Page 100 of Rookie Recovery

There was no way it wasn’t still bothering him. Sure, his mobility was a lot better, and the pain was down. But there was still inflammation, which meant pain. It was just minimal enough to push through.

But I knew how many lies we told to stay in the game. Players, coaches, doctors. All for the good of the team, the game. All for the win.

“It’s fine!” He held out both arms to show me. His face was written with pleading, with hope. With desperation. “C’mon, Jamie.”

I tore a hand through my hair. He wasn’t listening. “My professional diagnosis as your PT is that your injury isn’t healed and you should have a few more weeks before you get back on—”

“No. No, no, no.” He was shaking his head again, panic rising in the notes of his voice. “I need to play.”

“Two games, maybe three, that’s it—”

“Three fucking games?” His eyes went so wide, white showed all around the irises. “You’re fucking mad if you think I’m gonna sit for three fucking games.”

“You’ll be back in no time.” I sounded desperate, pleading. “Stronger than ever—”

“No way.” He sliced a hand out through the air between us. “I’m not sitting.”

I set the manilla folder on the desk, just to give my hands something to do and my eyes somewhere else to look that wasn’t his terrified, destroyed face. “Your health is more important than anything.”

“Fuck. That.” He stretched to point behind him, towards the ice, the game, his future waiting to happen. “I need to get the fuck back out there. I can keep doing stretches. Wrap it, take my medicine, whatever you want. But I need to play, Jamie! You think they’re gonna keep me around if I’m riding the bench all season?”

Fuck pro sports, honestly. Fuck coaches. Fuck the win-or-die attitude that had cost so many athletes their health, their careers, their mental health, fuck, even in some cases, their lives.

My fingers curled into fists at my sides. “This is your future, Bowie. It’s not worth throwing away over one damn game. I won’t sign off on any games if you can’t be rational about this.”

“No. Fucking no. No way. No. We’ve been doing stupid exercises and stretches for two fucking months. Wrap me up, give me some painkillers, and let me play.”

For a heartbeat, I was twenty-six years old again. Sitting in a chair across a desk from my coach and my doctor, begging those same fucking words. Except they’d agreed without hesitation. Desperate to get me back in the game.

It’ll hurt, but you can push through the pain, right kid?

I’d nodded—eager and grateful. So fucking grateful. Yes, I can do it. Yes, wrap me, put me in, I’ll be fine. Just like Bowie was doing now. The pain didn’t matter. Only the game did.

Put me in, Coach. I’ll skate through it.

Six fucking months I’d done that. Gritted my teeth through every fucking stride. Every hit. Told myself I’d ice it after. Wrap it. Pop the ibuprofen and acetaminophen like candy. Until one day, those stopped being enough. Until I struggled to get out of bed, until my game took a noticeable downturn.

“No.” I took a step forward like I was going to reach out to him. But I held myself back. I had to be the professional now, not the lover or the friend. “I’m not letting you take painkillers so you can wreck your health and your career. I’ve been down that road, and I know how it ends.”

“This game is everything. This is who I am.“ His voice was anger and panic and desperation wound together so tightly, I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. “Without hockey, I’m nothing.”

“That’s not true.” I crossed my arms against my own emotions, like that would keep them from spilling out of me. “I’m not going to watch you throw yourself away on a silly injury.”

“No, instead, you’re going to bench me. Watch me watch it all trickle away from the sidelines. Because you’re scared to take a shot on me. Or us. Or yourself.”

The words hit like a punch, cracking across my chest with almost physical force. I couldn’t muster up a response. Couldn’t read his expression, whether he’d seen the impact of his accusation on my face.

“You ran away from this game.” His green laser-eyes bored into me in a violent undressing, ripping through skin and bone and words and feelings. “You’re still running. And I will do anything to stay in it.”

“You think I don’t know what that’s like?” My voice went so calm, I almost didn’t recognize it. “I wish someone had been scared for me when I was your age. Told me my career wasn’t dependent on the next game. Hell, I wish I’d believed that about myself. Maybe I’d still have a fucking career.”

Breathing was so painful, I had to stop.

“Jamie—” Bowie said, the hurt and anger in his voice like knives against my heart.

“No, Bowie. I get it. I really fucking do.” And that’s why I couldn’t let him go out there. Couldn’t watch him tear himself apart. “I won’t let you end up like me.”

He stared at me, face blanched with shock.

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