Delayed Penalty (3 page)

Waking from sleep with Leo sticking his finger up my nose, the bus skidded to a stop outside the United Center shortly after midnight. "Wake up sunshine!"

Leo Orting, our scrappy center, was my best friend. We roomed together on the road, sat together on the bus, and sat together on the team plane. Anywhere we went with the team, we were together. Hockey players liked routine. We had a routine.

Leo and I grew up playing in the OHL together. When I first met him, he slammed me into the boards so hard my mouth guard flew out of my mouth, and I was sure I'd be pissing blood. The next chance I got, I did the same. In hockey, you played dirty, and you better be ready to take it dirty, too. And Leo could.

He smiled, peeling himself from the boards and said, "Nice hit, eh."

From then on, we played each other with respect. He was a year older—entered the draft before I did—but was traded the year I signed with the Blackhawks to none other than the Blackhawks. It was fun having guys like Leo on the team—ones you could count on to keep your team alive and play well together. If Leo thought for a second the morale had been lost, he'd do something to bring it back. Usually this was to someone else's public humiliation, but that was Leo.

Making our way off the bus, we unloaded equipment bags and then transferred them to our respective vehicles. Leo spent more time tossing rocket snowballs at Shelby Wright, the rookie on the team.

Leo, Dave Keller (another defenseman), and a few others made plans to stop by the local pub before heading home to their families. I wasn't twenty-one yet, so I stopped off at Smith & Wollensky and grabbed some food with Shelby before heading back to my apartment on North Wabash Ave. Even though it was pretty late, they always served hockey players.

With nearly 2.7 million residents in Chicago alone, and even at two in the morning, the streets hummed with people captivated in the lights and glamour of the city. Passing through the large buildings, I noticed the temperature had dropped considerably.

The temperature of a Chicago winter proved to be variable and fickle. Mostly, the temperature hovered around the mid-thirties for weeks at a time, and then the occasional snowstorm would blow through leaving a fresh blanket of snow. Growing up in Pittsburgh, I was used to the cold winters and snow, but this week had record lows and averaged in the single digits at night. Let's just say, these were the nights I wouldn't mind have a nice warm body to curl up to.

My eyes were half closed as I walked from the restaurant, passing cabs hauling off drunks from the local bars. The wind blew, shocking me momentarily before causing a shiver. Huddling in, I pulled my jacket tighter. Squeezing my eyes shut, I felt the tenderness of the hits I took tonight, but welcomed the cooler temperature against my burning cheeks. Each breath burned my nose from the cold and made my eyes water. It was the kind of cold that had you thinking your lungs would freeze with the slightest breath.

Walking along the pier, I followed a path along the Chicago River that I had learned well over the last year, the one heading toward my apartment in the Trump Towers.

After crossing North State, I passed by Rossi's, waited for a car to pass by, and then attempted to cross the street, but stopped when I heard a soft moaning. It sounded eerie, almost like a dying animal. Pulling my beanie cap from my head, I looked over my right shoulder down a dark alley between the two buildings, trying to decipher where the noise was coming from. Between the dumpsters appeared to be a small figure pushed up against the side of the brick building.

That was not unheard of in downtown Chicago, with the homelessness increasing daily. What was alarming was the bright red spilled against the white snow.

Whoever it was had been injured.

Redfish, a grimy bar, was right on the corner. Outside, a group of shifty men stood leaning against the side of the building, smoking. The smoke from their cigarettes mixed with their breathing, and frigid air created a thick layer of fog around them.

The wind whipped around. Before I could focus again, my eyes felt as though they couldn't move, literally frozen at the sight. A dark alleyway had bad news written all over it, especially for a professional athlete worth millions. The hesitation ruled momentarily, but then the noise got louder, and I was sure it was a woman's moan, one of discomfort and helplessness.

There was no way someone, anyone, should be out here in this weather, let alone lying in a snow covered street. If anything, I could at least get her out of the cold. I wasn't exactly the type of guy that would allow her in my apartment, considering she was probably just another transient who made some bad decisions.

Regardless, I approached her prone figure hesitantly, not knowing exactly what to expect. Visions of Leo and his theory on dark streets in Chicago made me smile. You couldn't get him to walk alone in the city; he was convinced someone would shank him.

"Hello?" I called out, my dress shoes crunching in the frozen snow with each step. Hoping I didn't get shanked was still on my mind, but now real fear took over.

There was no answer—no moaning, no crying, just the raucous voices from Redfish calling out last call. I pressed my back into the wall, keeping my distance, as I slowly approached the scene. The sight before me caused bile to rise in my throat: a girl huddled in the corner, curling into herself. She had her arms wrapped around her delicate body in a protective manner.

Her light hair cascaded over her face and shoulders, obscuring the view of her face. The black jacket she wore was ripped in various spots, her jeans pulled down around her ankles.

Jesus Christ, how could someone do this to another person?

I closed my eyes, hoping I was just imagining things. Suddenly, my breath caught loudly when I realized she'd probably fell victim to one of those shifty smokers outside Redfish. Her light colored underwear was torn to pieces, shredded around her right thigh. Long, purplish black marks were forming over her thighs. I wasn't looking close enough. It seemed wrong to look at a naked girl when something so horrendous had obviously happened to her. Kneeling down near her face, I attempted to check for a pulse, and though it was there, it was extremely faint. Blood poured from her mouth and nose, her lips were blue, and her skin was cool to the touch, and that was when I knew she wasn't going to make it unless I helped.

It was a shame, but in a city this size, crimes like this were a daily occurrence. Though completely unjustified in my mind, they still occurred. My mind focused on the justification, rather than the scene before me. How could someone attack a person so viciously and unwarranted? Suddenly the win and the excitement from the game was gone and now replaced with confusion and worry as though it was never there.

The tang of blood, though my senses were frozen, was strong. Blood poured from a large gash on her forehead, nose, mouth, and ears. I'd seen some nasty carnage before on the ice, but this girl was in need of medical attention, and I wasn't sure, but it could be too late.

Her eyes were swollen shut already, reddish purple marks looped around under her eyes and the back of her ears.

"Hey—girl?" I tried to nudge her slightly, not wanting to cause any more damage than had already been done to her. "Hey, girl?" I tried again, my voice lower.

Girl? How original. What is wrong with you?

Well, it's probably around zero degrees, and you are in fact freezing your balls off.

She didn't respond, not even the slightest movement. Stepping back away from her, I tried to think of what I should do.

Do I call the police? Do I take her to the hospital?

Just when I was about to call the police, the girl moaned softly before something that looked like blood mixed with vomit poured from her mouth. I reached out quickly, intending to help her, but then she went limp again, her face pressed into my hand.

I had to get her help now. I thought about calling Leo or even the police, but then I just decided to hail a cab and get her to the nearest trauma center.

As carefully as I could, my strong steady arms wrapped around her tiny frame. Shrugging out of my jacket, I used it to cover her from the waist down. I found a cab within a minute when the driver saw me struggling to hold a limp body. I wasn't sure what luck I'd have at finding a cab at two in the morning while holding a girl's body. They would think I was either a murderer or looking to score on some innocent, passed out girl.

Trying to open the door to the cab, her head flopped to one side against my shoulder. I'd never carried a lifeless figure before, but it was surprisingly difficult trying to keep arms and legs from spilling out of my grasp.

"Hey, what's wrong with her?" the cabby, a darker skinned man, asked, his eyes reproachful. "You hurt her like that?"

"No, it wasn't me," I answered flatly and immediately, not appreciating the accusing tone when I was
trying
to save her. "She was beaten by someone and left in the alley outside Redfish."

"Hospital?" was his next question.

"Yes—JHS." I wasn't sure how exactly to hold her, but I tried to keep pressure on the gash on her head, which appeared to be where most of the blood was coming from. I struggled to keep her covered since she was, in fact, nearly naked. Within minutes, my designer suit was ruined, as was my jacket. Right about then it hit me. I was wearing a lot of this girl's blood, had no idea where she'd been, and I had scrapes on my knuckles from the fight.

Great logic. Rescue a girl in the alley and then wipe her blood on you. Idiot.

The girl remained limp in my arms, blood pooling in her mouth, seeping from her lips every so often. The smell, pungently overwhelming, was making me sick, but the adrenaline took precedence and had me focused on getting her help.

The cab took us to Polk Street, more specifically, John H. Stroger Hospital.

The cabby came around the side, opened the door, and then helped me get the girl inside the emergency room.

"Help us!" I called out when the automatic glass doors opened.

Immediately, a few nurses were there with a stretcher, allowing me to free my arms. Though I had spent my life roughing up two hundred pound defensemen on a daily basis, holding this barely hundred-pound girl for the last twenty minutes had left them shaking and feeling jellylike.

The nurse, a larger woman worn beyond her years with her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, eyed the blood on me, along with my tattered appearance from the game. My black eye and swollen bottom lip wasn't helping me defend my innocence in this brutal attack.

"Are you responsible for this?"

"No!" I shouted, becoming defensive, pushing forward to follow them to where they were taking her. "I found her in the alley. I brought her here."

"I've heard that before," she replied with a superior calmness. "Don't go anywhere. You'll need to be questioned," she snapped, pushing the stretcher through the metal doors into what I assumed would be the trauma center. I followed, regardless of where they were taking her. I had to know she was going to make it.

"I'm not going anywhere," I replied, watching the girl twist to the side and vomit again before her body wilted back.

"Is she going to be okay?" I asked. My focus remained on the quick movements of the doctors hovering over her.

They were all yelling orders. Frantic movements, quick decisions, and fast hands scrambled to save this girl. Time passed quickly but just as slow. The world stopped and voices faded. I didn't know this girl, but I couldn't watch her die, not after trying to save her.

Pushing myself back against the wall, their efforts seemed empty or bare as she made no response. Her heartbeat was faint, fading in and out from the extreme loss of blood. The doctor hovered above her, stopping the chest compressions he'd began when her heart gave way the first time.

Horrendous didn't do this justice. This was unspeakable and revolting that one person could do something of this nature to another human being.

"What are you doing? Don't stop!" I told them, looking into the eyes of the subdued doctor. "Help her!"

A taller, lanky man stepped forward. His arms reached for my shoulders, trying to console me. "Sir, she's not going to make it. Her heart isn't..."

My head shook violently against his dejected words, refusing to believe him. "I've watched you torture this poor girl for an hour, please...just...try...one more time," I begged.

Another doctor who'd resumed compressions shocked her again. This time they got another jolt of life from her, faint, but it was there.

The doctors scrambled into gear and pushed me toward the door. "You need to leave."

With one push I was out the door and standing in the hallway, left wondering. How did I even get here, and why was I focused so distinctly on this, on her? What was it about her that held me here?

My body felt almost numb from the adrenaline and feelings of confusion and heartache for this girl I didn't know. When the doors closed, the feeling was so intense I had to reach for the wall to steady myself.

I didn't know why or how, but something made me stay that night. I didn't know her, nor did I have an obligation to stay, but something inside of me rooted me there, telling me I should stay. And I wouldn't have been me if I just simply left her there. Any man who could put his heart and soul into a game of hockey couldn't just walk away when someone needed them. She had no one else right now.

The same guy who saw determination where there was desire now saw hope where there was once despair.

So I stayed. In a room full of family members praying for their loved ones to come through, I prayed for a girl I didn't know and never met before to have a beating heart.

While others' sorrows turned to grieving pain, I sat waiting on the words of the unknown.