Blair's heart caught in her throat.
The whistle blew. Leo skated right over to the defenseman, shoved him in the chest, and then slammed his fist into the guy's face. The strength of the blow knocked him into the boards as more players rushed to jump in.
But Dylan continued to lie face down on the ice.
Icy fingers of fear gripped her heart. Mouth dry, she nudged Peter. "We have to get out there."
The linesmen separated the fighting players. Reminding herself to stay calm, Blair followed Peter across the ice. Dylan's arms and legs were moving like he was trying unsuccessfully to get them underneath his body so he could get up. Celek knelt beside Dylan, expression grim. He moved back to give them room.
Peter touched Dylan's shoulder and leaned down to speak into his ear. His initial words were drowned out by boos from the fans and the PA announcer. "Buffalo penalty, number fifty-five, Leo Brennan, five minutes for fighting. Edmonton penalty, number twelve, Marcus Nylander, five-minute major plus a game misconduct for cross-checking."
The Bedlam's team physician hadn't accompanied the team on the road trip. Edmonton's team physician joined them and began his assessment, nudging Blair out of the way. She kept her focus on Dylan's grimacing face. Two fans were screaming through the hole in the glass, shouting obscenities at the Edmonton player.
Dylan continued to lie there and talk to the doctor. He rolled to his side, then curled up and shifted onto his knees.
Peter kept his hand on Dylan's shoulder. "That's it. Nice and slow."
He raised his head and torso, kneeling on the ice. Celek and Vince got their arms under his and helped him to his skates.
"Guys, I want to skate to the bench on my own." Determination laced through Dylan's voice. But then he winced and bent down, resting his hands on his knees.
Peter waved the guys away and nodded at Blair. "We'll help him off."
She rounded Dylan's body and placed her hand on his back, directing him toward the door by the bench.
They helped him to the locker room. There, the doctor performed his evaluation, asking about symptoms, checking his balance and coordination. Dylan exhibited some confusion over the name of the arena, the current period of play, and the score. He admitted to a headache, slight nausea, and ringing in his ears.
They administered the test again at five-minute increments for the next fifteen minutes. Dylan's confusion faded. But the rest of his symptoms remained.
The doctor met Peter's gaze and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Dylan. I can't allow you to return to the game."
Dylan's brows knitted together. "What about game two? Will I miss that one too?"
"That's two days away so I can't answer that yet. I'll evaluate you again tomorrow. You've had concussions before. You know we can't predict how long it will take you to recover." He shook Dylan's hand, and Peter accompanied him into the hall.
A scowl darkened Dylan's face as he watched them leave. Blair sat beside him and rested her hand on his thigh. She was scared. Another concussion, however mild, wasn't good. He would be more vulnerable to repeated concussions given his record of them.
He cast his gaze in her direction. "I don't know that we should trust the other team's doctor. Maybe we should fly Dr. Bisson up here."
"Dr. Bisson had to miss the trip because his wife had surgery. If Peter or I had administered the same test, we'd have come to the same conclusion. You have another concussion."
Dylan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Peter returned. "Dylan, Blair, I'm arranging for a ride for you back to the hotel. There's no sense in waiting here to travel back with the team, whenever they finish. Dylan, I want you to lie down and get some rest. I know the diagnosis wasn't what you wanted to hear."
"You've got that right."
"Blair, I want you to go with him. Make sure he's settled, and keep an eye on him. I'll handle your duties here."
"All right." She hurried to the training room to gather her things. Peter stayed with Dylan in case he needed help while changing out of his uniform.
She met them in the hall. Dylan wore his travel suit and the most devastated expression she'd ever seen. Needing contact, she clasped his hand. He stayed quiet for the short ride to the hotel and didn't speak until he sat on the edge of the bed in his room.
"I can't believe this happened again." Elbows on his knees, he cradled his head in his hands.
"Is the headache getting worse?"
"No." He dropped his hands and slowly raised his head. His eyes were clear but troubled. "I don't like this. It makes me feel so damn weak."
She crouched down and pulled off his shoes and socks, then worked on the row of buttons on his shirt. "You're not weak. But you are more vulnerable to repeated concussions given your record of them. The threshold is lower."
His hand closed over hers. "You look upset."
"Of course, I'm upset. I don't like to see you hurt. I hate that this isn't something I can fix."
His eyes softened, and both of his hands framed her face. "Having you with me helps."
Warmth fanned out from her chest. She brushed her lips over his, then resumed opening the buttons. "Let's get you out of these clothes."
"Is that an invitation?" A half-smile curved his lips and his strong hand cupped her breast. She leaned into his touch for a moment, craving the closeness and needing more.
"As much as I want to, no. You need to rest. Doctor's orders."
"He didn't specifically say 'don't have sex'."
Smiling, she pushed off his jacket and shirt. "Tell me the truth. Do you still have the headache, the nausea, the ringing in your ears?"
His smile faded and he focused on opening his belt. His silence spoke volumes.
A touch on his shoulder brought his gaze back to hers. "I want you
