Page 82 of Playmaker

The doctor was quiet long enough that I could already feel the crushing devastation setting in. This was it, wasn’t it? My career was over. I’d finally done enough damage that there was no going back.

What do I do now?

I’d spent a lot of time last season wondering what post-hockey life would look like, and I still hadn’t figured it out. Now I had to do it all the fuck over again. With the playoffs so close I could taste it.

I swept my tongue across my lips. “Am I still going to be able to play hockey?”

Her expression stayed grim. “You’re looking at a lengthy recovery. Atleastsix weeks after surgery before I would recommend even thinking about skating. Most likely longer.”

“But I’ll recover?” I asked. “Enough to play hockey?”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t want to make promises based on future predictions. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until we’re operating, and there’s always the possibility of setbacks and complications. It is absolutely possible you will recover enough to return to playing professional hockey. It’s also possible that you won’t.” Shaking her head, she softly added, “We just won’t know until you get there.”

I closed my eyes and pushed out a breath through my nose. I’d been around this block enough times that I knew her answers were the best she could offer. There were no guarantees inmedicine. I knew players who’d come back from injuries that should’ve had them permanently sidelined, and others who’d had their careers ended by things that should’ve been easy to bounce back from. The human body was a mystery sometimes. A mystery and a shitshow.

“I’ll write you a referral to an orthopedic surgeon,” she went on. “The sooner you have surgery, the better your chances of a full recovery.”

“Thanks,” I said numbly.

She answered a few more questions for me, then left, and for the first time, I wished Sabrina hadn’t come to the hospital. I wanted to crash and burn and wallow in self-pity and the possibility that the life I’d worked so hard to build was over. I wanted to be angry and devastated without anyone telling me things would be okay. Because there was a very good chance thingswouldn’tbe okay, and I deserved to be pissed off about that for a while.

Sabrina got up and eased herself down on the edge of the bed. “Come here,” she whispered, and wrapped her arms around me, drawing me in to lean against her.

I squeezed my stinging eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she stroked my hair. “This really sucks.”

That hit me harder than a bullshit platitude would have, and I couldn’t hold back the tears. The whole time I cried, she just held on. She didn’t tell me it would be okay. She didn’t tell me to stay strong or to think positive. She just kept stroking my hair and holding me together while I fell apart.

And despite wishing momentarily that she didn’t see me like this…

I was grateful beyond words that she was here.

I should’ve been used to watching my own team’s games on TV while I was home with my knee in a brace. That was how I’d spent most of last season.

It was different this time, though. Harder. I missed the game, but I missed my teammates even more. Especially Sabrina.

She stayed with me as much as she could. When the team was in town, I had both her and Faith helping me out. When they were on the road, I was on my own, though Euli’s wife was amazing about helping me get to and from doctor appointments.

My surgery had gone well. The orthopedist was optimistic that they’d repaired my MCL, and they hadn’t discovered any additional damage in the process. I’d have another post op appointment in a week, and depending on how that went, I’d start steadily rehabbing.

I wasn’t going to play again this season, though. I’d known that as soon as I’d gone down, and every medical professional in a fifty-mile radius had been sure to drive the point home. Imightbe ready for training camp, but that was far from a guarantee.

Fuck my life.

It was like watching my career going on without me. I’d had that feeling last season, too, but this time it had the added sting of watching my girlfriend from a million miles away.

In the beginning, I’d been so bitter and irritated that we were on the same team, constantly in each other’s vicinity. Now I was a mess watching her on TV. I wanted herhere.

No, that wasn’t it. I wanted to bethere. With her. Playing hockey alongside her. Sharing fist bumps on the bench and psyching each other up in the locker room, and then sitting together on the plane or curling up together in the hotel.

Now we were days away from the playoffs. Detroit had made a hell of a push to snatch the third place spot in the standings, but Pittsburgh had also rallied and jumped up to second, with both teams knocking Cleveland clear down to the first wild card spot.

Tomorrow night was the final regular season game. Next week, the playoffs would start.

And I wouldn’t be there.

Well, I would be. I’d be in the owners’ box along with some of the other injured players, sitting high up above the action and cheering helplessly while the game went on without me.

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