Page 112 of Puck Struck
The handshake line passes in a blur. There are a lot of congratulations and commiserations from the opposing team, most of whom I've played against for years. Some of them pat my back or squeeze my shoulder—the good one—and mutter things about respect and career achievements. I nod and smile but the words land hard. I feel empty. Like a shell of the man I once was.
In the locker room, the mood is heavy and somber. Guys sit at their stalls in silence, peeling off their uniforms, tense and dejected expressions on their faces, processing the end of their season.
At least, there will be more seasons to come for them. For me, there's just...after.
"Hell of a career, Shaw," Masterson says, walking past my locker. "It’s been a privilege playing with you."
"Thanks, Mas."
The rest of the guys shower, dress, and pack up. They all offer encouraging words, wishes of good luck and speedy recovery for the transplant surgery. Carter wanted to organize a retirement party, but I told him no fucking way would I show up.
How could I when so much of my livelihood has just come screeching to a stop? How could I plaster a fake-ass smile on my face and accept what I’ve lost? Including Cam.
Cam hovers near his stall. He keeps peeking over at me, and it’s clear he’s got something to say. But he pauses every time. When I finally catch his eye for a second, my gut twists. The pain I see flickering in the depths of his eyesthere has nothing to do with losing a chance at the Stanley Cup.
"Good season, Foster," I croak out. "You've got a bright future."
Coach Enver walks in with a clipboard under his arm. He rattles off details about exit meetings and off-season plans and Cam turns away, the moment crushed by my looming reality.
By the time I finish with the trainers and team doctors, the locker room is mostly empty. I sit alone at my stall, staring at my gear. Skates I'll never lace up for a game again. A stick I'll never score with. A jersey I'll never pull over my head.
My phone blows up with messages and notifications. I scroll through them all. Tessa checking on me. Ethan asking if I'm okay. Rex Ashton wanting to discuss "next steps." Dr. Patel requesting a meeting first thing tomorrow morning.
Nothing from Cam.
But can I even blame him? He doesn’t owe me anything. And I made sure to fuck things up really good with him.
I pack my bag slowly, my heart clenching. Every piece has a memory attached to it. The helmet I wore when I scored my first NHL goal. The gloves I used during our first championship run five years ago. I rifle through the locker, taking everything.
When I'm done, I sit down with a heavy sigh and take one last long look around the empty locker room. Next season, this locker will belong to someone else. Someone younger, healthier, with working shoulders and decades of hockey ahead of them.
Someone who isn't me.
The walk to the parking garage feels endless. A few reporters try to flag me down for comments, but I wave them off. I'm not ready to put words to what just happened. Maybe I never will be.
In my truck, I stare out the windshield for a long, agonizingminute before starting the engine. My taped-up shoulder throbs with every beat of my heart, a constant reminder of what I've lost and what I'm about to face. My shoulder is done, and I can’t have it repaired first if I want to be a donor for Ethan. We can’t bank on a donor coming through in enough time to save him.
So I’m facing transplant surgery in two weeks. Months of recovery. A future I can't even begin to imagine.
And a guy I desperately want by my side, a guy whom I destroyed with weapons of fear, anger, and frustration.
I just need to talk to him one more time.
I pull out my phone and start to type a message. Gritting my teeth, I delete it. And again and again, rinse and repeat.
Because what do you say to someone you pushed away right before your world crumbled around you? How do you explain that calling him a complication was the biggest mistake of your life?
I slam the hand of my good arm on the steering wheel and toss the phone into the console.
Some conversations are too important for text messages.
Some apologies require looking someone in the eye.
But first, I need to figure out how to live in a world where I'm not Logan Shaw, famous NHL center.
I need to figure out who I am when I'm just... Logan.
I listen to the news coverage of the game with half an ear. When the sportscaster mentions my name in the same sentence as "career-ending injury" and "uncertain future," I shut it off.
