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Despite the blurring vision, I’m able to intercept a sloppy pass and skate up the ice. The crowd roars as I gain speed and weave through the Vikings’ defenders. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Drew break toward the net with his stick at the ready.

But before I can dish the puck, I feel a sharp crack between my shoulder blades. The next thing I know, I’m hurtling towards the boards at breakneck speed. I brace for impact, but it’s like trying to stop a freight train with a feather.

WHAM!

My helmet cracks as I collide with the plexiglass. For a moment, I’m not sure which way is up, then gravity takes over, and I slide down the boards like a cartoon character.

I lie motionless on the ice, a human starfish. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Everything hurts.

The arena ceiling swirls, and white lights streak together in a dizzying dance when I try to focus my eyes. I blink, once, twice, hoping it’ll clear the fog that’s settled over my brain. It doesn’t.

Seconds turn to minutes as I struggle to stay conscious. The cold of the ice seeps through my gear, and sounds that were once sharp and clear are now muffled hums. I know the fans are shouting, and the refs are blowing their whistles, but none of it registers.

I recognize this feeling all too well. Welcome to concussion number…aw, heck, I’ve lost count.

Skates carving into the ice grow louder as they draw near. I see Drew’s face first, his mouth moving with words I can’t make out. Concern lines his forehead. Behind him, Oliver and Nathan quickly follow, their expressions similarly tight.

“G-man, you okay?” Drew’s voice finally pierces the haze.

I nod, but the movement sends a jolt of nausea through me. “Just…catching my breath.”God, even talking hurts.

“That was a dirty hit,” Oliver huffs. “Fucking Vikings.”

“Their coach is acting like he didn’t seeshit,” Nathan adds.

Drew bends closer to me. “Can you get up?”

I take a deep breath and will my limbs to move. My hands slip on the ice as I try to prop myself up on my elbows. The world tilts, and I flop back down as stars burst behind my eyes.

Yeah, this isn’t good.

Coach Donovan is at the boards now, shouting obscenities that would give my mom a heart attack. He’s so mad that the vein in his forehead is seconds away from bursting. His face is as red as his hair, and I laugh hysterically.

Everyone stares at me, thinking I’ve lost it. I very well may have.

Where’s Marty when we need him? He’s the team doctor and a fine one at that.

Coach places a meaty hand on the plexiglass and shouts, “Gunnarson! Talk to me!”

“I think he’s concussed,” Drew calls back.

Two of the Vikings’ players skate over; one of them is Anders Kraft, their captain and supposed hotshot NHL prospect. He looksalmostapologetic on behalf of his teammate.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Wasn’t intentional.”

“Save it,” Drew snaps.

I don’t have the energy to play peacemaker right now. All I can do is hope that someone calls my parents because I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out.

“Larney, Jacoby, get him to the bench,” Coach Donovan says.

Drew and Oliver slide their hands under my arms and lift me slowly. My legs are useless beneath me as they half-drag, half-carry me towards the bench. New waves of pain course through my head and neck, and I groan loudly.

I collapse onto the bench like a sack of potatoes. Marty rushes over with a towel and some smelling salts. He carefully removes my helmet before dabbing at my forehead, where it’s starting to bleed.

“You’re a pal, Marty.” I pat the side of his face. He’s a young guy, no older than thirty-five, and our team would be lost without him. He’spatched us up more times than I can count. The dude should get a medal or something.

The fans boo as the ref escorts the offending Viking to the penalty box. I appreciate their support, and I show it by giving them all a megawatt grin.