He kicked free of his pants and eased back until he reclined on the mattress. "You've been with me through both of the other concussions. How long do you think these symptoms will last?"
She slowly pulled off her shirt and pants and gathered her thoughts. Damn it, he wasn't going to like what she had to say. But downplaying an injury—giving any player a false sense of hope—was never a good idea. And she certainly wasn't going to start lying to the one player who'd staked a claim on her heart. She joined him on the mattress and stretched out by his side. "The best indication of how long a recovery will take is how many symptoms you have and how severe they are. No one can predict how long it's going to take to recover from a concussion just because you've had one before or just because the previous concussion symptoms lasted for a specific period of time."
He tucked his hand behind his head and faced her. "I can't be out for weeks again. This is it. I have a minimum of four games and a max of seven. Then it's game over."
"Do you remember the video I showed you of what happens to your brain during a concussion? Playoffs or not, you need to understand the importance of making sure you're really healed before you're allowed back. If you're allowed back."
His gaze narrowed. "I don't like 'if.' I can't not play."
Frustration rushed out in her sigh. "Did you hear anything else I just said?"
"I did. I just... I can't think about that right now." His hand landed on her hip and he pulled her closer. "Please. Just be here with me."
"Let's get some sleep. We'll see how you're doing in the morning." She switched off the bedside lamp. Sleep would be good for him, it helped the brain recover. He didn't have any of the warning signs; he was awake and able to hold a conversation, his pupils weren't dilated, and he hadn't had any trouble walking.
"You're staying. I need to know you're here." His eyes drifted closed, and he shifted until his head lay on her chest.
"I'll be here the whole time." She stroked his head from his temple to his nape in a gentle rhythm. Soon, his breathing grew deep and even.
Blair lay in the dark staring at the ceiling.
Three concussions in the span of four months. All of the studies she'd read, all of the data, and all of the symptoms Dylan had previously experienced swirled together.
Her stomach was sick with worry.
He shouldn't keep playing. She had to make him understand.
BENCHED.
Dylan strode from the doctor's office, riding a wave of anger and frustration. The second game of the finals was only hours away, and he would be forced to watch it from the safety of his hotel room. If he didn't know better, he'd think Blair had been in the doctor's ear. She'd spent hours with him since the concussion diagnosis two nights prior, almost like she'd been afraid to leave him alone.
His body was betraying him with the stupid headaches that had annoyingly continued. And she knew it just by looking at him.
Damned inconvenient.
Blair met him in the hall and slipped her arm around him. "What happened?"
"No dice."
"That's not surprising, or a bad thing. Your brain needs rest in order to heal."
He shook his head. He didn't want to hear that right now. "I need to talk to Coach LeClair."
"All right. I'll see you later." She kissed his cheek and let him go.
He found his coach in a windowless room with a laptop open to scouting reports. The TV on the wall displayed a cluster of clips from the Bedlam's video software program. "Got a minute?"
Coach waved him in. "Close the door."
He closed it hard, then paced to the desk. "The doctor won't clear me. And that's crazy. I'm fine. Can't you do something?"
Coach sat back in his chair. "You know that's not how it works."
He did. But still, he needed to feel like someone was on his side. "The collective bargaining agreement states that I'm entitled to a second medical opinion. I want to exercise that right."
"Dylan, we're in freaking Canada. It's not like we're back home. You're too keyed up to choose a doctor right now. By the time we get the doctor vetted, it would already be game-time. Besides, if his diagnosis doesn't agree with this guy here on whether you're healthy enough to play, then the two of them have to find a third independent physician to make a ruling. There isn't time for all of that. We're flying home after tonight's game so you can see Dr. Bisson and our team neuropsychologist tomorrow. If you pass your baseline testing, and participate in a full practice without issue, then we'll get you back in the game."
The helpless feeling in his gut threatened to swallow him whole. "The guys need me out there on the ice. I want to be there for them."
"I know how you feel. I felt the same way when I played." Coach stood and rounded the desk, then put his hand on Dylan's shoulder. "It's only one game."
"But it's the finals." There weren't that many chances left. Every single second counted.
"Then take it easy today so you're as healthy as can be for the rest of the series. Hopefully, we'll get you back for game three. That's still a few days away, and a possibility. We do need you in the locker room and on the ice, but we need you to be healed up first."
"I'll get out of your way and let you figure out how to replace me." He back-stepped to the door. Coach would need to rework the lines or move some guys around.
"There's no replacing you. The rest of the guys will have to step up to fill the void. They'll do that for
