Emerson
Koskela has been given a twenty-six-match ban and is likely to face charges of criminal assault.”
It’s the same woman from ESPN who ran the story of Jake’s drug test fail—what’s her name? Jo Furness. It’s right there on the screen beneath her heavily made-up face. She’s standing in front of the emergency room entrance, talking direct to camera, wearing a coat and scarf and a maniacal gleam in her eye. Ticker tape scrolls along the bottom of the screen: NEWS ALERT: JAKE McCALLISTER TAKEN TO UNI. MICHIGAN HOSPITAL . . . STAR NHL PROSPECT UNDERGOING EMERGENCY SURGERY . . .
“There’s a real irony,” she intones to screen, “to McCallister, Boston College’s star forward and the ice hockey world’s most feted star, being called the victim of assault.”
I glare at the screen.
“It was only six weeks ago McCallister himself was arrested for aggravated assault after an unprovoked attack left an innocent man scarred for life.”
I leap to my feet. “What the—” I yell at the TV.
My mom grabs my arm. “Calm down,” she says, shushing me.
“McCallister, who is pleading not guilty to the charge, is due in court in less than a month, though it’s looking like the trial date may now have to be pushed back given the severity of the injuries he sustained today in the match against the University of Michigan.”
I sink back down onto the sofa. My mom clutches my hands in hers. On-screen, Jo Furness presses her hand to her earpiece.
“Initial reports suggest he’s suffered internal injuries including a fracture to the spine, but we’re yet to have confirmation of the extent of his injuries or what they might mean for this talented young player.”
This can’t be happening. What does it mean? A fractured spine? Is he going to be paralyzed? I wish I could reach through the screen, grab her by the neck, and throttle her until she tells me.
“It’s too soon to say for certain, but it looks like McCallister’s career, both as a professional hockey player and as a model, may be prematurely over.”
I look up. No. How can she stand there and pronounce something like that as if she knows anything at all about anything? She’s not a doctor. And his modeling career? As if he ever cared about modeling! As if any of it matters except him being okay! I want to throw something at the TV. I grab hold of a cushion and crush it to my chest.
My mom turns to me. “I’m going to book a flight.”
“What?”
“You need to go to him. Whatever happened between you two, you’re still friends, aren’t you? If it were Shay, you’d go, wouldn’t you? You would already be on a plane.”
I close my eyes. Yes. I would go. No hesitation. And yes, I want to go now. I want to be there right this second. This waiting, this not knowing, is torture. But his family is there with him. Lauren is there with him. He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t want me. He hasn’t even bothered to call me, for Christ’s sake.
“You need to go, Emerson. After everything Jake’s done for us, it’s the least we can do. I would go myself if I could.”
I bite my lip. Should I go? Yes. I have to go. My mom’s right. There’s no other option. I can’t just sit here waiting by the TV to hear what’s happened to him. I can’t leave it up to that vile reporter to update me. I’ll go crazy.
They’re replaying the game—the moment of impact—in slow motion and from every possible angle. Every time I see it, I feel like I’m going to throw up. But now it flashes back to that damn reporter again.
I take note of the name of the hospital, lit up behind her. If I can get a flight out of Seattle this evening, I can be there by the morning. I get to my feet. Now I have a plan. It gives me momentum. But as I move to the door, something suddenly catches my eye on the TV. On-screen, Jo Furness has just stopped someone who was walking by on their way to the ER.
“. . . Jake McCallister’s girlfriend, Lauren Willis . . .”
Lauren’s tearstained face appears on camera. I stagger back as if I’ve been punched in the gut. My mom stands beside me frozen, with the TV remote in her hand.
“What?” she says, hitting the volume button. “What do they mean, his girlfriend?”
“Lauren, can you give us an update on Jake’s progress?” Jo calls out. “Is he still in surgery? Have the doctors given you any indication of how severe his injuries are?”
Lauren turns away, holding up a hand to shield her mascara-bleeding face, and heads toward the entrance to the ER.
Jo turns to the camera, then catches sight of someone else walking toward the ER. “And here, also just arriving, is the Boston College ice hockey coach.” She thrusts the microphone into the face of a gruff, gray-haired man wearing a blazer and a cap.
“In your career as a coach have you ever seen an injury as bad as this one?”
He pushes the microphone away with an angry snarl. “No comment,” he barks, and strides into the ER.
My mom switches off the TV. I stay staring at the ink-black screen. I can feel my mom looking at me, a silent question on her lips.
No comment.