Page 5 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
I hit send before I could overthink it, then immediately regretted it. What was I doing? Starting conversations with random strangers wasn’t my style. I had enough people trying to get pieces of my time, my attention, my life.
But as I set the phone down and reached for my resistance bands, I realized I was actually smiling.
“Let’s get you hooked up,” Jen said, returning with the electrical stimulation machine I’d grown to hate. “And remember, twenty minutes on this, no shortcuts.”
I nodded, lying back on the table and staring at the ceiling as she attached the electrodes to my knee. The familiar tingling sensation started, not quite painful but definitely not comfortable.
“You’re making progress, you know,” Jen said, softening her tone. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it day to day.”
“Not fast enough.”
“No one comes back from this injury in three months, Stone. Not even you.”
I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear it. Major league hockey waits for no one. Younger, faster, hungrier players were already filling the gap I’d left. My team was struggling without their top defenseman, and every loss felt like it was carved into my damaged ligaments.
The phone buzzed again, but it was out of reach.
“Want me to hand you that?” Jen asked, noticing my glance.
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m focusing on recovery. Just like you wanted.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing, making notes on her tablet as the machine hummed beside me.
The memory flashed through my mind for the thousandth time—Game Six of the conference finals, third period. That brutal collision with Thompson from Dallas as I turned to block his shot. The sickening pop, the immediate agony, the world going silent as I crumpled to the ice. Just like that, my season was over.
Three months since the surgery to reconstruct my ACL, and I was still nowhere near ready to return. The surgeons had warned me it would be at least eight months, but I’d been determined to beat that timeline. Now, with each painful therapy session, the reality was becoming harder to deny.
Twenty minutes of wondering if a stranger would text back, and why the hell I even cared.
The drive home was a special kind of torture. My SUV’s heated seat did little to soothe the ache in my knee, and Minneapolis traffic moved with all the grace of a rookie’s first time on skates. By the time I pulled into my reserved spot at the luxury apartment building, my mood had plummeted to somewhere between furious and defeated.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Callahan,” the doorman said with practiced cheerfulness. “How’s the knee today?”
“Getting there, Frank,” I lied, the same response I’d been giving for weeks.
“Team’s missing you out there. That defense is looking rough without you.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I muttered, punching the elevator button harder than necessary.
My apartment was exactly as I’d left it—immaculate, organized, silent. Well, technically it wasn’t mine. Just a temporary team unit I was using while rehabbing my knee. Staying downtown, close to the arena and PT, made more sense than commuting from my own place outside the city. The cleaning service came twice a week, but there was barely anything for them to clean. Unlike most of my teammates, whose homes looked like the aftermath of a frat party, I kept my space as disciplined as my training regimen.
I was halfway through my post-therapy protein shake when my phone rang. Tom, my agent’s name flashed on the screen. I considered ignoring it, but that would just mean three more calls in the next hour.
“Hey, Tom.”
“Stone! How’s my favorite defenseman doing today?” His voice was too loud, too enthusiastic, like he was trying to cheer up a child.
“Same as yesterday. And the day before.”
“That good, huh?” He chuckled. “Look, I’m calling about the timeline. Coach Martinez has been breathing down my neck.”
I gripped the counter. “The timeline hasn’t changed. The doctors said?—”
“I know what they said,” Tom interrupted. “But we need tostart thinking about media. The fans are getting restless, and those endorsement deals we lined up are time-sensitive.”
“I can barely do a full squat without pain. You want me to worry about endorsements?”
“That’s what I’m here for, Stone. To worry about business while you focus on healing.” His tone shifted to what I called his “agent voice”—smooth, practiced, manipulative. “Speaking of which, Channel 9 wants to do a recovery piece. Human interest, comeback story angle.”
