Open Ice

NICKY TAG! NICKY TAG! All his life, crowds have been cheering for Nick Taglio. He's been skating since he could walk, scoring goals since he picked up a hockey stick. He's only a sophomore but he rules the ice, because Nicky Tag's a fighter. Which means you have to take some hits; concussions come with the territory. When he gets another head injury, his doctor, his parents, and his coach tell him he can never play again. Too dangerous, they say. He can't risk his future. But they don't understand that without hockey, Nick has no future. It's not a game, it's his life. And nobody can stop him from playing. From the Hardcover edition.

Pat Hughes is an editor at the Philadelphia Inquirer and lives in Pennsylvania. Pat has published two middle-grade historical novels; Open Ice is Pat’s first novel for young adults.

1

In the dream there's always open ice, just like that night, and he's skating hard on a breakaway, blades hissing quick! quick! quick! while the crowd's roar echoes in his helmet.
Raising his stick to take the shot, he catches something in the corner of his eye, a glimmer, a shadow . . . and then lights over his head, swimming, flashing, the ER, no, the rafters of the rink.
He tries to swear but the word won't come. He doesn't want to shut his eyes but shuts his eyes.
"What's his name?"
"Nick."
"Nick! Nick!"
Now he was looking at a woman EMT, who smiled: "Here he is."
"I'm okay," he said, trying to sit up.
"Easy, Nicky, easy." Coach was kneeling on the ice, rubbing his arm. "You took a bad hit. You were out, pal."
"No, I wasn't, no . . ."
His teammates milled around, a gliding gold and blue mass of worry. But Nick would prove he was all right, get up, skate away. He lifted his head; the building swirled.
"Griff?" Nick said.
"Right here, dude." Griffin leaned close, resting his blocker glove on Nick's arm.
"My head."
"I know," Griff said, a deep frown folded into his face. "I know."
The EMTs slid Nick onto a stretcher. As they rolled him off the ice, his teammates spoke, patting his shoulders, his chest.
"You'll be okay, Tag."
"Game misconduct. The asshole got game misconduct."
"Goddamn Canucks, come here and pull that dirty shit on our ice . . ."
"He fuckin' blindsided you, Tag."
"I noticed," Nick mumbled, and they laughed nervously.
"He's okay."
"Nicky Tag."
"You my dog."
"Don't miss the penalty shot," Nick warned, and their cheer spurred the crowd to echo it.
The one good thing about getting injured was hearing them cheer for you like that. But it was over in no time, and then you were alone with the EMTs and their stupid questions in the bright ambulance.
Nick shut his eyes as they moved toward the lobby. He didn't want to see anybody or try to talk to anybody, except maybe Devin. But here came his parents, calling his name, clutching at his sleeve.
"I'm all right," he mumbled, but his head was so foggy--he'd never felt this bad before. Maybe it was true, everything Blakeman had said. Maybe all of it was true.
"Does one of you want to ride with us?" the EMT asked.
"I will," Nick's mom said.
Then they all melted into a blur; he felt sick to his stomach.
"Mrs. Tag! Mrs. Tag! Is he okay?" Devin's clogs slapping the concrete floor as she ran--that was the last thing he heard.
"He's in and out."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"What's his name?"
"Nick."
This was the drop pass: his old best friends, the EMTs, leaving him for his new best friends, the ER staff, to pick up.
"Okay, Nick? Nick, do you know where you are?"
He skipped to the next question: "George Dubya Bush."
They laughed.
"Nick, do you know what happened to you?"
"Where's my skates?"
More laughter.
"What'd he say?"
"He's worried about his skates."
"Yeah, so would I, if I had Bauer 5000s . . . You get 'em for Christmas, Nick?"
"What's Christmas?" he asked, and they all laughed again.
Someone rubbed his hair: "Oh, we got a funny guy."
"Your mom has your skates."
"Okay, be serious, now. How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three."
"What state are we in?"
"Connecticut."
"Good boy."
"Any vomiting?" ER asked.
"Couple times," EMT answered.
"All right, let's vent him, get some pictures."
Walkie-talkies crackled. "That's us."
"See you, Nick!"
"Good luck, Nick!"
EMTs yelling "good luck" at you. That was a hopeful sign.


 2

"Nick-oh-luss-tag-lee-OH!"
He opened his eyes; sunlight flooded the room. Nurse Janeece stood at the bottom of the bed, hands on her hips. Nick raised his hand in a wave.
"You remember me?" she asked.
"How could I forget you?"
"Awake. Alert," she said, grinning as she checked off his chart. "Headache?"
"Not too bad."
"Dizzy? Nauseated?"
"No," he lied.
"How many?" She held up two fingers.
"Peace," he said out, making the sign.
She sighed. "I thought I told you not to come back here again, boy!"
"This one wasn't my fault."
"Uh-huh." She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm.
He had met her in August, when he stayed over with his first grade-three concussion, a last-day memento of hockey camp. Losing consciousness was the hallmark of a grade-three, the most serious level of concussion. Nick had never been knocked out before, and it had really scared him. Nurse Janeece had spent a lot of time with him, distracting him with stories about her kids.
"So, what do you hear?" he asked her.
"Now, you know I can't discuss your condition with you!"
"Well, how are my 'vitals'?" He used his voice to quote the word. "You can tell me my pulse and 'BP,' can't you? Or is that 'actionable'?"
She had her fingers on his wrist. "BP is fine. Now watch me make your pulse rate jump. There's a young lady down the hall for you."
His free hand darted up to his hair.
"No, fool, you don't want to look good! You want the girl to feel sorry for you, maybe give you a little extra sugar! Rumple up that hair and slide under the blanket, shut your eyes and I'll send her in"
Nick was too proud to take the advice, and besides--he wanted to observe the approach. Devin walking toward him was a sight he never got tired of.

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Excerpted from Open Ice by Pat Hughes
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.