Page 201 of Pucking Sweet

“And have you been experiencing any feelings of breathlessness, fatigue, dizziness?”

I stiffen in my chair. “No, why?”

My cardiologist looks over his tablet. “Any trouble exercising?”

“I’m a professional hockey player,” I reply with a forced laugh. “My life is exercising.”

“What about nausea and vomiting?”

Fuck, did someone tell him? I have been getting sick more often lately. The last three games, I threw up behind the bench. I thought it was just stress and a particularly grueling string of shifts. I must give something away in my face because he jots it down.

“And what about swollen feet and ankles?”

“Like I said, I play hockey. A lot of stuff swells.” I lean forward in my chair. “Doc, what is this about? I just had my yearly checkup and, next thing I know, you’re calling me in, asking for a follow-up. What’s going on?”

He nods, setting the tablet aside. “I’m concerned, Mr. Morrow. You’re showing some signs of left-side weakness. And your ejection fraction is lower than I’d like it to be for the level of physical activity you do. Have you felt any palpitations?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I admit.

“And your heart rate, your breathing? Are they recovering on their own in a timely manner while you’re out on the ice?”

“It’s been a tough season…”

“Let’s not do that,” he replies, taking off his glasses, and tucking them in the pocket of his coat. “You’ve been a heart patient for long enough now. We don’t diminish, and we don’t sweep symptoms under the rug.”

I sigh. “Okay, well, so what do we do here? What’s the best course of action?”

“In my professional opinion? The best course of action is that you retire from playing professional hockey—”

“No.” I stand up. “No, I’m not ready. Doc, I have to play.”

“Well, you can’t play dead. And with the way you’re overworking this heart, it’s only a matter of time.”

I glare at him. “That’s some shitty fucking bedside manner you have there.”

“Would you respond better to a sweet sugary coating?” he asks with a raised brow. “You have a weak heart, Mr. Morrow. You know this. Given all it’s been through, your path to playing at the top of a professional sport has been nothing short of miraculous. But there’s no denying that the rate at which you push your heart to perform is taking its toll.”

A weak heart.Is this man really daring to say that I, Colton Morrow, have a weak heart?

The heart is just a muscle. It pumps and regulates. It’s nature’s perfect machine. And I’ve always known the truth: my machine is weak. We patched it up and changed out a few parts over the years until it ran like new. I’ve accomplished so much with this battered, broken-down pump. It’s taken me around the world and back again. It brought me to the height of a professional sports career.

But now it’s growing tired. I’m working it too hard, asking for too much. Because myheartis strong. The spirit inside me, the will to live this life to the fullest—thatheart beats hard and fast in my chest. I am a tower of strength. I am bold and decisive. I’m passionate and proud and fierce. A fiery heart, that’s what I have. A loyal heart. A lion’s heart.

But aweakheart?

No, I’ve never been weak.

I can practically hear my dad inside my head, serving up more sports psychology gold.

Winners never quit.

Nothing will work unless you do.

“Give me more time,” I say at the doctor. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it, just keep me on the ice.”

He sighs, checking over the notes on his tablet again. “Well, at a minimum, we need to look at changing up some of your medications. I also want us to look at how we can improve your ejection fraction. You can’t play if your heart can’t fill, and your blood can’t oxygenate.”

I nod. “Okay. I’ll try anything.”

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