Page 104 of Well Played

“Once we have you completely stabilized, the orthopedic surgeon will be in with your team doctor to discuss the knee options.

Options? The only option I want is to play in the next game.

Machines beep, lights pulse, and I slowly slip back into sleep.

6

A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.

– Wayne Gretzky

Maya

The team busbumps against the curb and we all pitch forward, then back as the driver maneuvers the vehicle around hovering cars. My head bounces off the back of the seat in front of me and my seat mate, Morse Ainslie, turns and scans my forehead.

“You okay? Or do we need to ask for concussion protocol?”

The joke isn’t funny and I frown.

The door swings open and Doc Gnauss hurries back to me, practically hauling me out of the seat. The feel of Ainslie’s palms pushing against my butt makes me turn my head. “Hands off or Carina will hear about it.”

“Just helping you out,” Ainslie huffs, sitting back into the seat with a mock sulky expression.

Trying to avoid being knocked over, Gnauss moves back and lets go of my hands when Ainsley pushes me. Now he stands close to the stairs down, and bounces heel to toe, heel to toe. “Let’s go, Maya. Someone from ortho is waiting to take us up.”

We climb down from the team bus into cold, windy morning sunlight. A polar vortex has settled over the city and a cloudless blue sky intensifies the icy temperature. The rest stream off behind to camp out in a waiting room, but Gnauss and I hit the revolving door at speed to be greeted by one of the ortho orderlies.

He comes forward, hand out to Gnauss. “Good to see you, Doctor. Looks like you have a cheering section today.”

“Everyone wanted to come. The team’s like that.”

“I heard he’s kind of a prick.”

“When he plays. He’s definitely a team guy though. And they all appreciate it.”

“Someone will come down and take them to a private waiting room.”

The hospital’s planning is impressive.

I’m looking at the elevator indicator as the orderly says, “He’s mostly sleeping, so we haven’t had much trouble. But he also doesn’t know the bad news yet.”

“Waiting for me to break it to him?” Gnauss grins.

“Nope, that’s my job,” Phil Marshall says, striding up to us. He hadn’t been on the bus, so he must have driven himself over. With this weather, probably not in his fancy Maserati, specially painted in the team colors.

With a whoosh, the elevator doors part and we stand in the four corners, silent, as we climb to the eighth floor.

The lights in Sauer’s room are dim and we can only make out a colorless form. The nurse adjusts the lighting as we approach the motionless figure on the bed. When we get closer, we see he’s on his back, leg immobilized. A nurse maneuvers past witha breakfast tray. “Time to crank you up, Mr. Sauer. I have breakfast here for you.”

I’m drawn deep into flickering brown eyes crusty from sleep. “Not hungry,” he says, sounding rusty. He draws a finger around the corners of one lid and regards the junk on his finger. The nurse hands him a tissue. A bewildered look crosses his face. “I don’t remember ordering room service.”

The nurse places the tray on the table, raises the head of the bed, then moves the table closer. Its laminated wood-grained top stretches across the width of the bed. A sippy cup of water, another of orange juice, accompanied by a piece of leathery looking whole-wheat toast sitting in a pool of mushy butter. “You’re in the hospital. Don’t you remember?”

The creases across his forehead deepen, creating a road map of ruts. He looks down at his right hand as she slips the tissue out of limp digits, then slowly raises it to run fingers through short caramel-toned hair. When he tries to move his legs, the scream of pain sends a jolt of sympathetic anguish through me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

Reaching around him, the nurse pushes a button that delivers a measured dose of painkiller through the IV line anchored in his left hand. Relief is almost immediate. His “Thank you” is barely audible and the attempt at a smile fails.

In the corridor, Doc Gnauss says something to the surgeon, who taps on his cell phone. When he slips it into the pocket of his white coat, they walk past me toward the bed.

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