Page 88 of Staying Selfless

He exhales a deep sigh. “At least a month.”

“Fuck, no! Playoffs start in two weeks,” I frantically argue, but what I’m really trying to say is that if I’m not playing in college playoffs, there’s no way in hell an NHL team is going to call me up.

“I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no way you can even walk on it today. I don’t know how you’re going to skate on it so soon.”

“I’ll be able to,” I quickly and confidently state. “What about a cortisone shot?”

He pauses for a moment and must notice the desperation on my face. “Look. If you can promise me to keep weight completely off of it for two weeks, I’ll reassess you then. But I mean no walking on it, no trying to skate. I want it elevated as much as possible. Icing it for twenty minutes at a time. If the swelling goes down considerably in the next two weeks, I’ll think about clearing you, and we can see about a cortisone injection.”

“My career is riding on this next month of hockey.”

“I understand that, but I’m concerned about the long-term health of your ankle. You’ve already had trauma to the area. We just need to be careful.”

I hang my head but nod in agreement.

“Hey, it could’ve been a lot worse,” he adds, trying to reassure me. “If you didn’t rehab as well as you did last time and build up the strength around the joint, you would probably be getting way worse news right now.”

I once again stay silent in frustration.

“So, I’ll see you in two weeks.” He heads towards the door. “No weight on it at all, and keep it elevated. We’ll get you back out there. As far as the concussion, get your rest. Try not to use screens for a bit, and no physical activity for a few days.”

As soon as he is out of the door, my gaze lands on my dad.

“So, what do you think?” he asks in a much more cheerful tone than I expected.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m relieved, but if I can’t play in the playoffs, I’m just as fucked as if I shattered my ankle again.”

“You’ll be playing by then.”

“How do you know that?”

“When was the last time you let someone tell you that you couldn’t do something?” he asks, rhetorically.

After getting my ankle wrapped with an ice pack surrounding it, I hop myself up on a pair of crutches, an all too familiar feeling, as my dad and I make our way out to the hospital waiting room.

My eyes scan the crowd that’s gathered for me until they land on my girl.

Logan holds my eye contact as she shoots me a sweet and confident smile, not showing any sign of panic. Vastly different than the rest of the group, whose gazes are all locked on the crutches under my arms and the bulky wrap job on my ankle.

I give Logan a half-smile as we have a silent conversation that I’ll be okay.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask my teammates, trying to break the tension. “Did you think I was dying or something?”

“What’s the verdict?” Cam asks, avoiding the humor.

“Just a sprain. Hopefully, I’m only out for two weeks.”

I watch as everyone in the waiting room lets out a visible sigh of relief, shoulders dropping, including our school rival.

“What are you doing here, man?” I turn to Zanders.

“Just wanted to check in. I’m sorry about Shamus. I let him have it.”

I don’t know what to say in response. Shamus doesn’t mean shit to me. He’s just a young player with no control, similar to the way Zanders was three years ago when he did the same thing to me. But knowing Zanders’ mental struggles, the same as mine, I’m less eager to judge and hate on another player.

“I’ve got to go meet the buses. Just wanted to make sure you were good.” Zanders awkwardly swings an arm around my crutches, patting my shoulder as he releases me.

“Thanks, man. We’ll talk soon,” I finish as everyone stares at the two of us.

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