Page 97 of Body Check

Until now, I didn’t realize that anything was wrong with Jackson, at all.

I politely excuse myself to give them privacy to talk about whatever it is that Jackson left the voicemail about. My ex-husband sends me a quick, beseeching look over his shoulder that I can’t even begin to decipher. When John thumps a hand on Jackson’s back, the look turns to stone and he twists away.

He’s wearing his gameday face. That stony expression is the same one that filters over his face like a mask the minute he steps on the ice and decimates his opponents.

Unease slithers through my veins.

I should wait for Jackson to tell me whatever it is that he’s keeping a secret. Eavesdropping on his conversation would hurt the trust we’re so desperately trying to rebuild. My hands curl in at my sides, and I’m surprised how physicallytornI feel between walking away or stepping in close to overhear what’s going on.

I’m a safe bet, he told me two weekends ago.

The truth is, I love Jackson. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving him. And I won’t stoop to listening in on his conversation to learn why his smile disappeared and he looked back at me like he was being led to the gallows.

In the end, I pay the bartender for a glass of wine and then find an empty seat to watch the mid-season finale. He’ll tell me when he’s ready—and, whatever it is that’s troubling him, I’ll prove to him that we’ll face it together.

33

Jackson

Idon’t want to be alone.

It’s the first thought that enters my mind when I pull into an empty spot at the Mass General parking lot on Monday morning. Quickly, I scan the digital clock on the dashboard.

11:14.

I have sixteen minutes until my appointment with Dr. Mebowitz.

I’m dreading the hell out of it, especially now that I know all the issues I’ve been having aren’t related to any undiscovered spinal injuries. John, the team doctor, assured me that I looked in tip-top shape after reviewing all my scans.

“Excuse the corniness, but you’re as healthy as an ox, Cap,” he’d told me at theGetting Puckedmid-season finale watch-party. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary. Some swelling in the joints, that fissure in your patella that’s never really healed. But other than that? You’re solid and looking great for the season.”

You’re solid and looking great for the season.

The words felt like a punch to the gut. Wasn’t that the fucked-up truth? To the random onlooker, I don’tlookill. I don’t have any bones bursting through the skin or a lopsided gait thanks to a limp.

I look just fine.

If only my brain would get on the same playing field.

Dragging in a fistful of air, I drop my forehead to the top of my steering wheel.

For over a year, I’ve ignored the signs: the constant headaches, the regular fogginess, the sluggishness when I play hard on the ice, and the way my body has begun to feel like it’s always one step behind my brain.

Without hockey, who am I?

I don’t know.I don’t fucking know!

Another glance at the clock reveals that time is ticking away from me.

11:21.

I need to go inside. I need to do something besides sit in my car and stress about factors that I can’t change. I can’t change that I’ve had concussions. I can’t change that I fell in love with a sport that has done damage to my body, in a way that remains invisible to everyone but me. I can’t change that I live for the sound of skates slashing over ice or the feeling of pride that I experience every time I pull on my Blades jersey.

I’m no idiot. I’ve played in The Show for longer than many other players will ever have the chance to do. I’ve left my mark on the sport, both through my own successes and the work I’ve done with the rookies each year.

Call me crazy but walking up to this appointment feels like I’m going through another divorce all over again.

11:27.

---