The Boston fans gave me a nice ovation when I was introduced before the game. But the rest of the night was downhill. Boston took nineteen shots—to our five—in a scoreless first period in which I was as outgunned as the guys at the Alamo.

Luther Brown scored on me in the second period and two minutes later Jean-Baptiste gave Boston a 2–0 lead when he roofed a bottle knocker. Picard pulled me for a sixth attacker with a minute to play and we made it 2–1 when Joe Latendresse wrong-footed Rinky. But that was all we could do. The series stood at two games to one in Montreal's favor. Because we had an early practice I figured it would be best if my headache and I stayed at the team's hotel.

I met Faith outside the dressing room after the game.

“Good game,” she said.

“Not good enough.”

“How's your head?”

“Still hurts. And I'm not seeing the puck clearly.”

“Promise me when this is over you'll get your head checked out by someone who's not a team doctor.”

“My fiancée's a doctor.”

“Your fiancée would nail your butt to the bench if it was up to her,” she said, pulling me toward her for a kiss.

“Hey, none of those goddamn public displays of affection in here.” It was Cam's father. He and Diana were on their way to the Boston dressing room to meet Cam. We shook hands.

“Goddamn shame you guys having to play each other like this,” Cam's dad said.

“Terrible,” Diana said. “I don't see how anyone could let that Hattigan person run a team.”

That's when Cam's father told us he'd tried setting up a meeting with Gabe Vogel to make an offer to buy the Bruins. First Gabe turned him over to a couple of corporate vice presidents. “Let me tell you something about Gabe Vogel and his goddamn vice presidents,” Cam's father said. “Top-shelf people hire top-shelf people; second-shelf people hire bottom-shelf people.”

“So what'd you do?” Faith asked.

“Told them I needed a meeting with Gabe. They asked me for how long. I said ten minutes but I didn't think I'd use all of it.”

“What's the strategy?' I said.

“Throw down a cashier's check for twenty percent more than his team is worth and give him ten minutes to take it or leave it. He'll be on it like a goddamn nose whore on a line of coke.”

“Why overpay?” Faith asked.

“I don't buy things for what they're worth, I buy them for what I can make them worth. First thing I do when I buy this team is fire Hattigan. Second thing I do is bring JP here back to Boston where he belongs,” the Deuce said, tapping me on the chest.

“Come on, Cameron, we'll be late,” Diana said, grabbing her husband's arm and pulling him toward the Bruins dressing room.

*   *   *

“If that man ever teaches a course at the Harvard Business School, I'm taking it,” Faith said. “Can he do that?”

“Do what?”

“Bring you back to Boston?”

“Sure. Montreal is only renting me for the final months on my contract. I can sign with anyone come July 1. But until then I'm a Canadien.”

We were walking toward the team bus when I said: “Don't suppose you'd want to tell me what Cameron C. Carter the Third wants with a half million dollars of my hard-earned if socially undeserved money.”

“I promised Cam I wouldn't. I can tell you you'll be happy with the investment.”

“Well, if I'm not, Cam guaranteed the half mil.”

“Actually, I guaranteed the half mil, JP.”

“I'm surrounded by conspirators,” I said as I approached the bus. Faith squeezed my hand before she headed toward the elevator to the parking garage.

*   *   *

A casual fan might think it's hard to play against old teammates and friends, especially if you know you might go back to the team you're playing against. But no player thinks or feels that way. No one ever said it better than the late Herb Brooks, who coached the 1980 USA Olympic team to a gold medal. “You play for the name on the front of the shirt not the one on the back.” The Bruins weren't enemies but they were opponents. I wanted to beat them.

Game 4 started well. Montreal controlled the play and we had four power plays to Boston's one, scoring on two of them to take a 2–0 first period lead into the dressing room. I still wasn't seeing the puck well but I was stopping it, which in this business is all that counts.

“Careful next period, guys, the refs'll be looking to even it up,” Picard said between periods. He was right. Refs tell you they call what they see. But count the penalties to each team at the end of a game. They're usually close to even.

Sure enough, Justin Pelletier got whistled for interference in the first minute and Boston scored on the power play. Three minutes later we were down a man again and Boston tied the game at 2–2. I figured the refs would let us play in the final period. I figured right.

The third period of that game was the best of the series, a clinic of quick breakouts and tic-tac-toe passing. Rinky made a few unlikely saves. So did I. The Boston fans were going crazy. I got caught up in the excitement, which is probably why I thought I could win a race with Gaston Deveau. We were pressing the Bruins when Cam got the puck and spotted Gaston breaking through center ice behind our defense. Cam hit him with a pass that bounced off Gaston's stick and rolled toward the face-off circle to my right. You don't really think at times like this. You react. I felt I could beat Gaston to the puck so I darted from my net. I hadn't gone ten feet when I knew the race was closer than I'd figured so I dived—headfirst. The game tape showed that I won the race and knocked the puck to a Montreal back-checker. But I don't remember any of that because just as I hit the puck, Gaston's knee hit my head. I felt a thud on the left side of my helmet and then it was lights-out. When I regained consciousness my leg pads, skates, helmet, and gloves had been removed and I was strapped to a stretcher that Marc Wilson and two EMTs were loading into an ambulance. Faith arrived just as the EMTs were about to close the doors. “I'm his doctor,” Faith told the EMTs, who let her jump into the back of the ambulance. “And I should be sued for malpractice,” she said to me. As the ambulance doors closed, one of the clubhouse boys handed Faith my street clothes.

What happened back at the Garden was that my backup goalie, Ryan McDonough, went into the game and let in three of the first six shots he faced for a 5–2 Boston win that tied the series at two games each.

What happened in the ambulance was a seminar on concussions conducted by the charming, soft-spoken, and ever compassionate Dr. Faith McNeil. “Jesus Christ All-freaking-mighty, Jean Pierre, can I ask you a personal question? What do you plan on using for brains for the rest of your life?”

“Is there a radio in this thing? Can we listen to the game?” I said.

“No. There's no radio. There's no wet bar. There's no CD changer. There's no cable TV. We're in a goddamn ambulance on our way to Massachusetts General Hospital because you have a concussion. Do you know what happens in a concussion, JP?” I figured that was a rhetorical question so I didn't say anything. “What happens is that a few million brain cells—this would be your alleged brain we're talking about here—slam against the inside of your skull. Basically, a concussion is a bruise on your brain. You'll recover from the symptoms but some of the damage can remain. It can be cumulative. It's very serious, JP.”

“So are the playoffs,” I said.

Faith looked up, drew a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and took my catching hand, which was all clammy and taped up; she kissed it anyway. “I know it's important, hon. I know it's your life and your work. But head injuries have ended a lot of careers.” She mentioned former NHLers Pat LaFontaine and Brett Lindros. “I think you're done for this season. After that…” The words hung in the air for a few seconds before she said, “… I don't know. It's up to you.”

*   *   *

I said I could walk into the hospital but the EMTs insisted on wheeling me in. One of our trainers had phoned ahead so the hospital was expecting me. “We can do a brain scan right now, Mr. Savard,” said a young woman whose name tag identified her as Ella Rae, M.D.—Neurology. “I think you'll be spending the night with us.” I asked her if she had a final on the game. “Five-two Boston,” she said. “What's the schedule now?” I told her Game 5 was set for Friday in Montreal and Game 6 back in Boston on Sunday afternoon. “If we need a Game Seven it'll be Tuesday in Montreal,” I said. “You think I can make any of those?”

“I'm not supposed to guess, but no. I reviewed Dr. Wynn's records before you came in tonight. I know he saw you for a concussion a few weeks ago.”

“And I'm pretty sure he got another one in Game One,” Faith said.

“Squealer,” I said.

“We're going to do some computed axial tomography. A CAT scan,” she said. “Should take about twenty minutes. It helps us determine the extent of any damage to the brain tissue. Let me know if you have any questions.”

“Do you have a Sharks-Ducks score?”

“Scoreless. Just started,” she said.

“Celtics?”

“Lost to Denver 101–98. Iverson had 42. He's on my NBA fantasy team.”

“Red Sox?”

“It's 2–0 Boston top of the third in Seattle. Two-run homer by Ortiz in the first. Sweet for me. He's on my baseball fantasy team.”

“Am I on your NHL fantasy team?”

“Jesus Christ,” Faith said before Dr. Rae answered.

“Truthfully, I drafted Claude Rancourt of Montreal,” Dr. Rae said. “But I took you when Rancourt got hurt.”

“So did the Canadiens,” Faith said.

“Who else is on your fantasy team?” I asked.

“Brad Pitt,” she said.

*   *   *

I had the CAT scan and a few other tests. It was almost midnight when I got the official diagnosis of a concussion. “I'm afraid you're out for the rest of the playoffs,” Dr. Rae told me after she'd looked at the tests. “We'd like to keep you overnight. We'll probably release you in the morning. We can give you a private room.”

“I can take him off your hands,” Faith said.

“And your relationship to Mr. Savard is…?”

“Parole officer,” Faith said before she explained she was a doctor.

Dr. Rae handed me some pills—“These are milder than what you've been taking,” she said, then called for a wheelchair. I stood up to show her I could walk and didn't need a wheelchair, hospital policy or not. I changed into my street clothes and threw my game uniform and chest-and-arm protector into a huge plastic trash bag that I thought was a pretty good metaphor for where my career might be heading. We took a cab back to the Garden to get the Ferrari.

I wasn't nauseated so Faith made us a late-night dinner of a mushroom omelet with a spinach salad and crostini with melted Gorgonzola. I thought about watching the last period of the Ducks-Sharks West Coast game but I didn't really want to. What I wanted to do was sleep.

“I'm sorry I got mad at you in the ambulance,” Faith said as we got into bed. “It's just that I hate to see what you've been doing to yourself these last few weeks.”

“I've just been trying to win the thing, you know. Get my name on the Cup.”

“Well, you're off the hook now. You've got a legitimate injury that should keep you out of the playoffs.”

“We can argue about that later,” I said, turning onto my right side and slipping my left arm around Faith, who was wearing one of my V-necked T-shirts and doing more for it than I ever did.

*   *   *

The sun had been up for a couple of hours when Faith woke up for the very good reason that my left hand had found its way under her T-shirt.

“Mmmm. Feeling better, are we?” she said. “How's your headache.”

“Still there but not bad. Like it moved into a back room of my brain.”

“Well, we don't want to aggravate it, soooo,” Faith said, turning toward me and half rising from the bed. “I'm going to do something that will make this very easy for both of us.” And she did. She surely did.

It seemed strange to have a whole day to ourselves. No practice, game, or travel for me. No classes or meetings for Faith. “Let's take a walk,” she said.

It was a warm day in mid-May and the morning air smelled of wet earth and new-mown grass. A sprinkle of pink apple blossoms fell from the dwarf crab apple tree on Faith's front lawn. We held hands as we wandered east toward Boston College, past the football stadium—“the House that Doug Flutie built,” Faith called it—past St. Ignatius Church, halfway around the Chestnut Hill Reservoir, across several acres of baseball fields, and into the village of Cleveland Circle.

“Got to have a slice of Pino's Pizza. Best in the city,” Faith said, leading me toward an unpretentious restaurant with booths and benches and a lot of posters of Italy on the walls. We ordered from a counter at the back of the restaurant. “Have the plain tomato and cheese. No fancy add-ons. That's the only way to tell how good a pizza really is,” Faith said.

“People, too,” I said.

We each got two slices and what was billed as a medium root beer but which, in keeping with modern drink sizes, was about the size of a trash barrel. Faith paid. We sat in a booth and talked about what a normal life in Vermont might be like.

“I want a hoop over the garage,” Faith said.

“And a driveway three or four cars wide. Great for street hockey,” I said. “And no windows in the garage doors. If the basketballs don't break them the pucks and tennis balls will.”

“And a flat backyard for a skating rink,” Faith said.

“No swimming pool?”

“Everybody has a pool, JP. A rink is way funkier.”

“What do we do with it in the summer?”