Page 100 of When Alec Met Evie
It started on Wednesday, the day after the game, when I had Nathan pick me up and drive me to the hospital for an MRI. I know it hurt Evie’s feelings that I didn’t want her to take me. But here’s the thing about Evie.
She sees me.
From the very beginning of our relationship, she looked me right in the eye and told me I was more than a hockey player, that my value didn’t just stem from my stats on the ice. I know she’s right.Of courseI know she’s right. And I really do love her hope and optimism.
But I just wanted to be angry for a minute.
And Nathan was the one to let me do that.
The next few days went by in a similar haze of anger and frustration. A Thanksgiving meal I tried and failed to properly appreciate. A consultation with Dr. Samuelson and the best orthopedic surgeon in North Carolina. And then, the Friday afterThanksgiving, a surgery to repair both my ACL and my MCL, as well as a torn meniscus.
Now, two weeks post-surgery, the fog of my frustration has cleared enough for me to recognize a few things.
One, I don’t deserve my family because they came all the way to North Carolina to see me, and I couldn’t get out of my own head enough to appreciate and enjoy their visit.
Two, I definitely don’t deserve Evie because she still hasn’t given up on me, even though I’ve given her more than enough reason to do so.
And three. My knee is never going to be the same.
On the kitchen island in front of me sit two different plans for my physical therapy over the next three months.
One is designed to prepare me for hockey. I’d be out for the rest of this season, but with a lot of work through the off season, I could probably be back in commission by the start of next.
The other is designed to prepare me for lifeafterhockey. And it’s the one Dr. Samuelson thinks I should embrace.
I shift the individual sheets of paper forward and back on the cool countertop, staring at them until the words blur. Like this, it seems like such a simple choice. One plan or the other. Option A. Option B. But nothing about giving up hockey is simple.
Dr. Samuelson made it clear that even though the surgery was successful and it’s probable I could rehabilitate to the point of being a sufficient player in the AHL, I will never play with the same speed and power I had before.
Meanwhile, the Appies are on a winning streak, in large part due to Theo and Carter, who are developing into truly outstanding defensemen.
I’m proud of them.
Most of the time.
But I don’t love the idea of doing all the work of PT and rehabilitation just to play third line to a bunch of guys fifteenyears my junior. There’s something to be said for quitting while I’m still ahead.
“Morning, Captain,” Theo says as he strolls into the kitchen. It’s already two in the afternoon, but I don’t correct him. They had an away game yesterday and drove home after. I doubt they were back at the Summit before three in the morning.
“Hey. Carter still sleeping?”
“I assume so,” Theo says. “I haven’t seen him.”
After Evie and Juno moved out, freeing up the upstairs bedrooms, Theo and Carter moved out of the bonus room over the garage and claimed their own rooms. According to them, it’s the first time in their lives they haven’t been roommates, so I’m sure they’re loving having their own space.
“What are you looking at?” Theo asks. He pulls a bowl out of the cabinet, then rummages around in the pantry, emerging with a box of cereal.
“Plans for PT,” I say, my eyes drifting back to the paper.
“Ah,” Theo says. “A lot of guys are wondering what you’re going to do.”
I look up. “Yeah?”
He nods. “If you’ll come back. You think you will?”
I blow out a breath. “That is the question.”
He carries his cereal to a barstool at the opposite end of the island and sits down. “What does Evie think?”
