Page 20 of Crossing the Line

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Chapter Eight

Preach

Dr. Simons hunched over her iPad, her finger slowly moving along the screen. Her jaw tensed, then relaxed.

Plaques and awards from sports teams across the country decorated the wall behind her desk, surrounding her medical degrees.

She was a renowned neurologist who focused on concussions and sports-related injuries. Mom had really hit it out of the park landing me an appointment with her this fast. Normally, it’d take months to get in to see her.

But right now, the heavy silence hanging thick in the air made my stomach churn. I shouldn’t have eaten that burrito on the way here.

“Preach, you’ve had quite the hockey career,” she said as she slowly set her iPad to the side. “You’re very talented.”

“I thought you were looking at my scans and medical file.”

“Oh, I was. But my son is on the Twin River High junior varsity hockey team. He witnessed the Woodhaven–Twin River face-off last season.”

“Face-off…” Dad said with a chuckle. “More like a massacre.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dr. Simons said, then drew in a deep breath as she sat back.

Her ocean-blue eyes analyzed me, and it looked as if clouds cast a shadow over them, because they dimmed. “I’m sorry, Preach.”

“No. No.” I shook my head, which was pretty stupid since I was sporting a low-grade headache right now. “Don’t say it.”

My heart rate jumped into a sprint, absolutely pulverizing my ribs. I felt a pulse come to life in my temples.

“You came to me for a second opinion. I’ve reviewed your scans and medical records, Preach, and I have to concur with Dr. Bowen.”

“No. Take new scans. MRIs. CT scans. I’m feeling better. They’ll be better.”

I’m not feeling better, but this cannot be happening.

“It’s more than the scans, Preach.” She rested her elbows on her expansive mahogany desk, then clasped her hands together. “They’re part of it, yes. And these clearly show trauma. Swelling. Some bruising. But beyond that, Preach…concussions are cumulative. Has a medical doctor explained that to you before?”

Boy, had they. After my last one, they’d thrown that word out there a few times. Along with taking it easy.

“There has to be something you can do. Some treatment? Better helmets? Please—”

“I wish there were, Preach. Trust me. I have more of these types of conversations than I’d like to. It breaks my heart to have to tell someone they can’t do something they love.”

I gripped the chair handles until my knuckles ached. Blood rushed through my head, pulsing like the beat of J Balvin’s latest song.

This couldn’t be happening.

She was supposed to tell me Dr. Bowen was wrong.

That I could play hockey.

“Preach?” Dad’s voice cut through the static drowning out everything.

“Maybe I could just take some time off. Follow the concussion protocol. Like last time.”

“You could.” She glanced at Dad, then back to me. “But I can’t sign off on you returning to the ice. Not only because of the scans, but you’re still exhibiting symptoms. Your last concussion, the symptoms were prolonged as well.”

“No!” I pushed up. “This is bullshit. I have to play hockey!”

“Ryan Armstrong,” Dad said, his voice stern. “You—”


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