Page 131 of Moonlighter
Eric
“C’mon,Eric. Give me three more.”
Slowly, I straighten my knees, my legs shaking with effort. The weight on the leg press is about half my usual. But I’m sweating like a pig in a sauna. And every muscle in both knees is screaming.
This is rehab. It hurts. It’s exhausting. And the results are depressing.
“Two more!” Chip calls. “You’re doing great.”
I bear down and bend my knees again. The shaking is worse this time.
“Breathe,” Chip coaches. “One more.”
I finish the set, but it’s ugly. The plates clang back into place when I’m through. And I’m panting like I just went seven rounds with a grizzly bear.
“How you feeling?” Chip has the balls to ask.
“How does it look like I’m feeling?” I snarl.
But the man is not offended. He’s used to pushing people further than they think they can go. “You look like a man who wants to kill me. That’s how I know we’re done here. Good work today, Eric. Nobody works harder than you.” He tosses a clean towel at me.
I catch it and wipe the sweat out of my eyes.
“Go stretch out one more time. I’ll see you Friday.”
“Thanks,” I grunt.
I limp into the warmup room with all the mats, tossing down my towel and then easing my body down onto it. This is the low point, right? It had better be. I need a shower and some food. Maybe a nap.
Everything seems impossible today. I should be scheduling my other knee surgery right about now. But the idea of doing all this again on the other side makes me want to howl.
I’m asking my hamstrings for a little more stretch when I hear the trainer’s voice just outside the door. “You ever try injectables? They can make you stronger real fast.”
“Yeah? Like, how, man?” And, hell, that’s Anton’s voice.
“Injections right into the muscle. I know a guy. You’ll be unstoppable.”
“Dude, really? What’s in it?”
The young trainer drops his voice, so I miss whatever he says next.
But I’ve heard enough. I struggle to my feet and walk out into the hallway. “Hey.”
“Hey, man,” Gino says. “Need something?”
“Yeah. I need you to stop selling bullshit to a healthy twenty-two-year old. The last thing he needs is injectables.”
“Dude,” Gino says with a nervous chuckle. “We were just chewing the fat.”
“Really?” I challenge. I’m pissed off, now. I’m pissed at my knees. And I’m pissed at the universe. And I’m pissed off that this jacked up muscle head would try to push supplements and drugs on a youngster who’s willing to do whatever he’s told to start his first NHL game.
“Henry!” I call down the hallway. “Are you around?”
The head trainer appears at the far end of the hallway, a roll of tape in his hands. “Right here, Eric. Problem?”
“Are injectable supplements part of your healthy player protocol?”
“No,” the older man shakes his head. “‘Course not. Who said that?”
