34. Sam

Sam

The crowd around us feels like an ocean of pressure pressing down on my head. Across the ice, the Rangers are battling it out with our guys, trying to get the puck.

I’m trying to keep my head in the game, to focus on what’s happening here and now, but my mind keeps drifting to yesterday, sitting in a hard plastic chair, talking to my father’s doctor. I’d been calling and texting Finn since the moment my head cleared, but she wasn’t picking up.

“Mr. Braun,” Dr. Patel had said, “your father’s intracranial pressure has increased significantly in the last few hours.”

Now, a Ranger steals the puck and carries it mid-rink. Brett slams into him and they battle against the boards. There’s a headache brewing low in the back of my head, making it hard to see straight. I try to keep my eyes on the puck.

“The latest CT scan shows evidence of a cerebral edema,” Dr. Patel said, “brain swelling—despite our interventions with mannitol and hypertonic saline.”

Brett and the guys get the puck back and head for the Ranger goalie, who stands perfectly positioned in his crease, calm and focused—everything I'm not right now. He makes a glove save look effortless as Brett tries to go top shelf. Our guys are playing their hearts out, generating chances, but it’s like they’re playing against a wall.

“We’re also seeing decreased electrical activity in his EEG readings,” Dr. Patel said, “Mr. Braun, I need you to understand that these are concerning developments. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.”

But my father has been stable for years. Always, I thought, on the brink of coming back.

The Ranger center dangles through our defense, making us look like we’re skating through mud. This should be readable—we’ve studied hours of this team’s tendencies, watched every move this line can pull. But all I can see is Finn’s face in the hospital room. The way she stepped back from me, hurt and betrayal written across her features.

The puck hits the back of the net. Five to nothing.

The goal horn blares, and that stupid recording of “Lady Liberty” plays over the speakers. The Ranger’s center skates past our bench doing his signature celebration, and I half expect Grey to pull me. To send in our backup and end this nightmare.

But he doesn't. Maybe he’s remembering all the times I bounced back this season. All the times Finn helped me find my focus again.

“Sometimes with traumatic brain injuries,” Dr. Patel said, “patients can experience sudden deterioration even after long periods of stability. We’re monitoring him closely and have already adjusted his medication protocol, but…you should consider calling any family members who might want to be here.”

There’s nobody to call. Just me.

When we break to the locker room, Grey’s face is made of stone. He gives a no-nonsense speech about leaving our shit behind when we get on the ice, and his eyes connect with mine. I feel like I’m not fully present.

The final buzzer sounds, and we’ve lost the game five to one. Grey is pissed, and the crowd is rowdy, laughing and hollering at us as we exit to our locker room.

It’s only the first game of the series, but Grey warned us that this one would help set the tone. In lieu of a post-game speech, he just gives us a long look before slamming out the door, his voice booming through the hallway as he speaks to our assistant coach.

We’re just walking into the hotel lobby when Brett catches me by the sleeve.

“Yo, Braun,” he says, breathing hard. “What the hell is going on?”

I glance around at the other guys, still feeling like I’m a specimen floating in a tank of water. All eyes on me, and nothing I can do.

“My dad’s dying,” I say, before I can stop myself. Brett’s eyes go wide, and he pulls me over to the bar, sitting me down.

Finn would say no alcohol—hell, Coach would say no alcohol, especially not right at the start of the championship series, but when Brett orders me a whiskey on the rocks, I take a sip, closing my eyes at the feeling of the soothing scorch of it right down my throat.

And with that first sip of alcohol down, the entire story comes tumbling out. About my dad, and how I’ve been visiting him, hoping something might turn around. How Finn found me, and it felt like she was saying I should pull the plug. How she hasn’t answered any of my messages or calls in the few days that have passed.

“Shit, man,” Brett says, shaking his head and looking down into his own glass. “That’s…rough. I didn’t know that about your dad.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Brett’s eyes meet mine. “And it’s okay to be fucked up about it. Bet if Coach knew—if the media knew—they’d change their tune about your performance today.”

“Yeah,” I say, letting out a low laugh into my cup. I don’t want any of those people to know, even if it would absolve me of my abysmal performance today.

“Do you think it’s possible that you jumped the gun a bit with Finn?” Brett asks, raising his eyebrows. “I mean…I don’t know her that well, but it’s hard to imagine she would just tell you to take your dad off life support, right?”

“I had time to think about it after,” I admit, “and I think…I think she’s right, for one. This thing with my dad is affecting my life. He always wanted me to be great . And now that I have the chance to actually do that, it’s like everything is slipping away. Everything’s affected. My performance. Me keeping the whole thing a secret from her is proof that there’s something wrong. I’m not sure what she was saying in that hospital room, but I should have had the conversation with her, instead of telling her to leave.”

“You said that thing about your dad wanting you to be great,” Brett says, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid in his glass. “Was he like, a real hard-ass?”

The laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. Brett glances at me, eyebrows shooting up.

I clear my throat. “No, shit, sorry. He was a good guy, kind of a softie. Loved hockey because I loved hockey. He wanted me to be great because he believed I could do anything I wanted. I think—he made a lot of sacrifices for me. Moving, working shitty, low-paying jobs. I think he wanted me to be great to make all that worth it.”

“But does that mean he’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t reach some arbitrary point?”

“What?”

Brett turns, shifting on his stool to look at me. “You say your dad was a nice guy. I just…seems unlikely that he’d want you to go through all this. Maybe your block isn’t your dad himself, but instead, that you have to want to be great for him . Instead of wanting to be great for yourself.”

We sit in silence for a long moment, then I let out a breath. “Shit.”

Brett laughs, and we continue sipping on our drinks. I think back to all the time my dad spent caring about hockey, and how it could have been anything—chess, debate, football, swimming, student government—and he would have had the same commitment. Because what he really cared about wasn’t me being great—it was just me .

“Another thing,” Brett says, pulling me from my thoughts. “I wonder what Finn was doing at the hospital in the first place. Do you think she followed you there?”

“What?”

This is the first time it’s occurred to me to wonder about this. I think back to that morning, Finn slipping out of bed, saying she had an appointment. I’d assumed it was something to do with work, but what if—she had an appointment at the hospital? What if something is wrong?

“Shit,” I mutter, chest clenching. “Hopefully it was just a physical or something.” I sigh, setting my head against the bar. “I just wish she would answer my texts. I just want to talk to her.”

The truth is, if my dad is going downhill, and if he’s not going to make it to the end of this week, there’s one person I want to be standing in my corner when that happens.

And right now, she wants nothing to do with me.

“You know,” Brett says, setting down an empty glass. The bartender comes to refill it, but Brett waves his hand. “I happen to know a woman who’s grown pretty fond of Finley Asher. Maybe we can work something out.”

I glance at him, already seeing that trademark Brett expression. He’s planning something.

“Yeah,” I laugh and glance away, a spark of hope catching in my chest. “Maybe.”