Page 72 of Poetry On Ice

Chin up.

It happens slowly and fast. I have both defensemen on me. A wing as well, and there’s a center approaching. There are green jerseys everywhere, a sea of them all around me. I’m drowning in them. There are players and shoulders and sticks coming at me.

They’re playing the man, not the puck, and they aren’t trying to hide it.

“High stick!” Ant screams.

I hear his voice. It comes at me and lands as a carbon fiber stick swings in an almost graceful arc. There’s a soft hiss as it flies through the air. Then there’s a lull. A quiet pause where I’m able to see everything around me moving in slo-mo—the ice, the hook of the stick, the face of the man swinging it—it all seems to happen slowly,but I’m not able to move fast enough to get out of the way.

The stick makes contact just under my chin. It lands with a dull thud that knocks my head back.

I don’t feel it, but the world around me goes black.

29

Robbie McGuire

I blink, and ahaze of color slowly spins into focus. A pair of dark eyes bore into mine, wide and wild, and a heavy hand rests on my chest. I look around and see a sea of green jerseys. I’m surrounded by opposing players. I’m still on the ice. I haven’t been out for long.

Ant is the first person in our team to get to me.

“Robbie!”he yells over and over until I’m able to make myself focus on him. He’s holding my helmet firmly in both hands and caging me securely so I don’t try to move. “Are you okay, baby?”

In seconds, there are refs, medics, and Vipers all around me.

“Give him some space,” says Luddy as he and Bodie push players back. Ant doesn’t move a muscle.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Let me get up.”

“Don’t even think about it,” warns Ant, a sentiment immediately echoed by at least two medics.

“I saidI’m fine!” I say as they strap me onto a stretcher and again when they cart me off the ice.

Well, that was a shit show. I’ve spent hours in the ER, and they’ve run every possible test they can think of, and of course, I was right. I’m fine.

Like I told them I was.

I’ve been playing hockey for almost twenty years. Believe me, I know a mild concussion when I feel one.

I only just made it onto the plane. I swear to God, if I’d missed our flight, I’d have been bleak.

Bodie and Luddy are sitting across the aisle from me and Josh is sitting next to me. They’re all watching me like a hawk, jumping to their feet if I so much as try to get anything out of the overhead locker.

“Yes, Coach,” I trill, once we land in Seattle, “I have somewhere to go, and no, I won’t be alone. I’m going to my folks’ place for the night. And yes, I’m not driving myself. Luddy is taking me home. My folks will be waiting for me.”

It’s not the first time I’ve said it. More like the tenth.

I know everyone is only trying to look out for me, but I hate this kind of attention, and honestly, I am completely fine. I barely even have a headache.

All I want to do is get home, lie on my new sofa, and watch the end of the game in peace and quiet without a single person asking me if I’m okay or telling me not to do something.

The doorbell rings. It’s a loud, grating sound that reminds me I’ve been meaning to get the bell replaced with one that doesn’t sound like bagpipes being played badly.

I ignore it. I’m exactly where I want to be and where I need to be—on my sofa, buried under a fluffy blanket with an ice pack on my forehead. I’m not moving for any reason, and that’s the end of it.

It rings again.

And again.