Free Murphy's Law by Lisa Marie Rice

changed his life.
    He sat back down, looking at the paper he held in his hands, wondering where to start.
    There was silence for a long moment, then Lou said, gently, “What’s wrong with your leg? You’re limping.”
    Nick’s throat eased. He could talk about that. “It’s not my leg. It’s the knee.”
    “The meniscus again?”
    He nodded.
    “Christ, Nick, how many times have they operated on that knee?”
    “Seven. The surgeon said next time I should just buy myself a new one.”
    “Maybe while you’re at it, you should just buy yourself a new head,” Lou said acidly. “What?” She’d seen him wince.
    Here it comes, he thought. “Well, since we’re on the subject…at the last game, I was backboarded and—”
    “Wait, you were what ?”
    Nick nearly smiled. Lou knew what he had in his bank account. She knew the name of every girlfriend he’d ever had. If she thought about it, she probably knew what color briefs he was wearing. And yet, though he’d been a professional hockey player for going on twelve years now, she’d systematically refused to learn even the basics of the game.
    Here goes , he thought. “Someone drove me into the backboard…hard. It’s an illegal move and the player got fined. But as I went under, I felt something crack in my knee. I went off to the bench for a minute and the coach pumped me full of painkillers and—ouch!”
    Nick glared at Lou and rubbed his head where she’d whacked him with a rolled-up magazine. As if he wasn’t banged up enough as it was. “What the hell was that for?”
    “You felt something snap in your knee and you went back into the game ?” Lou spoke through gritted teeth. “What on earth happened to you, Nick? You used to be a smart little boy, before you grew up. Overgrew up. Then you turned into a moron.”
    If you only knew how big a one, thought Nick. “Lou, you know what hockey’s like. Unless a limb is actually hacked off, you play. But that’s not the problem. The thing is, I also…uh…sort of…blacked out for a while. Probably not more than a second or two. But I forgot to tell coach.”
    “Hold on.” Lou’s pretty face turned sharp and fierce. “You blacked out? And you—” She thumped him over and over again with the magazine. “— you forgot to tell the coach ?”
    Nick lifted his arms in defense. “Wait, it’s not as crazy as it sounds. It was the middle of the game, and it was a close one, and I didn’t realize until later that I’d actually lost consciousness for a moment. It’s a symptom of concussion, the doctor said. Not remembering.”
    Lou was sitting back on the couch, arms folded, eyes blue fire. “So when did you tell the coach, Einstein?”
    Nick winced again. “Later. At the end of the game.” He hung his head, then looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. “We won the game. I scored the winning goal.”
    “With a concussion.” Lou rolled her eyes.
    Okay, so that wasn’t going to fly.
    Nick drew in a deep breath. Coughed. The closer he got to the heart of the matter, the more his throat closed up. “After the game, I told him about the blackout and coach ordered me into the hospital for a check-up. I was put through a variety of tests which were—not fun.” Nick shivered at the memory of being enclosed in the tight MRI machine.
    He was tough and he could take blood and broken bones with the best of them. But that eerie machine was like a coffin…it had been like being buried alive. Nick studied his hands. Hands that would never hold a hockey stick again. At least not professionally.
    “And?” Lou prodded. “What did the doctors say?”
    This was it. Nick handed her the sheet of paper and sat back, closing his eyes.
    Lou sucked in her breath as she read. Nick knew every word, from the heading—Clarence A. Sorenson, MD, Specialist in Neurology—down to the last words. We hereby advise that Nicholas Rossi be barred from competition athletics for the rest of his natural life.
    And in