“I’m sorry, kiddo, the news isn’t good.”
Sadness tainted Dad’s deep brown eyes, and wrinkles formed along his forehead. The fact that he wouldn’t make eye contact with me, I knew I wasn’t going to like what he was about to say.
Doc Bowen, the neurologist on my case, stepped in beside Dad, his tired blue eyes focused on me. “You suffered a moderate concussion.”
I’d hit my head when my Jeep rammed into that girl’s car, but amoderateconcussion? Sure, I’d passed out, butmoderate? I knew the terminology because I’d already had two concussions before, and that word wasnotgood.
“It’s just a little bump. I’m feeling better, so it’s not that bad.”
“You were unconscious, Preach. That’s more than a little bump,” Doc Bowen said, then glanced at his iPad. He was standing at the foot of my bed now, his bald head reflecting the overhead lights. “This is your third concussion in two years. And the other two were around the same category. We’re lucky this instance wasn’t worse.”
I’d met Doc Bowen before, since my mom worked here at the hospital, and he was a nice guy. But right now, I pretty much hated his guts.
“Concussions are cumulative,” Dad said, resting his arm on my shoulder. “You can’t chance another one. It could be devastating.”
I gulped, and my eyes started burning. “Hockey…” My heart hammered, stealing my breath. “Scholarship.”
I couldn’t even form complete sentences; I was so mad. That ridiculous girl and the runaway dog. Okay, that was harsh. I was the one driving. She was saving the dog, I couldn’t fault her for that, but still…
Up until now, I’d done everything perfect. Straight As. Served at the Helping Hands shelter. Coordinated food drives that were so successful they’d given me a key to the city. I never drank. Never did drugs. Never did anything wrong…
Fat lot of good that did me. Noweverythingwas gone.
My life was ruined.
“I’m sorry, son,” Doc said, his voice quiet, full of regret.
Screw that.
Doc Bowen was the ER neurologist on call. I needed to get a second opinion from a neurologist who worked in sports medicine. Someone who dealt with athletes who sustained concussions.
No way was my hockey career over.
I sagged against the scratchy bed I’d laid in all night for observation. Getting poked and prodded every hour didn’t allow much sleep, and I was exhausted. Mad. Devastated.
There was no way I could be done playing hockey.
It was my life.
My future.
It couldn’t be over.
I wouldn’t let it.
“See you next week for a follow-up.” Doc looked at Dad. “Paperwork for his release should be ready shortly.”
“Dude!” my best friend, Brodie “Wind” Windom, said as he and his girlfriend Willow hurried around the corner into my room. “Oh…sorry.”
“It’s okay, Wind. Come on in,” Dad said as he gripped my shoulder. “I’ll head out and see if I can track down your mom.”
Willow came to my bedside, her face etched with worry. “Are you okay? We’ve been up all night, worried about you!”
I let out a huff as I slumped back into the cold, stiff bed.
Everything had happened so quickly at the scene of the accident, then the thirty-minute ambulance ride over here, and then getting situated in this crappy place. Brodie and Willow wanted to come here last night, but with the roads getting worse, Dad told him to stay home. It was too dangerous to drive out to see me.
“Scared the shit out of me, man.” Wind leaned in, and I knuckle bumped him.