Page 11 of Puck Me

But there’s a small, stupid part of me that can’t help but want to believe him. He knows what its like to have his life and future ripped away from him.

“Did you win?” I find myself asking. He looks across at me. His green eyes are kind behind spectacles that make him look serious and grown up and doctory.

“The Olympics,” I continue. “Did you win a medal?”

“I finished fourth in the final,” he looks sad. “The cruelest place to finish. I missed my shot. Or, perhaps I just wasn’t quite good enough and never would have been. I’ll never know for sure. I never got another shot at that level.”

I can feel his pain. It feels like mine. I wanted to win the NHL finals and knowing I never will hurts me every day.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll stay, but for no more than two weeks. If you can’t work some kind of miracle by then, I’m—I’ll discharge myself.”

I’ve learned the hard way not to tell Dr. Harris everything. Confessing to anything too specific will just land me in here for another involuntary three days. Best to keep things vague. He probably infers a lot, but he doesn’t have anything that he can legally use for another three-day hold.

I glance up at him and look away. I’m having an increasingly hard time looking at him. Despite my every intention to hold onto my anger like a drowning man holds onto a life vest, I find it slipping away. If he wasn’t just so damn sincere, it would be much easier to hate him, but I know that he truly believes in what he’s saying, even if I don’t fully agree with him.

As my anger has started to fail me, I’ve started to notice things about him. Like how pink his lips are, and the shape of his arms under his shirt. He’s not as built as the guys I’m used to hanging out with—most of whom are ice hockey players—but he definitely works out.

I’ve seen his ass on a couple of occasions when his back has been turned to me and I’ve been very lucky not to have been caught staring.

Of course, the fact that he can evoke such thoughts in me when I’m supposed to be hating him just irks me even more.

We chat a bit about practical things like medications and living arrangements before Dr. Harris ends the session.

I slouch back into my room, feeling thoroughly downcast. I thought I’d be getting out of here today. I still don’t quite understand how he convinced me otherwise.

I don’t have long to ponder, because it’s time for my physical therapy appointment. While I have been less than cooperative in some of the groups, I always put my full effort into the physical therapy. I’m more than ready to leave these damn crutches behind.

Xavier is waiting for me in our usual room. “Hello, Chester. How are you?”

“Fine,” I say, because what else am I meant to say?

“How is your leg feeling today?”

That’s an easier one to answer. “Stiff. It was better yesterday. Today, I’m not sure what’s going on with it.”

“We’ll take it easy, then. These kinds of ups and downs are normal, remember.”

“Yeah,” I say tersely. I’m fucking sick of ups and downs, but I’ve already shouted at Xavier and regretted it too many times to count. I don’t want to add another episode to the list.

We start with our usual exercises, but when it comes to the assisted walking on the rails, everything goes wrong.

I get barely a second’s warning before my leg collapses. Xavier catches me before I hit the ground, but it still sends a sharp spike of pain through my leg.

“Fuck!”

“Here, let’s get you sitting down.”

“I don’t want to sit down! I want to WALK! No, Xavier, leave me alone!”

I grab my crutches and speed out as fast as I can, leaving my dignity behind. Tears are streaming down my face as I head toward the ward, the nurse who was sent to escort me hurrying along behind.

Instead of going to my room, I find myself outside Dr. Harris’s office door. Before I can think better of it, I’m balancing on one crutch and knocking.

“Come in. Chester, what’s wrong?”

Dr. Harris hurries to around and closes the door before guiding me to a chair. His lovely green eyes are full of concern and care.

I collapse heavily into it. “I’m—I’m n-never going to get b-better!” I let my face fall into my hands as sobs tear themselves from my chest. “T-this is all—all t-there is. I can’t—I c-can’t—”

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