The Injury （41）

They'd gotten to Bridgeport Hospital in a matter of minutes, thanks to Jake's Formula One-worthy driving performance.

"Text me and let me know what's going on. I'll be in the waiting room," he called, as he dropped her off at the emergency room entrance and went to park the car.

Running into the building, she immediately went to triage. "Hi, I'm here for Tyler Hayes." She tried to fight it, but she burst into tears. "I got a call that he...was brought here by ambulance from Total Mortgage Arena and...that he was unresponsive. I'm his emergency contact, Amara McDonough."

"Just a moment, ma'am," the woman said, typing and scrolling on her computer screen.

"Is he OK?"

"One moment." She continued typing on the computer for what felt like hours, then finally said, "He's stable now. You can go back and see him. Wait here, and I'll have someone bring you back as soon as I can."

"OK, thank you."

She apprehensively paced back and forth, unable to even consider sitting down, until finally, a nurse came out to get her. "For Tyler Hayes?"

She nodded.

"Follow me."

Heading down a long hallway past rows of patients, she finally made it to where Tyler was. When the nurse pulled the curtain back, he lay in a bed, hooked up to all sorts of monitors that were beeping and blinking a million different ways, with an IV in his arm.

"Mar," he whimpered upon seeing her, and she raced to his bedside, grabbing his hand as he began sobbing.

"Baby, what happened?"

Unable to get any words out, she waited for him to calm down a bit. "I don't know. The last thing I remember before waking up in the ambulance is that I was behind the net fightin' for the puck. I saw the guy comin' in from my peripheral, and I don't know what happened after that. They told me I was unconscious for a while. All I know is my shoulder is fuckin' killin' me. This could...Mar, if it's my shoulder again, this could be the end of my career."

"No, stop it. Don't even fucking talk like that!" she scolded him, caressing his hand as he began sobbing again. "They'll fix you right up this time just like they did last time. You're gonna be fine, OK?"

They sat together quietly for a bit, as she stared at his heart rate and blood pressure readings on the screen, both of which were bouncing wildly like a pinball. Suddenly, he sat up. "Mar, get the..." he heaved, "trash can."

Before she could grab it in time, he turned his head away from her and threw up onto the floor. She handed it to him so he could finish and ran out into the hallway.

"Hey! We need some fucking help in here!" she yelled.

A nurse approached her. "Ma'am, please keep your voice down and watch your language. What's the problem?"

"I'm sorry, it's...my friend. He was brought here after being hit in...his hockey game, and now he's vomiting. Please...help him!" she cried, remembering having heard somewhere that vomiting after a concussion was a bad sign.

"OK, we'll take care of it. Just calm down, OK? Why don't you wait out here while we get him cleaned up?" She pointed to a chair in the hallway, and Amara reluctantly took a seat, as she listened to him continuing to vomit.

Suddenly, it dawned on her.

Ryan.

Ryan must have been an absolute fucking mess right now.

Pulling out her phone to give Jake an update, she noticed there was already a message from him.

J: Ryan's here. I've got him, but he's flipping the fuck out.

???

The game had been an absolute barn burner, with Springfield and Bridgeport having been knotted five to five at the start of the third period. Both teams had been playing amazing hockey, but the tension was becoming thicker by the minute and emotions were beginning to get the better of both teams.

Hayes, in typical Hayes fashion, hadn't stopped running his big mouth from the moment the game had started, having taken two minutes for delay of game after yanking one of the Thunderbirds' sticks away from him and launching it into the crowd like a scud missile. The ref hadn't even known what to call him for, as he'd never seen anything like it, but decided that delay of game was probably most appropriate.

"Aww, come on! He deserved it, the fuckin' piece of shit," he'd argued with the ref as he skated backward towards the box. "You know why I did it, right?"

"Get in the box, Mouth," the ref ordered.

"He called me a fuckin' faggot. So, we're cool with that kind of homophobic language? You know I'm currently dating a dude, right? Fuckin' him right in the ass!" he yelled, as the ref skated away, and he entered the penalty box. "Thought hockey was for everyone, bitch!"

Skating back over to him, the ref said, "I'll address his language with him. But you can't toss your opponents' sticks into the crowd, and you can't call me a bitch. I'm giving you two more for unsportsmanlike conduct. Now shut your mouth unless you wanna make it a 10."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Hayes screamed as Rizz skated over to the box.

"Hayes, shut the fuck up!" he barked, skating over to the ref to sort out the penalties. Moments later, he saw the other guy enter the box for a two-minute unsportsmanlike as well, so he backed off.

When he'd gotten out of the box with 12:25 left in the third, the stars had aligned and he'd ended up on a breakaway, taking it right into the offensive zone, where he was quickly met by their defense and ended up in a puck battle behind the net. His head was down, about two feet in front of the boards, and someone had screamed, "Hayes, look up, look up!"

It was too late.

There was a loud crack, followed by a thud, and Hayes lay motionless on the ice. Everyone immediately stopped playing, and the crowd went almost silent. Ryan, who'd watched in horror from the bench, was the first to his side, with Nick right behind him.

"Hayes! Hayes!" Ryan yelled, kneeling next to him. "He's not moving. He's not fucking moving!"

Rizz and Kasic skated over and pulled Ryan away. "Hey, let Nick get to him, OK? Let Nick do his job. He's gonna be alright. He just got his bell rung, brother."

Before long, the medics made their way onto the ice with a stretcher, had loaded Hayes onto it, and were wheeling him down the tunnel and toward the ambulance. They'd managed to get Ryan back to the bench, as Hastings came up behind him and grabbed onto both his shoulders. "He'll be OK, kid. Just keep your head on straight. He'll be OK."

The guy who'd charged Hayes, number 53, had somehow gotten away with only a double-minor for cross-checking, and the Islanders' bench lost its collective mind. Rizz had argued so hard with the ref, they were sure he was going to get a game misconduct, and Hastings took a bench penalty for calling the ref a "blind piece of flaming, decrepit monkey shit," or something along those lines.

Coach Reilly had benched Ryan for the remainder of the game for two reasons: first, because he knew his head wasn't on right, and second, because he didn't want him to catch a murder charge. When Hastings had called a timeout at the three-minute mark, Rizz and Ryan devised a little non-verbal agreement.

When it came time for the face-off, number 53 was out for a shift. Rizz nodded at Ryan, and as soon as the puck dropped, Rizz made a beeline for the bench, and Ryan launched himself over the boards.

"Baylor!" Reilly hollered. "Rislan, what the fuck?"

"Sorry. Skate issues, Coach." He shrugged.

Gripping his stick like a baseball bat, he raced up behind number 53 and cracked him right across the lower back, dropping him immediately. Throwing his stick and gloves to the ice, Ryan jumped on top of him and, with a flashback to Gilgo Beach, began pounding on his face. He'd gotten about three good punches in before two Thunderbirds yanked him off their teammate and proceeded to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, resulting in a bench-clearing brawl complete with Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em goalies.

Ryan had been ejected, and after dragging himself to the locker room covered in blood, he tore off his gear, leaving it all on the floor of the locker room. He threw on his suit pants and dress shirt, snagged the Raptor keys from Hayes's stall, and hauled ass to the hospital, driving with the one of his eyes that wasn't swollen shut.

Ryan Baylor knew he was in deep shit, but at that moment, the only thing that mattered to him was Tyler fucking Hayes.