Page 15 of Hat Trick

Nearly being crushed by the other car.

An amputated leg above my right knee.

Days that should have been spent celebrating with my teammates were spent in the hospital where doctors weren’t sure I was going to pull through.

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t.

It would’ve been easier for everyone than the burden I’ve gifted them, and that makes me angry all over again.

It’s a miracle he’s alive, I heard a nurse whisper when I was in and out of consciousness.

Drunk driver, Coach told my mom when I couldn’t open my eyes.Four times over the legal limit.

Haven’t seen a patient so roughed up in years, a doctor said when I woke up from surgery.

“I’m not sure why the league gives a shit.” I huff and stare out the window. It looks like it’s going to rain. I used to love watching the thunderstorms roll across Lake Michigan when I was a kid. I’d count the lightning strikes. I’d try to gauge how far away the storm was and smile at the first crack of thunder. “I’m never going to play hockey again.”

“You don’t know that. Plenty of athletes go on to compete in events with prosthetic limbs. Look at the sled hockey team that plays in the Paralympics.”

“No thanks.”

Dr. Ledlow sighs. I’ll give him credit for showing up to our sessions. If I had to deal with me, I’d probably quit.

“Who’s downstairs waiting for you today? Is it your mom?”

“Yup. I’m a child getting picked up from school.”

“You’ve met with your prosthetist?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “He’s not bad.”

An amputee too, I learned when I went to the first of my fittings a month after surgery. I’m lucky my wound is healing as quickly as it is. It’s allowed me to get the ball rolling on an artificial limb, which is complex as hell.

There’s 3-D imaging. A socket and a metal pylon that’s going to act as my calf. A fake foot. A dozen other pieces that go into creating the final product, and I’ll be getting mine soon.

And then I have to retrain my body to function with the prosthesis, which is just fucking great, because I’ve been slacking on my physical therapy. I skipped my session at the outpatient office yesterday, and I don’t plan to go tomorrow.

Everything’s always come naturally to me. Thinking about having to relearn how to balance—how to fuckingwalk—makes me want to scream.

I should be used to all of this; my dad lost his leg when I was a teenager. He was a firefighter, picked up a shift from a buddy, and ran into a burning building to save a woman and her child.

He barely made it out.

After I woke up from surgery, he told me he’d help me learn how to adjust to my new life. He was there with me when I decided between a mechanical or microprocessor-controlled leg, but all of this is a burden on him. Another responsibility delegated to someone else because I can’t do it myself.

“Riley,” Dr. Ledlow says gently. “No one expects you to be okay. You almost died. You lost a part of yourself, and you’re never going to get it back.”

“I’ve never had any anger issues on or off the ice. My penalty minutes are some of the lowest in the league. I paint to decompress and read romance books, for fuck’s sake. But here I am, thinking about things I want to break and the things I want to yell at the people who piss me off. Spoiler alert: it’s every-fucking-body.”

“Seven stages of grief,” he tells me. “You’re on stage three: anger. Rage toward the situation. Rage toward yourself and others and the universe.”

“I get to go through four more stages?” I groan and stare at the ceiling again. “Can’t wait.”

“The good news is you’re feelingsomething. And I want you to express those feelings.”

“What comes next?” I mumble.

“They’re not necessarily linear, but if we’re going by textbook definitions, you’ll face bargaining after anger. Followed by depression and?—”

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