Checked

  “No.”

  “Dad, please!”

  “No. Don’t ask again.”

  “Can you call and ask them to keep him inside their house? He won’t understand being put outside.” He’s never been put outside since I got him. He goes in and out as he pleases. “Do you think it’s better for them just to feed him and let him sleep in my room?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Yeah. No. I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “Actually, that might be best.”

  So he calls them up and asks if they can feed him but leave him at home. We always leave the back door open, so they’ll have no problem getting in. “Now relax,” he tells me.

  I think about relaxing. That’s boring. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You can lie in bed and watch TV. But it’s got to be something quiet—the doctor doesn’t want your brain stimulated.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three p.m.”

  Three o’clock! Wow, I was really out of it. “Maybe I was sleepy from getting up so early,” I say to my dad. I concentrate on how I feel, and I still feel fine.

  “Maybe.”

  “I feel fine. Can’t I go home? Sinbad needs me, Dad.”

  But Dad is worried. That is, he’s not frowning or anything, but somehow I can tell how worried he is. “They need to observe you for tonight, because you may have been unconscious. So no, you can’t go home.”

  I become aware that a headache is coming on, completely out of the blue, and I think about that. Minutes pass, and it’s still there. “I have a headache.”

  He calls the nurse, who gives me some kind of pill.

  I’ve only been awake for twenty minutes, and already I’m bored crazy. I’m even more bored thinking about no hockey. Hockey is the whole reason I live. So I ask, “Dad? Seriously? No exercise? For how long?”

  “Depends. It could be three weeks, but today some doctors like to get you moving again sooner. In the pros, you’d be back in a week. But you’re not in the pros. We’ll take it slow.”

  Three weeks in the middle of the season? That’s just nuts. “But Dad, AAA is practically the pros.”

  Even I know that’s a pretty ridiculous thing to say, and he doesn’t bother to answer.

  “How long with no computer?”

  “Same, but they’re not sure.” I groan. I decide immediately that I’m going to be using my phone instead when Dad’s not around.

  I see the remote and turn on the television. After switching the channels around, I choose what looks like a horror flick.

  “Too stimulating,” Dad says. “Try something else.”

  I end up on a sitcom rerun, even though I never watch sitcoms. I don’t understand why people think they’re funny. Like now, a character makes what seems to be a joke, and the audience laughs. And I totally don’t get the joke. If Dad wants a lack of stimulation, this is perfect. But he laughs, like he gets it.

  “Maybe we could get you started on golf,” he says suddenly. “That’s a nice, safe sport.”

  And even though earlier I’d thought of quitting hockey, I practically yelp, “I don’t want to play golf! Me?! Golf? I’m a hockey player!” I pause. “It’s in my blood!”

  “There’s no such thing.” Dad laughs. “I taught you to like hockey, it’s not in your blood.”

  “But you’re the one who told me once that it was in my blood,” I argue.

  He pauses. “Did I say that?” He pauses again. “Oh yeah, I guess I did.” He doesn’t say more, returning instead to his magazine.

  I watch TV for hours, but Dad will only let me watch the super-boring stuff. I fall asleep. When I wake up, and the doctor is leaning over me. Lately everybody’s leaning over me. And it’s morning! “How’s it going, Conor? Did you eat breakfast?”

  “He slept through it,” Dad tells him. I look over to where he’s slumped in a recliner and wonder if that’s where he slept.

  “Can you sit up?” says the doc.

  I sit up.

  “How does that feel?”

  “Fine. Normal,” I say. “But I’m already bored.”

  “No headache?”

  “No.”

  He nods.

  He asks me a few more questions, then talks to Dad about me not exercising or doing anything mentally stimulating, including going to school. Yay! He says research is showing that omega-3 fish oil may reduce brain trauma, so why not try it? They talk for a few minutes more, and then the doctor leaves.

  Since I don’t have street clothes, I put on my hockey jersey over my compression pants. The hospital makes me wear pointy green foam slippers on my feet. I probably look like some kind of hockey elf. Dad’s carrying my skates and the rest of my hockey gear. Someone from Transportation takes me out in a wheelchair while Dad walks along in his wrinkly clothes. I think about my expensive hockey bag and $259 stick—even though, like I said, it’s lost its pop, it would be expensive to replace. “What about my hockey bag and stick?”

  “Jae-won’s got your stuff,” Dad says. “I’ll pick it up eventually.”

  “Eventually” sounds like about a hundred years. But I guess if I have three weeks, it might as well be a hundred years. Three weeks without hockey.

  In the car I ask, “Who won the game?”

  “We did.”

  Yes, I think. But then I think about the next few weeks, and a feeling of frustration washes over me, like I don’t understand why I had to get hurt. Why me? Other guys lower their heads and lose focus, and they don’t end up with concussions.

  So then I think, Is this just the way it is? Good stuff happens, bad stuff happens, and you just gotta deal with all of it. And I think about how the whole team was at a fancy hamburger restaurant after a game once, ’cause one of the rich parents took everyone there after a playoff win, since the win happened on his son’s birthday. There was a bar, and an old guy was sitting by himself drinking. Dad said that the guy was a really famous actor once, but I had never heard of him. You could just feel how sad and lonely and completely depressed he was. My grandparents on my dad’s side are the opposite—they just seem so happy. I mean, they’re not happy every single second, but like during Christmas, when they first show me the makeshift rink Grandpa put together for me, they’re so happy it’s like they can hardly stand it. Even Mr. Reynolds, while definitely lonely, doesn’t give off total sadness rays like this old actor did. So. Everybody’s got their stuff to deal with. I suddenly feel great to be sitting next to Dad. Whatever happened to that old guy, I know my dad will never let that happen to me. He’ll live to be a hundred and ten through sheer willpower, just to take care of me. Won’t he?

  CHAPTER 35

  * * *

  WE GET HOME, and then . . . nothing. Basically, nothing happens for the first week. Dad won’t even let me have visitors. But it’s weird, ’cause it’s like I don’t have any will, which I’ve heard can happen with a concussion. All I really want to do is sloth around. Sinbad seems curious about why I’m constantly slumped on the couch watching TV. He’ll stand in front of me just staring for a minute before lying down again. I can feel my muscles turning into spaghetti, but since I’ve lost my will, I don’t even care.

  Dad takes three sick days, and then Aunt Mo takes two. They each walk Sinbad twice a day. Sometimes he goes to the door and whines in the evening, but I give him a bone instead.

  Finally, after the following Sunday’s game, Jae-won and Lucas come by with the Kang family. I’m sitting in the living room watching TV when they arrive.

  Mrs. Kang says, “Oh, you look normal! I happy for you! You okay! Except you gain weight!”

  “Mo-om,” says Jae-won.

  “He did. He needed it, too skinny before, like all you boy on team.”

  Lucas high-fives me. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Did you win?” I ask.

  “Nah,” says Jae-won.

  “What did Coach Dusan do?”

  Jae-won rubs his forehead. “He yelled, and his
face got red as tomato sauce,” Lucas says. “He said, ‘What do you think you were doing out there? I demand an answer!’ Then nobody answered, and he randomly looked at Daniel and screamed, ‘What were you doing out there?!’ ”

  Jae-won pipes up. “And Daniel said, ‘I don’t know what happened. I couldn’t control the puck today.’ He started to cry, and Coach Dusan said, ‘Okay, stop crying, you’re a good kid. You’re all good kids. But we got a lot to work on.’ Then he walked out.”

  “Wow, glad I wasn’t there,” I say.

  “So what does it feel like getting a concussion?” Lucas asks. “You okay?”

  “It’s weird, it’s like . . .” Then I lose my train of thought before finding it again. “You kind of lose your will. You don’t even feel like thinking. Like you just feel like sitting around, not caring much what you’re doing. When I first got it, I had a lot of feelings, but the last week, it’s like I don’t have any feelings.”

  “Bizarro,” Jae-won says. “Glad you’re okay, man. You literally flew up in the air. I wanted to kill that kid.”

  “He didn’t mean it,” Lucas says quickly. “I don’t believe he did. I talked to him in the parking lot afterward, and he felt bad.”

  “Really?” I say, interested.

  “Yeah, I prayed for him. I prayed for you, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And your dog. I pray for him every night.”

  “Wow,” I say, surprised. “Thank you.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Honestly, he’s doing so-so.”

  Lucas looks at me seriously. He hasn’t sat down yet. “I’ll pray harder, man. I slacked off a couple of days because I was so tired.”

  He’s so earnest, and so worried, and I just think his awesomeness level is off the charts. At school sometimes, the kids who are Christian hang around together, and to be honest, most of the other kids totally ignore them.

  Jae-won sits on the floor and starts talking softly to Sinbad, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. Sinbad loves him. Maybe he can tell that Jae-won wants a dog in the worst way. Jae-won’s like me—he’s got some lonely stuff inside him, but for different reasons. I guess for him it just comes from being poor and super talented and super guilty at the same time. Also, he has a lot of responsibility, more than me, ’cause of his little brothers wanting to spend every minute with him. I’m surprised they’re not here now, since they go to all his games, even the early ones. Then I hear them at the door, Mr. Kang calling out, “How is patient?”

  The twins run in, followed by Mr. Kang. He’s brought three big bags of McDonald’s. Even when I have fast food, I don’t eat McDonald’s, ’cause there’s a rumor at school that their hamburgers never spoil. Don’t know if it’s true, but why take a chance on eating something that’s not actually food? Still, to be nice I say, “Thanks, Mr. Kang!” and take a burger out of the bag he opens in front of me. I have to admit the hamburger tastes good. I’ll never eat another one again, but it does taste good.

  Mr. Kang and the twins stand right in front of me and stare. “You look good!” Mr. Kang says. “Your brain hurt?”

  “Not anymore. It did for a short time. But I don’t feel like doing anything at all. I’ve never been like that before.”

  “So what are you doing then?” asks one of the twins.

  “Nothing, just watching TV.”

  “All the time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “HOLY COW!!” he exclaims, like I’ve just said the most amazing thing in history.

  We all sit around and talk and eat, and then everybody leaves and I watch TV again. It occurs to me that maybe it’s the TV watching and not the concussion that has sapped my will. I get a little scared that maybe my will won’t come back. What if I’m just stuck like this forever, watching TV all day, not caring about anything??

  On Wednesday, Dad takes me to my doctor, who runs some neurological and cognitive tests. He did the same last week, and I scored okay. But Dad knew and I knew that even though my scores seemed okay, they weren’t as good as I would normally have scored. My reflexes, for instance, were average, even though I have really good reflexes. Basically, I had to catch this disk attached to a stick. Dad tried it too, just for a test, and then we all discussed it and felt I was slow for me. We do it again this week, and I ace it. I also have to read some cards with numbers on them, and I do better than last week.

  The doc is pretty happy, but he wants me to stay out of hockey for a full three weeks, ’cause why take any chances?

  He does make me go to school on Thursday, but I don’t get any homework—yay! Nobody comes over after the next game, since it’s all the way in Palm Springs, which is two and a half hours from Canyon Country. Turns out they win that game, and lose the next. So we’re 2–2. Jae-won and Lucas come by again and talk about how mad Coach Dusan was after the loss. The final score was 7–1, which pretty much means the defense, offense, and goalie all fell apart. Jae-won and Lucas are really glum.

  “He made us run around the parking lot in our gear for half an hour. All the parents from the other team were watching us.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Glad I wasn’t there!”

  Even the twins are glum, like they lost too. Mr. and Mrs. Kang try to keep it cheerful, passing out an extremely spicy meal that Mrs. Kang prepared for us earlier. My mouth burns, and I can tell Lucas’s does too. But the Kangs eat like it’s nothing. Dad loves spicy food, so he’s all good. I’m surprised both Mr. and Mrs. Kang stick around again, ’cause they’re usually super busy. Mr. Kang works a lot when Jae-won’s not doing hockey, even on weekends. I realize he’s just sticking around for me, ’cause I’m Jae-won’s best friend and I got hurt. I figure I’ll buy them a house too, in the unlikely event that I make it and Jae-won doesn’t.

  We watch the movie about a tsunami that I’ve already seen, ’cause though I haven’t been cleared for hockey, I have been cleared to watch anything I want on TV. When the movie’s over and everyone leaves, I go for a short walk with Sinbad. I’m allowed to walk around all I want, just not do anything where I might hit my head.

  My will has come back a lot, but not completely. Plus, I’ve gotten so used to watching TV that I kind of miss it when I slowly stop watching over the rest of the week. But I don’t want to get into that, ’cause I just don’t have time. Then the doctor clears me completely the Wednesday before our next game. I work out that night, and by morning my muscles are sore.

  We have practice Thursday, and when I walk into the locker room, several guys say, “Conor, how’s your head?”

  “It’s okay now. The doctor says I’m back to normal.”

  “You’re lucky you missed our last game. Coach Dusan about killed us,” says Avery.

  “I heard.”

  “He said, ‘You call yourself AAA?! You’re not AAA, you’re barely even AA!’ ”

  “But he wasn’t mad because we lost, he was mad because we didn’t give full effort,” Lucas explains. “And we lost focus.”

  Most of us walk out together. The coaches approach me and say, “How’s your head?”

  “The doctor says it’s fine.”

  “Great, we need all the help we can get,” Coach Dusan says. Then he whistles, and everyone skates as fast as they can to him. He leans over and picks up a puck. “We’re starting at square one. This is a hockey puck.” He holds up his stick and says, “This is a stick. You hit the puck with the stick. The purpose of hockey is to hit the puck into the net. The only way to do that consistently is through teamwork.” He’s talking quietly and slowly, then suddenly raises his voice to a shout. “IS THERE ANYONE WHO DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TEAMWORK IS? ANDREW, DO YOU KNOW WHAT TEAMWORK IS?”

  “It’s when everybody works together!”

  “THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU PASS THE PUCK SUNDAY?”

  Andrew pauses, starts to speak, pauses, then goes for it. “I forget sometimes. I got selfish.”

  Coach Dusan seems to like that answer. “I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE ANYONE BE
SELFISH AGAIN! PASS THE FREAKING PUCK!” He nods and says in a normal voice, “Two hard laps around the rink, then we’ll do ladders.”

  He works us hard. I’m out of shape and have to stop twice, looking over both times to see if Coach is going to yell at me. But then when practice is over, he fist-bumps me and says, “Good job, Conor.”

  In the locker room I become aware of the smell. I’ve heard a couple of the parents complain about what the locker rooms and the backs of their cars smell like ’cause of all the sweaty gear. But I love the smell of these locker rooms. It’s like when I haven’t done a good job of washing Sinbad’s paws. I actually love the way they smell. I love all these real-life scents. Sometimes I don’t give him a bath, ’cause I like the way he smells. And the locker room, it’s just really real. A couple of the teachers at school, they don’t get sports. They would be happy to see sports wiped off the face of the earth. The smells, the banging around, the speed, the effort, the sweat. The intense coaches. All wiped away.

  CHAPTER 36

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY we take Sinbad to his biweekly appointment. He’s been doing great this week! His last chemo, he didn’t even seem to notice. Dr. Pierre had said at one visit that a lot of patients actually do feel better during treatment, but that hasn’t been the case with Sinbad. I can tell he’s not the way he used to be, though this week he seems like 95 percent.

  In the waiting room, Dad’s on his phone playing spades. I’m kind of surprised—we’re here all the time, but today there’s something about the lighting that makes me realize he’s lost weight in his face. I think back. He seems to be eating the same as usual, but I don’t know what he eats at work. He looks thin. But I feel someone’s eyes on me and look up.

  A woman with a German shepherd sits across the room. She makes me uncomfortable the way she’s staring at me. I’m still really aware of my head, even though I’m not having headaches anymore. I know it’s my imagination, but it seems like the staring makes my head hurt.