My cheeks burn. I’m not paid to be distracted. I’m not paid to be injured. I’m paid to skate. I’m paid to win.
I scramble from the seat.
“Sit down. I need to ask you some questions.” She removes some cards and a timer from a drawer.
“You got it.” My gaze moves to the door again, but I blink sore, irritated eyes and manage a tight smile.
“What’s your name?”
My heart sinks at the question. This is basic concussion protocol in Boston. And I so don’t want to have a concussion.
“Evan McAllister.” I slink my gaze back to the door, wondering how long this will take.
She frowns. “Remember, I’m timing this.”
“Er... Right.” I know that. My head feels thick and aches.
I wonder if Stella is worried. I want to be in the game and not in this stark office, the only color the occasional motivational poster.
“Can you recall the events that led up to the injury?” Dr. Novak asks, her voice gentle.
“I’m not allowed to black them out?”
Her lips don’t even twitch. But then, tonight has been all about failure.
“Evan? What happened?”
Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it back. “I got slammed into the boards. It was nothing. I should return.”
“Nice try.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Do you have a headache?”
I squirm. “Yeah.”
“Nausea?”
“Maybe.”
Her face grows more serious, and she turns on some sort of light-shining instrument that I hate at once.
“Just a little,” I add quickly.
“I wouldn’t expect a hockey player to say anything else,” she says. “You have to tell me all the symptoms.”
“I know. I’m fine. I swear.”
She nods.
“Almost done,” she says, her voice soothing.
I don’t want soothing. I want to be out on the ice.
“Can you spell hockey backward?”
She waits, and I think I manage it.
