Page 70 of Patrick

CHAPTER 20

TRICK

Two Days Later

“I’m fine. No headaches, no dizziness, no blurred vision, no nausea. I’m perfectly healthy.” I’m fidgety sitting on the cold exam table, possibly because I remember my last visit here after I got decked and nearly knocked out. “My head is harder than you give me credit for.”

Dr. Larry snorts. “Concentration back to normal during class?”

“As good as ever.” Except when I’m sitting next to Fifi. As it is, I’ve had to rely on her notes even after I returned to class because she’s still as distracting as ever. Maybe more since we haven’t slept together for days.

“I’m officially clearing you for light practice and general activity tomorrow,” Doc says. “If you continue to feel well with no return of symptoms, then you’ll be set to play in the next game.”

I shrug.

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I’d be thrilled if Coach Zabra didn’t suspend me for a game for fighting.”

Doc is silent, and I stare at him, daring him to try and defend the coach.

“That son of a bitch.” He takes a deep breath while I manage to stop my eyes from popping out of my head. “I wish I could say I’ll talk to him for you, Patrick, but we don’t get along.”

“Guess that makes two of us.”

“Don’t worry, he can’t keep you benched forever, and he can’t stop the scouts from taking note of your prolific scoring. He’s only getting away with this because the next game is with Loon State, and we can easily beat them.”

I snort in agreement. “You’re right.” I grin, but not because of the team’s likely win without me—which should be alarming—but because the doc’s clearance to play hockey means I’m cleared to play naughty games with Fifi too.

I jump from the exam table and shrug into my jacket.

“Glad to see you’re taking this in stride,” Doc says.

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Tell your young lady hello for me.” He winks.

Laughing as I walk out the door, I ignore the niggling thought that maybe playing with Fifi is better than playing hockey.

Arriving late for Stats class, I don’t care as I stride down the aisle to the first row while Professor Gringley rambles, then stops in mid-lecture. I take my seat next to Fifi, where no other student dared sit, and grin up at the prof.

He stares down at me from his podium.

“Better late than never,” I say, not relenting on my grin even in the face of his scowl. Next to me, Fifi covers her mouth, and I know there’s a smile she’s hiding behind her hand. She coughs. Make that a laugh.

The prof shakes his head and resumes his lecture as my hand finds its way to Fifi’s thigh under the flip-up desk. I don’t bother taking out my notebook as she resumes writing. I can barely concentrate on listening, let alone writing.

But I’m not worried the lack of concentration is from the concussion.

At the end of class, Prof Gringley has his assistants hand back a quiz we took just before my ill-fated game against B.C..

I turn mine face down as the paper is handed to me.

“What did you get?” Fifi nudges me and shows me her grade circled in red at the top of the page. A big fat 88.

“Great job, Fifi.” I lean in and kiss her, just a quick one. Even though students are filing out and generally not paying attention to us, I hear a whistle. Shit.

I stand and pull her with me.