The Overtime Winner

Janine streaks down the ice. Her skates make a shush-shush sound as she skates across the blue line.

A defender tries to cut her off. Janine passes the puck to her best friend, Rowena Khan, who is rushing down the left wing.

Excuse me, Miss? Can you hear me? Miss? She's not responsive.

Janine doesn't stop skating. She goes toward the net. She keeps her stick on the ice. She feels in her gut that Rowena is going to send her a return pass.

We have to cut her free. She's pinned. Everyone, clear!

Rowena stops at the half-boards. She fires a low, crisp pass toward the crease. Her skates flash as she stops in front of the net. She reaches her stick out and feels the puck hit the blade.

We have her free! Now, easy, easy ... get her onto the stretcher. Keep that spine straight! The helicopter is three minutes away.

With a quick flick of the wrists, Janine whips her stick forward. The puck rockets into the top corner of the net and the red goal light comes on. Janine raises her stick in the air. Then she is knocked to the ice, not by an opponent, but by her teammates. They pile on her in celebration.

Miss, can you hear us? Can you? We're going to be airlifting you to University Hospital in Edmonton. I've got a pulse of 110. She's breathing, but she's not responsive.

Janine and her teammates line up on their blue line. The tournament convener shakes Coach Sibierski's hand. Next, it's Janine's turn.

"Nice winning goal, Captain," the convener says. He places a shiny gold medal around Janine's neck. And then he says at the top of his lungs, "Our tournament champions, the Edmonton Ice Devils!"

The Ice Devils bang their sticks on the ice.

We have to get her to the OR. Are we prepped? Yes, the driver was taken to emergency. He's conscious. I don't have the status on the other passenger. I think it was her mother. Keep the father informed of our progress.

Janine and her teammates cheer loudly in their dressing room. The trophy stands in the middle of the room. Crossed golden hockey sticks sit atop a silver globe. Janine picks up the trophy and kisses it.

There's severe damage below the T6 vertebra. I don't know how much we can do. Let's clean up the wound. We'll see how much movement she has once we get her to recovery. Let's hope for the best.

Janine gets into the back seat of the SUV. She waves goodbye to her teammates in the parking lot.

Her dad pulls out of the Westlock Arena's parking lot. They drive back to Edmonton, south on Highway 44.

"What a game!" Janine's dad says. "I got that entire scoring play on my phone! Maybe I'll write an article about it for tomorrow's Sports section."

Her mom looks back at Janine from the front seat. "Wow. I mean, wow. Overtime winner! I was so, so nervous."

"That was more exciting than any pro game I've ever covered," says Janine's dad.

"Okay, Dad," Janine's eyes roll.

Headlights appear ahead of them and then disappear. Cars zip by on the two-lane highway. And, then, two sets of headlights loom in front of them. One is off in the other lane, and one is directly in the path of their SUV.

Mr. and Mrs. Burnett? Your daughter is waking up. Are you okay? We're calling for Dr. Ali right now.

* * *

Janine's eyes fluttered open. She heard beeping noises from the machine next to her bed. On the screen was a 79 next to a flashing heart symbol. Underneath, there was a display that read Oxygen: 94%. It changed to 95. Then back to 94.

There were tubes coming out of Janine's right arm, which was wrapped in white tape. Stitches went from her left elbow almost down to her wrist. Her body felt tingly, as if her legs and arms had been asleep.

A nurse in a green gown stood next to the bed. Janine looked toward the window and saw her dad sitting in a chair. His head was bandaged. His eyes were red and swollen. Next to him was her mom. She sat in a wheelchair. Bandages covered almost half of her face. Tubes ran from an IV drip into her arm.

"Dad? Mom?" Janine tried to say. But it came out as a hoarse whisper. All she could get out was a barely audible, "aaah, ommm."

Mr. Burnett pushed himself out of his chair with great effort. He was in a gown and had a hospital ID bracelet on his wrist. He shuffled toward Janine until he was close enough to take her left hand.

"I am so, so sorry," he said.

Janine's mom was silent. The one eye that Janine could see was yellow.

"Mom is sedated," her dad said. "She's in a lot of pain. But we thought it was important for her to be here with you."

"Pain?" Janine said. "Is she going to be okay?"

"The doctors say she'll be fine." Janine could tell by her dad's face that he wasn't telling her the truth. "It will be a long road back, though."

A doctor in a white coat walked into the room.

"Miss Burnett? Awake? How are you feeling?"

"Excuse me?" Janine said. "I mean, we were just driving home a minute ago, from the game." The doctor gave Janine's parents a long, serious look. Then, he whispered something into the nurse's ear.

"Janine," her dad said. "We were in an accident. A week ago."

A week? Janine thought. I just got into the car a few minutes ago! We just won the tournament!

The doctor lifted the sheet covering Janine's legs. He got a small silver instrument out of his pocket. At the end of a long handle was a wheel covered in small picks. He rolled the picked wheel against her right leg, then her left leg.

"Do you feel anything?"

"No, just a tingling in my legs."

The doctor spoke quickly to the nurse. Janine heard "spine," "vertebra," "compression" and "damage."

She looked back toward her dad. His face was covered by his right hand. Tears streamed through his fingers.

"Dad? What's wrong? Why am I here?"

Rehab

Janine wriggled. It was a struggle to get out of her bed and settle into her wheelchair. She looked at the calendar on the bedside dresser that showed how long she'd been in the hospital. It had a month's worth of Xs drawn through the boxes. On the other side, another month's worth of Xs.

As soon as Janine began moving, waves of nausea returned. The doctors had told her that was normal for anyone who had suffered a severe spinal injury. They said it would go away after a couple of months.

It's been a couple of months now, right? she thought.

She had no feeling in her legs. So, when she moved, her brain responded with hey, why do our eyes tell me we're moving when our legs aren't telling me anything? The response to the mixed messages was the sick feeling. It was like feeling carsick when she read a comic book in the back seat of a moving car.

Janine wheeled herself to the common room. It was where patients at the Glenrose Rehabilitation Hospital ate, met with friends and played games.

Janine saw Rowena walk into the common area and sit at a table near the corner. Janine rolled herself toward her best friend.

"Hi," Rowena said. She pushed a pink envelope and a small, gift-wrapped box across the table.

"I told you this wasn't a good idea," said Janine. She pushed the envelope and box away. She didn't make eye contact with Rowena.

"Why? It's been a few weeks. I missed you. I wanted to see you earlier. But you kept saying no, no, no...