Chapter 6: Protocol

In the second period in Chicago, a stick caught Kasper clean across the mask.

His head snapped back, and he dropped to one knee, and I was over the boards in my loafers before the whistle finished.

"I'm good, Doc," he said, laughing, too loud. "Seriously."

I took the mask off.

His left pupil was a pinprick, and the right was the size of a dime.

In the medical room behind the bench I held up one finger.

"Follow it. Don't move your head."

His eyes slid off the target halfway across.

"What's the date?"

"Saturday?"

"It's Thursday."

"Right. Thursday." He grinned, scared. "If I sit, they send me down. I don't get another shot at this net."

"Nobody is taking your net. I'm taking you out of the game."

The door swung open behind me.

The team doctor stood there with a clipboard, pink and unhurried.

"I'll take it from here, Ms. Contini. Please wait outside."

Four minutes later he came out and said, "Cleared to practice. We'll revisit."

"He couldn't name the day."

"He was nervous."

"He was concussed."

"That's your opinion."

He walked off humming.

On Monday morning I ran Kasper through the full protocol on a clean table.

One foot, eyes closed.

A line of tape to walk, heel to toe.

Ten words to hold for five minutes.

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