Page 201 of Check & Chase
Morning brings brightness, sunlight streaming through windows we forgot to close. I wake before Emma, consciousness returning with the same realization: Game day. Stanley Cup Final. Game Five.
Today we could be champions.
The thought should bring excitement, the culmination of a lifelong dream within reach. Instead, it’s tempered by the dull throb in my knee, the heaviness of knowing what lies ahead.
Emma stirs beside me, green eyes blinking open slowly. “What time is it?” she mumbles.
“Just after six,” I tell her, brushing hair from her face. “Go back to sleep. I need to head to thefacility soon.”
She sits up immediately. “How’s the knee?”
“About the same,” I lie, not wanting to admit it feels worse this morning, stiffer and more painful than yesterday. “Manageable.”
Her eyes narrow. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Six,” I admit, knowing better than to attempt further minimizing.
“So eight, in Chase Mitchell terms,” she translates, already reaching for her phone. “I’m calling Dr. Reynolds to make sure he can get to the game on time for you.”
I don’t argue, watching as she switches into professional mode, arranging for early treatment before the team’s morning skate.
“They’re expecting you at seven,” she reports after ending the call. “Full treatment protocol before the team meeting, limited participation in morning skate, then rest until pre-game.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agree, earning a playful swat to my arm.
“And promise me something?”
“Anything,” I say automatically.
“Be honest with me today. About the pain, about how it feels on the ice, about everything. I need to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
The request is reasonable, necessary even. But it’s harder than it should be to agree. Athletes, hockey players especially, are conditioned to downplay pain, to push through, to never show weakness.
“I promise,” I tell her anyway, meaning it despite the difficulty. “Full disclosure today.”
The pre-game hours pass in a blur of treatment, team meetings and careful preparation. Coach Barrett keeps me out of most drills during morning skate, just enough time on the ice to test the knee with the first round of medication.
It’s bad. Worse than I let anyone see, even Emma who watches from the bench with concerned eyes. Every pivot sends jagged pain through the joint. Every quick stop threatens to buckle the leg entirely.
“It’s not working,” Emma observes quietly when I return to the bench. “The first treatment. It’s not enough.”
“It will be,” I insist, though uncertainty gnaws at my confidence. “The pre-game injection will be stronger.”
She doesn’t argue, but her expression speaks volumes.
“I love you,” I tell her suddenly. “No matter what happens tonight, I love you.”
“I love you too. Even when you’re being a stubborn, self-destructive hockey player.”
Dr. Reynolds finds me just as Emma begins to work on reducing the swelling that’s returned despite our best efforts. His expression is grim, clipboard in hand containing the final assessment.
“Still determined to do this?” he asks.
“More than ever,” I confirm, meeting his gaze steadily despite the pain radiating from my knee.
He sighs, setting the clipboard aside. “Then we go with the aggressive approach. Maximum safe dose of cortisone and local anesthetic, administered thirty minutes before game time. It will get you through the game, but understand something, Mitchell.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “When this wears off—and it will wear off, probably before the game ends—the pain will be extraordinary. You’ll be doing additional damage with every minute you’re on the ice.”
I nod. “I understand. How soon after for surgery?”
