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Everyone cheers, relieved that I appear to be okay.

Because I am, or I will be, once that ringing in my ears stops.

The restof the game is a blur, literally. I spend most of it with an ice pack pressed to my head while watching my teammates battle it out. The Vikings continue to play dirty, but we continue to play smarter.

In the final minutes, Drew nets the game-winner, and the arena explodes with joy. Barracudas: 3, Vikings: 2.

After the obligatory handshakes, Marty pulls me aside. “You know the drill, Gerard.”

I do. This isn’t my first rodeo when it comes to head injuries. I follow Marty into his office, where he runs me through a series of tests—tracking his finger with my eyes, reciting numbers forward and backward, and standing on one skate with my eyes closed.

I fail more than I pass, but it’s enough for him to make the call. “You’ve got a slight concussion. Nothing too serious, but you need to take it easy for a few days.” He hands me an ice pack and some Tylenol. “Sit tight. I need to update Coach Donovan.”

Marty’s office is a small space cluttered with medical supplies and old sports memorabilia. Framed photos of past teams line the walls. In the corner sits an ancient exercise bike that looks like it hasn’t been used since the Reagan administration.

I shift in my seat and wince as another bolt of pain shoots through my neck. The ice pack has already lost its chill, so I toss it onto the desk and rub my temples instead. A dull throb pulses in time with my heartbeat.

Concussions are funny things. It’s not always the initial hit that does you in; sometimes, it’s the whiplash or the immense shock to your system.

I think the slam into the boards stunned me more than anything else. I’ve taken worse hits and walked away fine.

Footsteps echo behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see Marty returning with a grim expression. “Coach isn’t happy, but he understands.”

“Thanks, Marty.” I start to stand, but he waves me back down.

“Gerard, you need to be honest about how you’re feeling. We can’t afford to have you out long-term.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Remember what happened to Jake?”

Everyoneremembers what happened to Jake. He was our team captain my freshman year—a spitfire of a player and an even better leader. One too many concussions ended his career—and his life—prematurely.

“We don’t want that for you.” Marty pauses, then adds, “Take this seriously, Gerard.”

“I will,” I promise, though I’m not sure he believes me.

Marty hands me a sheet of paper with concussion recovery guidelines—stuff I could recite in my sleep by now—and gestures me out the door. “Get out of your gear, shower, and then go home andrest.”

What he really means is that I shouldn’t go out and party with the team tonight. But I’ve never been the best at playing by the rules. At least not when it comes to hockey.

I walk down the hall and into the locker room, where the team is already stripping out of their gear. They’re sweat-soaked and exhausted but riding high from the win.

“Gunnarson, you alright?” one of the freshmen asks. I think his name is Billy, but honestly, I’m too foggy to be sure.

“Yeah, just a slight concussion. I’ll live.”

He goes back to whatever he was doing, and I slump onto the bench in front of my locker. The combination of adrenaline and pain is making me shaky, and all I want to do is close my eyes—but I can’t. Not yet.

A water bottle is passed to me. I examine the hand holding it, recognizing the large, meaty fingers.

“Hydrate.”

My head snaps up. Oliver stands over me, taking in every inch of my body.

I know what he’s doing. He does it with every player who gets injured. Yes, he trusts Marty and Coach, but that doesn’t mean he won’t assess things himself.

“I’m fine, Ollie. Honest to God. I’ll be back to my normal self in no time.”