Page 61 of From Ice to Home (The Heart of a Ranger #1)

LUCAS

S omeone helped me off the ice.

I don’t really know who. Everything after the hit is a bit blurry. Maybe I walked, or maybe they carried me. Either way, I’m in the medical room at Madison Square Garden, with a headache pounding between my eyes and a sour taste in my mouth.

At least my ears aren’t ringing anymore.

“That guy was like a Zamboni,” I croak, the words dragging across my dry throat like sandpaper.

I try to sit up, but the second I do, it feels like my brain stays behind on the table. The room sways, then tilts.

“Whoa,” someone says, followed by two hands catching me, steadying me, and guiding me back down again. “You need to lay back down. You took a big hit.”

I let them guide me down again, but only because it’s either that or vomit. I close my eyes and breathe through the dizziness.

“The game’s not done,” I mumble, the words automatically tumbles out of my mouth. Doesn’t matter how hard I hit the post, I’d know if we won. I’d know if I missed the final shift of my life.

“It is for you,” another voice says, firm and female. A woman steps in wearing blue scrubs and blue gloves. Her dark hair is pulled back tight. She looks calm, competent, and unimpressed.

“Like hell it is.”

I sit up again and swing my legs off the table. This time, the world only tilts a little, not as bad as before. Still, I grip the edge of the table just in case.

She steps closer. I raise a hand to stop her and my vision swims for a second. I blink it away.

“Don’t even think about making me lay down again,” I say.

She lifts her brows, folding her arms, unfazed. “I’m Dr. Kessler, the neurotrauma specialist. You hit your head and lost consciousness. We’re going to run through the SCAT5 protocol. It’s not optional.”

I lock eyes with her. She might be calm and clinical, but I’ve worked my entire life to stand where I stood tonight. One win from the Cup. And I’ll be damned if someone with a clipboard and a stethoscope tells me I’m benched.

“You won’t tell me that I’m done playing,” I say, adrenaline still pumping under my skin. “So you can either get out of my way, or—“

“Or what?” she cuts in, cocking her head. “You’re going to fight your way through the concussion specialist while swaying on your feet? I’m willing to bet you’re barely able to stand without wobbling. If you want to be back on the ice, then you need to cooperate.”

Her tone is all business, and I know instantly she’s had this argument with stubborn players a hundred times before…and won. No way she got this job without being able to go head-to-head with hockey egos.

I clench my jaw.

“Where’s my coach?” I mutter, glancing toward the door.

Right on cue, the door swings open, slamming against the wall.

Coach strides in, chewing his gum like it owes him money. “Walker, are you alright?”

Relief hits me like a breath of fresh air. Finally there’s someone in the room who understands, who knows what’s at stake.

“I’m fine, Coach,” I say. “Or at least I will be as soon as this lovely person steps aside so I can get back out there.”

Coach squints down at her ID badge. “Kessler, huh.”

“We have to follow the protocol,” she says, ignoring me. “I need to complete his SCAT5 and balance tests before anything. He was unconscious and there are protocols we follow. We need to make sure everything is fine.”

“Everything is fine,” I jump in. My opinion should matter in this case. “I wasn’t out that long.”

“You were dizzy sitting up,” the assistant trainer says, clearly trying to help, but I shoot him a glare that shuts him up fast.

He shrugs, backing up. “What? You were…”

Coach levels his gaze at him. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

The poor guy looks like he wants to melt into the floor. I almost feel bad for him.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “I’m telling you I’m fine. I need to be back out there and the longer we stand here arguing, the more time I’m losing.”

“The NHL’s strict about head injuries,” Kessler says. “Losing consciousness, even briefly, is a red flag. I’m not putting him back out there unless he clears every part of this test. That’s not just my opinion, it’s the league’s mandate.”

Coach’s jaw works back and forth. I know that look. He’s weighing options. We’re one win away from holding the Cup.

“Coach,” I plead. “Anyone would be a bit out of it if they hit the goalpost head first. But I feel fine now. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

He stares at me for a long moment. Then turns to her. “You have thirty minutes before the second period starts and he needs to go back on. I don’t care what you do, or how you do it, Lucas Walker will be on that ice in thirty minutes.”

Kessler doesn’t blink. The look on her face says there’s no way she’s making that promise.

“Walker,” Coach says. “Let the woman do her job. Lay back down or you’re not getting back out there. You do exactly what she tells you to do.”

“And you,” he says, turning to Kessler. “You do whatever you need to do to get my star player back out there for the second period.”

“No pressure,” the assistant trainer says.

Coach glares at him and he shrinks back. Coach opens the door only to find Hannah already on the other side.

“Luke!” Her eyes go wide as she rushes toward me. “Is he alright?” she asks the doctor. Hannah kneels beside the table, her hand sliding into my hair gently like she’s reading my vitals with her fingertips. I wince when she grazes the sore spot above my right ear.

“I’m fine, Sanders.”

Her gaze flicks over my face, concern written in her features. “You’re not fine,” she says softly. “You’re pale. And sweating.”

“That’s just the adrenaline from playing playoff hockey,” I try reassure her. By the look on her face, my attempt obviously failed.

“We need to do the assessment to make sure he’s cleared of all concussion symptoms,” Dr Kessler says. “And then we’ll take it from there.”

“I want to stay,” Hannah says, or rather declares not taking her eyes off me for a second. The doctor nods and gestures toward a chair in the corner of the room.

My heart aches knowing that she’s here, that I have someone by my side. I’m not going to worry about the outcome of the assessment.

Because I know how I feel.

I know what I’m capable of.

And I know what I believe. God would not bring me to this, if I wasn’t meant to be here.

They go through the assessment quickly, and according to me, I aced it. Hannah still looks a bit concerned, and it doesn’t make me feel better about the situation.

“Listen,” Dr Kessler says, stepping closer.

“You had a bad hit. You might feel fine as you’re sitting here, but there’s a big chance that as soon as you go back out there, it’ll be too much for you.

Not to mention the added risks of getting another injury.

Something as small as getting hit into the boards might be catastrophic. ”

I stare at the floor, the words coming from her mouth now bouncing around in the room like they’re not quite landing. It doesn’t make sense.

“But I’m not dizzy,” I mutter. “I have a small headache, but I’ve had worse. My balance is fine…”

I know my own body. I’m a professional athlete. I’ve been playing hockey for more than thirteen years so I know when to push and when to let up. I know what I’m capable of.

“You blacked out, Lucas,” Kessler says, her voice firm. “That’s enough for me to call for at least twenty-four hours off the ice. You’re done for the night.”

With a small nod toward Hannah, she steps out of the room, leaving me alone with my wife. I still can’t bring myself to look at anything other than the floor. Because I know I’ll find sympathy in Hannah’s eyes. Sympathy that I don’t want right now.

My hands are trembling and I grip the examination table. I’m not sure if it’s because of adrenaline or anger. Everything inside of me wants to fight this. I want to lace back up and finish what I started.

This isn’t right, this isn’t how this is supposed to go.

Finally, I look up. Hannah is still sitting in the chair, her elbows resting on her knees, her head bowed. She’s not saying a single word, but I know what she’s doing.

She’s praying.

My heart aches knowing that I have someone in my corner who loves me enough to pray through times like these. Despite the anger and frustration swirling inside of me, a quiet ray of gratitude slips through. A small but steady light that slowly grows until it fills more and more space within.

I’m here. At Madison Square Garden.

I’m twenty-three years old and playing for the NHL.

I’m playing a Cup final game, shoulder to shoulder with an incredible team.

I have a wife who loves me. A wife who’s willing to do anything and give everything, for me and for our marriage.

I have friends who’ve become family. A home and future that’s felt real and secure…until now.

If this doesn’t work out? I’m blessed with family and a future in Georgetown.

And above all, I have my faith.

Even if it feels like someone is tearing the very purpose of my life from my chest right now, I’m choosing faith over fear.

I’m choosing faith over anger. Over disappointment. Over uncertainty.

Because I believe God brought me here for a reason. And maybe tonight doesn’t signify an ending, but rather a pause. Or a redirection.

There’s something here he wants me to learn, something he wants me to take forward .

And as much as the anger is banging on the door of my heart, demanding to be seen and heard, I try my best to shove it aside.

Because now is the time to trust.

Father, please show me. Help me understand what it is You need from me.

Help me understand what’s going on because I’m not sure I can lose this part of my life.

I’ve worked hard for this, and it’s a part of who I am…

Maybe that’s the very thing you’re trying to show me.

If this is something You want me to surrender…

help me to do it. Help me believe that You’re still holding on to me.

Hannah finally looks up, her eyes thick with tears.