Dr. Bisson fixed his glare on Peter. "I've wasted enough time here."
He retreated to his office and slammed the door behind him.
Breathing hard, heartbeat racing, Blair pressed a hand to her chest. "Peter, you don't think I'm wrong, do you?"
"No." He guided her to the empty training room. "I'm not happy that Dylan is allowed to return to the ice either. But the guidelines are crystal clear. Physicians, not trainers, have the final say."
"The wording in the protocol needs to be changed. If the league isn't putting his safety first, and if the team isn't going to insist on it, then what are we even doing here?" She whirled around, gesturing at the tables and equipment. "His life could be on the line."
"Blair..."
Unable to catch her breath, she fought back tears as anger, hurt, and fear swirled into a perfect storm in her soul. "No one knew enough to protect my father when he suffered his concussions, but they sure as hell know better now. Dylan shouldn't have even been allowed to play today. I don't care if he was skating and participated in practice yesterday and insisted that he was fine. He isn't fine. I know him. He hasn't been his usual self."
"One of the things I've always liked about you is your ability to read the players."
"It should be clear to anyone who has watched him over the last several days. The media, the league, the team." Her stomach sank like a lead balloon. "I honestly don't think I want to keep working for an organization that ignores serious issues."
"Before you make any decisions, why don't you take a day or two to think about things?" Peter patted her shoulder. "You're a damn good trainer. The best assistant I've ever had. Whatever you decide to do—stay, go, or send a letter to the league—you'll have my full support."
"Thank you."
Throughout the rest of the game, her thoughts strayed back to Peter's mention of a letter to the league. She needed to get down her thoughts. She also needed to talk to Dylan. He played every shift with his line mates, and the penalty-killing and power play units. Something still seemed off to her. He appeared to be a step behind, to take an extra second to make a decision, things other people might not notice. But she did.
She wondered if he noticed. If he did, then he'd been hiding things from her and the training staff, and that wasn't okay.
The Bedlam won the game. As soon as the final horn sounded, she returned to the training room. She went through her duties and then waited for him in the parking lot. He came out of the building with his brother.
Rod waved. "Are you coming over to the house?"
She looked at Dylan, but he didn't say anything. "I'd like to."
"Cool. Then I'm guessing D will want to ride with you." Rod opened his car door and tossed his gear bag on the back seat, then he took Dylan's bag and piled it in. "I'm gonna swing by Ben's coffee shop for a while. See you guys at home."
He hopped in the car and sped away.
Blair unlocked her car doors. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine." His stiff movements could have been due to anger or injury. She couldn't tell. But he climbed into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt into place.
They drove in silence. When they reached his driveway, she cut the engine but didn't move to get out of the car. "We need to talk."
He twisted toward her. His eyes blazing, he spoke through a tight jaw, "Think so?"
Angry. Definitely angry.
He held up his hand. "I'll start. I heard you and Dr. Bisson going at it in the hallway. The whole team heard it. The coaching staff, the equipment staff, the people in the hallway—everyone. I didn't appreciate that."
"I'm sorry. It got heated pretty fast, and we should have moved it to a more private area."
When he didn't say anything further, she continued, "Look, I really don't think you should play anymore. It's too risky. What happened today was like a worst-case situation. It's your first game back after being diagnosed with a concussion five days ago, and you go slamming head-first into the boards."
He blew out a breath. "Listen—"
Ignoring his interruption, she continued to tick off the instances on her fingers one by one. "You missed three weeks with your first concussion, then you came back to play and got your second concussion one week later. You missed six weeks dealing with your symptoms. Then you come back and one month later, boom, you get another concussion. You missed a few days, and on your first game back, bam—another major hit to your head."
"It's not that—"
"Concussions are brain damage. I don't know if you truly don't understand that or if you're just refusing to take it seriously."
He leaned his head back and stared at the sunroof. "I do understand. But we're so close to winning it all. We can finish this in one more game."
"What if you lose? What if they manage to pull off a comeback? Are you going to play again next year, go through a long, grueling season so you can chase the Cup all over again?"
He didn't answer for a long moment. Then he shrugged. "I don't know."
"This is your brain we're talking about. It's not like a torn ACL or a broken leg. You can suffer long-term effects for the rest of your life. Look at all of the players who have been diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome. Some of them are suffering a lot." Like her father. The depression, the mood swings, the headaches and memory problems. She shivered against the rising fear that Dylan was next. "You're hurting yourself. You need to stop playing. All of those checks and hits add up too. You haven't been playing like your usual self. You haven't been your usual self. If
