Page 116 of Rookie Recovery

He’d replied to a message I’d sent him two days ago, before this shitstorm had even begun.

I’m here.

Did he have any idea what power those words wielded? How much I needed to hear them? How much I wanted to hear them? And how much they made me want to hurl my phone out of Hunter’s panoramic windows?

I didn’t try to stop the tears as they raced down my cheeks. Or the breath as it ripped through my lungs. Or the torment in my chest as it threatened to overwhelm me.

The first game of the regular season was tomorrow. And I still had no idea whether I was playing. Whether I’d been cleared to play. Or if Jamie would get his wish, and I’d sit at the sidelines and watch my dreams slip between my fingers.

I’d arrived at Bobcats’ HQ at eight A.M., after a shit night’s sleep in my too empty bed, and had tried to speak with Coach Turner five times since he got there an hour ago at eleven. But every time I visited his office, he was on the phone, his brow furrowed, his voice elevated, what little hair he had left sticking out skyward. He acknowledged me with a scowly nod and waved me away to return later. The last two times I popped my head in, he didn’t bother with the nod.

So I took myself to the weights room to work off some frustrations. Still with my fucking shoulder strapped because I could just hear Jamie’s nagging ringing in my ears. The gym was empty, save for Rowan, who was lying on the bench, decidedly not doing any exercise, and clearly brooding over something. I had a tiny inkling of what, or who, that might be.

He paused his soul-searching when he saw me and pushed himself to a seated position. “You playing tomorrow?”

I shrugged and sat on the bench next to him. “Been here since eight, and I still don’t know.”

“What did Dr Ruthless say about it?” Rowan aimed a flick at my shoulder brace just peeking out from the sleeve of my T-shirt.

“He said …” I puffed out my cheeks, ran a hand through my hair. “He said it was mostly healed. That he recommends I sit the first few games. He was gonna sign me off, then I was a baby about it, and he changed his mind.”

“He won’t sign off?”

It was all my fault. If only I’d kept my mouth shut, promised him I wouldn’t skate, he’d have signed that bloody form. But I would’ve been lying to him by making that promise. And the thought of betraying him stung worse than not playing.

Yet, I’d already betrayed him. Had I not? When I went over his head and asked Coach to get someone else to clear me. It might not even be too late to change my mind. Turner would’ve said something by now if I’d been signed off, surely. He’d have given me a thumbs up when I peered into his office, instead of the harried scowl I got.

Rowan nodded, as though he was picturing those exact words as Jamie was saying them. “He’s just being extra cautious. He’s like that with everyone. Scared we’ll end up like him.”

“He played pro too?” I didn’t know why I asked. I knew the answer already. Not that I knew much beyond the fact Jamie played defence and was a pest and was amazing. He never seemed to want to talk about it.

“Fucking dominated. He was gonna be huge. Offers coming at him from every angle, on and off the ice.” Rowan softly elbowed me in the bicep. “He was like you.”

Like me. Right. “Why’d he quit?” It was the question that everyone had danced around. The one Jamie would ignore, or change the subject, or say, “Another time”.

“Fuck, you really don’t know? You never Googled him?”

I felt the blush inching up my cheeks. All this time I had the answer at my fingertips. I never once thought to type Jamie Sullivan Boston Bears into my phone’s search engine. I’d spent all those hours creeping around his TopTier profile. Staring at the photo of him in the sun with a sandwich and his shirt straining against all those muscles. And there were only so many times I could read if Jamie were a vegetable, he’d be a squash, gently roasting in the oven until he was soft enough to fall apart in my mouth. I could’ve so easily typed his name into the little white bar, but it never occurred to me to do so.

“It was a knee injury,” Rowan said before I had the chance to whip out my phone and search for it. “ACL, MCL. Multiple surgeries. That shit. And he kept playing on it, and it kept getting worse, until one day he just couldn’t. Play anymore.”

“Fuck,” I offered eloquently.

“You’re not him though,” Rowan said. “Different injury, completely different situation.”

I stared at him for a few seconds while my brain caught up with his words. Of course it was a different situation, and we were different people, and what happened with Jamie was unlikely to happen with me. But that wasn’t what I’d been thinking about, what had rendered me speechless.

Jamie had had the career of his dreams. And he was good at it. Which I knew because Rowan had told me, but I also knew instinctively that Jamie was good, because it was Jamie. He was good at everything. The best, and not one modicum less. That’s who he was. And …

He’d presumably known at the time that skating on a torn ACL could ruin his career, but he did it anyway. Jamie went against advice?

I just couldn’t wrap my reasoning around it. It sounded so unlike the Jamie I loved.

“If he would’ve rested it, his injury, would he still be playing today?” I asked, quietly, as though the answer to my question might be different depending on the volume of my voice.

“They don’t usually let sixty-year-olds play pro hockey.”

I managed a laugh.

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