Page 88 of Puck Struck
"He's okay. For now." She turns to look at me, and I can see the exhaustion etched into every line of her face. "Dr. Patel called last night after you went to bed. The bloodwork came back."
I put down the mug, suddenly not trusting my hands to hold it when she tells me the results. "And?"
"His numbers are worse. Not critical yet, but..." She trails off, biting down on her lip. "She wants to see him again next week. She mentioned that we might need to start thinking about moving the transplant timeline up."
The words hit me like a brick to the chest. We'd talked about the transplant possibly taking place at the end of next season. Not now. Not when everything with Cam and James has completely consumed me.
"How much sooner?" I manage to ask.
"She didn't say exactly. But the way she was talking..." Tessa's voice cracks slightly and tears spring to her eyes. "It would be a couple of months, not a year."
I run a hand through my hair, trying to wrap my head around what this would mean for me. I knew my hockey shelf life was close to expiration because of my shoulder. I just figured I could get a little more time…to finish out my legacy, to figure out what the hell to do with my life, what it even looks like after hockey.
The transplant alone wouldn’t be a problem for my career if my shoulder wasn’t fucking shredded to shit. I never expected to be facing retirement at thirty-six, but here we fucking are.
"There's something else," Tessa says with a quiet sigh. "She asked about your health, you know, as the donor. She needs toknow if there are any changes to your health status before we move forward."
My shoulder throbs like it understood what Tessa just said. "What kind of changes?"
"Recent injuries. Surgeries. Anything that might affect your ability to donate." She watches me carefully, and I know she’ll see right through my bullshit. She always does. "Logan, your shoulder?—"
"Is fine."
"Don't lie to me." Her voice is sharp as a knife and just as cutting. It’s the tone she used when we were kids and I'd try to cover for our dad's latest fuck-up to protect her. "I've watched you play in the NHL for fourteen years. I know what you look like when you're hurt."
I’m tempted to keep lying, to keep pretending I have everything under control. But looking at her face, I can see how scared she is, how desperate she is to hold everything together for Ethan's sake. It makes my gut clench and I can’t lie to her. Not anymore.
"It's bad," I finally say. "Like, career-ending bad."
She nods like she already knew. Because she did. "How long have you been playing on it in that condition?"
"Since the beginning of the season. Maybe longer."
"Jesus, Logan." She sets her mug down hard on the counter. Coffee sloshing over the rim of the Raptors mug. "Do you have any idea what you're risking? If you damage it permanently?—"
"Then what? My career ends a few months early?" I shrug, trying to act like it doesn't bother me, but my voice betrays me. "It doesn’t matter. I’ll be done after this season. And I can still help the team make playoffs first."
Tessa stares at me for a long minute. "So you'll retire after this season either way."
"Yeah."
Tessa’s quiet for a minute. "Well, Ethan’s on the transplant list. It’s possible we could still find a donor. But what if he needs it sooner."
"Then I'll retire sooner and I’ll do the surgery. I know I’m not the only option, but if push comes to shove, I always told you I’d do it without a question. Fuck the rest of the season." The words come out steady, but my chest feels tight. "It's not a choice, Tess. It's Ethan."
Tears slip out of the corners of her eyes, a quiet sob quaking her shoulders. I pull her close, hugging her tight.
"I'm sorry," she says, her voice quivering. "I'm so sorry you have to make this choice."
"Hey." I back away the slightest bit to look at her. "This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault."
"But your career is?—"
"It’s just hockey, Tess. Ethan's family." I wipe the tears from her cheeks with my thumbs. "Besides, do you think I could live with myself if I chose hockey over my nephew's life?"
She struggles to smile. "Mom always said you had too much conscience for your own good."
"Mom said a lot of things." I roll my eyes.
