He was drafted into the NHL and has been breaking records ever since. Three years ago, he signed an eight-year, seventy-one--million-dollar contract with the Flyers. And now people are wondering if Brett Madden will ever put on skates again.
Some hockey experts have already written him off, assuming that the ambiguous third party–reported injuries to his leg are serious and he’ll never bounce back fully.
Maybe that’s why his family hasn’t spoken out yet.
Lou yanks the menus from my grasp. “I guess that makes sense. They must be preoccupied with worry over him. The last thing they want to be doing is talking to those hounds.”
As if some kismet force is listening and feels the need to respond to our unanswered questions, the news channel cuts to a live broadcast from the hospital in Philly. I feel all the blood drain from my face as Brett Madden is pushed out in a wheelchair by a man whom I now recognize as his father.
“Oh, my God.” Is he paralyzed?
What if falling down the hill paralyzed him? Or how I recklessly yanked at him as I tried to pull him out of the car? What if I caused that?
With a grimace and help from his father, Brett pushes himself out of the chair and my entire body sinks with relief. Crutches appear out of nowhere.
Countless flashes fill the screen as a horde of reporters waits to capture his statement. Meryl Price stands just behind him and to the side, well within the camera’s angle. She’s wearing a simple black blouse and jeans, her bombshell blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and noticeably less makeup on than she has for the red carpet. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days, the bags under her eyes poorly masked by makeup. Still, she somehow exudes glamour.
Brett’s younger sister by sixteen months, Michelle, who’s had several small roles in movies already and is said to have a promising acting career ahead of her, stands next to her mother, looking equally tired.
A week after the accident and Brett Madden’s face is still banged up, both eyes mottled with shades of blue. His sandy brown hair hangs over his forehead, poorly disguising the bandages beneath. Yet he still looks more well put together than any man sitting in Diamonds right now, even with the scruffy facial hair. Somehow I first missed the cast on his left leg, peeking out from a slit in his track pants. That’s the leg that was trapped.
The way he approaches the microphone, his face scrunched in pain, I can tell being out of that chair pains him.
And yet, even in his current shape, leaning against crutches for support, he stands tall, regal, and strong, his shoulders so broad that they dwarf the podium in front of him.
Yes, he definitely must have regained consciousness in those last seconds before tumbling out of the car with me. There’s just no other way I could have gotten him out.
Somewhere in the background, the bell from the kitchen rings to announce a plate of food. I ignore it, gawking openly at the television, my stomach wild with butterflies as I wait anxiously to hear what Brett Madden has to say. Normally, Lou would be hollering by now, never one to let food sit idle under the heat lamps, but she’s standing right beside me, her attention riveted.
“Good afternoon,” Brett says, and the camera flashes explode in the room again. “I will give a brief statement and then answer a few questions for you today. After that, I ask that you give my family and me the space to recover and deal with a tremendous loss in my life.” He sounds somber but calm and collected, his deep voice unwavering. Not at all like a guy who nearly died a week ago. Whose friend and teammate did die.
He swallows hard, the bob in his throat prominent. The only sign that he is affected.
“I should not be standing here today. I count myself extremely lucky to be doing so, after last week’s tragic car accident that claimed the life of my good friend, Seth Grabner. My thoughts and prayers go out to his family and friends, and to the fans of the Philadelphia Flyers and the National Hockey League, who have lost an incredible player and man. I would like to thank the doctors and nurses at St. Mark’s for providing me with such excellent care.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, and I can’t tell if it’s due to physical discomfort or because of what he has to say. Not until he blinks away a slight sheen over his eyes several times, and then I realize this is all emotional pain. My heart tightens. “I will be with my teammates in spirit through the rest of the play-offs. They’ve worked hard and they deserve to hold that Cup.” He accepts a bottle of water from his father, and I notice the slightest tremble in his hand. Nodding toward someone beyond the TV camera, he says, “I’ll take a few questions now.”
I strain my ears to hear the first one. “Do you expect to be on the ice at the beginning of the next season?”
Again, I see his throat bob with a hard swallow. I can’t imagine standing in front of these people and fielding their questions. “We remain optimistic that I will make a full recovery. Next question.”
Not exactly an answer as far as next season goes.
Another unseen person shouts a question out, “Can you tell us about your injuries?”
“They hurt,” he answers bluntly, then offers a charming smile as a light chuckle rolls through the audience. “As you may have noticed, I have some broken bones and cuts, but I somehow escaped serious injury. And worse.” He shakes his head to himself. “It’s all rather mir-aculous, really. They made me sit in that chair over there for insurance purposes while I’m on hospital property, but I don’t plan on spending any more time in one than I have to. Still, the doctors have insisted that I spend the next week or two off my feet. I’m not about to argue with them.” He points at someone.
“Was alcohol a factor in the crash?”
“No.” The word flies out of Brett Madden’s mouth fast and firm and with more than a hint of anger.
“The Flyers are playing their first game of the Conference finals against the Toronto Maple Leafs tonight. Will you be at the Wells Fargo stadium to help bolster their confidence?”
“I’ll be at the games as soon as my doctor permits it. But they don’t need me there to win. There is a whole team of very talented players who will succeed.”
“At any point did you think you were going to die while inside the car?”
“I wasn’t conscious through any of it, so no.” He abruptly stops, presses his lips together.
That same reporter asks, “Reports say that the car was already burning by the time emergency vehicles arrived. How did you get out of the car, then? Did it have anything to do with the unidentified person at the scene of the accident? Did he pull you out?”
The muscles in Brett’s thick neck cord with tension and he nods to himself, as if he were expecting that question.
My stomach tightens. That’s me they’re talking about. They still think it’s a “he.” Good. Let them keep thinking that.
But what is Brett going to say?
What do I want him to say?
A part of me—a big part—would prefer he simply pleads ignorance or outright lie. Maybe use the very useful “no comment.”