Page 117 of Rookie Recovery

“But realistically? Yeah. I think that’s why he has no chill, why he’s such a hard ass with us. Because he doesn’t want any of us going the same way. But you’ve got to look at the bigger picture. Sul had a torn ACL and a bunch of other shit. You have an almost fully healed rotator cuff. Not the same thing.”

Perhaps that was why Jamie had never mentioned his injury before. Because he wanted me to remain unbiased. But then … he hadn’t ever given me the option of choice.

Because he knew I would have likely chosen to skate and risked damaging it further.

He didn’t trust me enough to make the decision. He took away my choice like I was a child having a tantrum.

Because you were a child having a tantrum, a tiny voice inside my head said.

What was right here? I had no idea anymore.

“You know, the same thing happened to me a few years ago?” Rowan said. His eyebrows knotted together, and he looked every bit the dark, brooding bad boy I met at my first practice. I sat up straighter and turned to him. “Achilles tendon. Five months off skates. Luckily, like you, my recovery was mostly during off season. Then regular season rolled around and Sul was all, “I highly recommend a few more weeks of R and R, but it’s not a do or die type deal, so it’s your call”.

It’s your call.

He’d really given Rowan the choice, and not me. Why? Because Rowan was so much more mature than I was? I glanced at his scabbed knuckles. Nope, definitely not the reason.

“What did you decide, then? Did you skate or sit for a few games?”

“Fuck, yeah, I played. It was against the Cavs, and I’m not a guy that follows orders well. I would’ve been shit in the military.”

So, Rowan had skated on a, presumably, almost fully healed ankle injury and lived to tell the tale. Was still skating however many years later.

Jamie had given Rowan the choice, but not me.

Given Rowan the choice.

But not me.

Why didn’t he trust me?

“Hey guys,” Aaron said, poking his head through the gym doors. “Bowie, Coach is looking for you.” He gave me the thumbs up gesture I’d been so eager for. “You got this. They’re clearing you now.”

I took the stairs up to the second floor, along the short corridor to the offices, and I couldn’t stop my brain from whirring. My thoughts tumbled over each other, churning about, nerves rising in my stomach. That ‘Smell Ice Can Ya?’ feeling bubbling up in my gut.

They’re clearing you now.

Sul had a torn ACL.

Completely different situation.

I’m not going to watch you throw yourself away on a silly injury …

But as I reached Coach Turner’s office, I stopped short.

His voice floated down the corridor, and my heart leapt into my throat.

I’m here.

Get it together, Bowie, I told myself. Don’t you dare start crying in the hall.

I crept closer, like my body was on automatic pilot. Like Jamie was the opposite magnetic force pulling me in, and all I had to do was lean into his attraction. I held my breath, tried to steady my hammering heartbeat, and leant against the door frame.

Jamie had his back to me, sitting in a chair pulled up to the enormous desk. Coach handed him a folder, and Jamie took something—a pen—from his pocket and clicked it into action.

“My diagnosis stands,” he said, the deep timbre of his voice simultaneously fizzing up all my nerves and soothing them. “He has a torn rotator cuff. It’s pretty well healed, but at a critical point where it could be re-injured, require surgery, that kind of shit.” He had no idea I could hear everything.

“So …” Turner folded his hands together atop the desk. His eyebrows relaxed from their mega-scowl as he clocked me in the doorway. He said nothing. “You think he should play or what?

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