by Sophia Henry
I’ve never been the guy who takes things slow. It’s always been now or never. All or nothing. Waiting around for something to happen never got me anything but trouble.
But I do understand working hard to get what I want. I’ve never known any other way of life.
“I know you’re anxious to get back in the game, but if you go too fast and reinjure your neck, you’ll be out for a hell of a lot longer.”
Every time someone warns me of that, I stop in my tracks. Between my injury and the bleak outlook I’d originally received from multiple doctors, I’d been thinking a lot about the reality of what would happen if I couldn’t go back to playing hockey. I can’t imagine surviving that, so I’ve tried not to dwell on it. I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Patel today. I’m hoping that as soon as he sees how well I’ve recovered, he’ll finally change his tune.
—
When I pull into the parking lot of the orthopedic surgeon’s office, I’m greeted with a front-row parking spot near the door. Not that I mind walking, but this place is always busier than Target on Black Friday, so the lucky opening gives me a flicker of hope that this appointment will be a good one. After an encouraging session with Jonathan this morning, I’m riding high on the amazing progress my body has made. Despite all of Dr. Patel’s warnings, there’s no way he can keep me from getting back into the game.
When I enter the office, I stroll right up to the front desk and knock on the counter. “Hey, Felicia.”
The middle-aged receptionist looks up, cocks her head, and smiles. “Good morning, Mr. Daniels.” She reaches out, grabs a manila folder from a wire rack on her desk, and opens it. “What’s that sneaky little grin about?”
“Your smile always makes my day.”
She looks up from the folder and chuckles. “Well, thank you. You’re certainly in a good mood.”
Felicia thinks I’m bullshitting her, but I’m not. She has an amazing smile, like she’s genuinely happy to see whoever checks in. It’s a perfect trait for the front-desk person in an office to have. “Just wanted to let you know in case you hadn’t heard it yet today.”
Color flushes her cheeks, which immediately reminds me of Adrienne, the girl I had an ongoing friends-with-benefits relationship with during most of my time in Detroit. Felicia is double her age, but both women have similar light-brown skin and tight, dark curls.
Though I hadn’t seen Adrienne in years, I still texted her after my surgery to see if she wanted to assist me during my recovery in Ann Arbor. That’s when she told me she was engaged. It’s not like I expected her to always be around, but it still stunned me. More bad news on top of the surgery.
“Any changes to your insurance?”
“Nope.”
“Dr. Patel will be with you shortly. Have a seat.”
I hadn’t thought of Adrienne since that text. I wasn’t in love with her, I just liked the idea of having someone there. Someone I could count on for sex and closeness. Mentally, I’m solid where my focus needs to be—solely on hockey—but there was something satisfying about coming home to one person, something I’ve been missing almost my entire life.
The door next to the front desk opens and a nurse I’ve never seen before calls, “Luke Daniels.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” I stand up quickly and follow her to Dr. Patel’s office.
She motions to a seat and says, “Dr. Patel will be with you in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” I nod at her and sink into one of the hunter-green chairs.
The walls are adorned with framed diplomas, a certificate from the American Board of Orthopedic Surgery, and pictures of Dr. Patel with various athletes. During the multiple appointments after my surgery, I’ve read them all, but there’s nothing else to do, so I scan them again. Nervous optimism keeps me from thinking too much.
I wonder if Bree has a wall at her apartment dedicated to displaying her diplomas and accomplishments. Do nurses do that?
I haven’t heard from her since the day after the pub crawl, which was over a week ago. I texted once to say hey and never got a response. Normally, I’d take that as a reason to shut her out of my mind completely, but for some reason I can’t. Maybe I’ll try again after I get the good news about being able to play again.
“How’s it going, Luke?” Dr. Patel asks as he steps into his office and closes the door behind him.
“Amazing,” I tell him, unable to keep the corny grin off my lips. Excitement radiates under my skin, jolting me to life. I haven’t felt this way since the day I was drafted by the Aviators. I’ve been looking forward to this appointment, anxiously awaiting the moment he will give me the green light to start playing again. He’s the last piece of the puzzle.
“Amazing is good.” He smiles and sits down across from me.
“I feel great, doc. Like a new man. Did you do anything else while you were in there?” I ask. “Implant a hungry, radioactive spider or something?”
“That’s quite a compliment, Luke. I’ve never heard anyone say they felt like a superhero after surgery before.”
“You’re good at your job.” It’s easy to throw a compliment out to a guy like Dr. Patel. He may not have the best bedside manner, but at least he doesn’t come across as an egotistical douche.
“Well, thank you.” Dr. Patel smiles again. He turns toward his computer, clicks his mouse, and scans the screen. His eyes move fast under his thick, dark eyebrows. “So what brings you in today?”
“Recovery from the surgery has been grueling, doc. But after nine months of physical therapy and working myself to the bone, I’m as strong as I’ve ever been. I’m more agile and focused. I’m back to playing weight and I feel great.”
Dr. Patel’s shoulders drop and the smile slips from his lips. He shifts his eyes to me. “Playing weight?”
“Yes, sir. I’m ready to start practicing with the guys again. My physical therapists all agree that I’m ready. The team doctors have taken so many X-rays I may die of radiation, but they all say that I look good enough to play. We’re just waiting on the okay from you.”
“I’m sorry.” Dr. Patel shakes his head. “I’m confused.”
“I’m ready to play again.”
“Luke, we talked about this. I don’t think you should get back on the ice. Playing a full contact sport like hockey is too great of a risk.”
“You said we’d see how I felt after surgery. Here I am, sitting in front of you, in the best shape of my life. I haven’t felt any numbness or dizziness.”
“Luke—”
“I swear I’ll be careful. I’ll stay out of the corners. I’ll—”
“Luke—”
“I want to take my chances,” I finish, raising my voice for emphasis. He has to listen to me and not just shoot me down right away. It’s my body; my choice.
“I’m sorry, Luke,” Dr. Patel says quietly. “I won’t clear you to play. I told you before. I can’t put your health in jeopardy.”
“But—”
“This isn’t news, Luke. I’ve spoken to various individuals in the Aviators organization about your situation.” Dr. Patel’s voice is stern, shutting me down quickly.
What?
When Mike asked me to be the Director of Player Development, I always had it in the back of my mind that it was temporary. Working in an operations role while I rehabbed my injury seemed like the perfect situation until I could get back on the ice.
“What’s your relationship like with your teammates, Luke?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you see pity in your teammates’ eyes right now?”
“No,” I shake my head, anger shooting to the surface. “I get along fine with the guys. I mean, I guess our relationship is a little different because I’m not on the ice or in the locker room, but we still hang out when we’re all in Charlotte at the same time.”
“Don’t you want to keep it that way?”
“Get to the point, Dr. Patel,” I say through clenched teeth. I’m sick of the run
around.
“If you get injured again—and God forbid—become paralyzed, they won’t see their teammate, their peer. They’ll see a hardheaded idiot who didn’t listen to multiple medical professionals, all of whom had warned him about the consequences. Is that the kind of legacy you want to leave behind? Does that sound like a good life for a former hockey star?”
The former hockey star part makes me cringe on the inside.
But I refuse to let his words stop me from pressing on. I knew that’s what he would tell me before I even walked in. He’s trained to say things like that so he doesn’t get slapped with a lawsuit. People sue doctors at the drop of a fucking hat these days. But I’m not going down without a fight. The chances of being paralyzed are probably so small that it’s barely even a possibility, but he has to pound it in because someone somewhere sued the fuck out of a doctor when he didn’t explain the worst-case scenario.
Every single physical therapist and personal trainer I’ve worked with over the last few months agreed on one thing—I’m in amazing shape. Good enough to get back on the ice and practice with the team. I knew convincing Dr. Patel would be my biggest hurdle.
I’ve done my research on the injury. And while I didn’t find many athletes with it, I did come across an article about a rugby player who came back from an injury similar to mine. Rugby is ten times more dangerous than hockey. Those scrums are hardcore. I’m surprised more guys don’t have neck and spinal-cord injuries.
“Can I practice with the team and see how I feel? They can throw a noncontact jersey on me and—” I stop, because his lips are a straight line, which tells me I’m the only one excited about the idea.
Dr. Patel sits across from me with a tired, sad expression on his face. He probably wants to kick me out of his office.
“I will not clear you to play or practice. I would not advise working out with the team. I would not advise getting back on the ice. I’ve made that clear to everyone in the Aviators organization that has contacted me.” He taps his mouse with his index finger, extinguishing the glow of the computer screen lighting up his face. “I’m sorry Luke. I know this is the most devastating news a professional athlete could ever hear, but it’s my job to look out for your health. It’s my reputation—and my conscience—if I clear you and something horrible happens.”
I press my lips together and gaze at my shoes. His reputation doesn’t mean shit to me. What about my reputation? What about my fucking career? I want to scream at him.
No. Fuck screaming. I want to punch him.
Despite the anger making my heart slam against my chest and my knees shake involuntarily, the next best thing is completely forgetting. My thoughts race to the pain pills I got after my surgery, still tucked away in a bathroom drawer, the only thing that have ever made me forget everything.
At first, I’d been afraid to take them. Taking any sort of hardcore medication has never appealed to me, but the pain was so intense after my surgery that I had to do something. It took me a month, under doctor’s supervision, to wean myself off of them. Randomly thinking about using again scared the shit out of me. The only reason I kept them at all was to remind myself of my mental strength—and how I can overcome anything.
I look up and ask, “Can I get a water, please?”
Dr. Patel smiles and nods. “Of course.” He stands up and walks over to the small refrigerator in the corner of his office.
I drop my head in my hands and rub my face. Leaning forward, I catch the musky scent of the dark-purple candle on the surgeon’s desk. The smell reminds me of the nasty Russian cologne Pavel Gribov used to douse himself in when we were getting ready to go out—before he met his girlfriend. The recollection snaps the random craving for the pills.
“Here you go.” The doctor hands me the water bottle. I accept it with a nod of thanks. He continues. “You okay?”
I tilt the water and take a long swig. As I twist the cap back on the bottle, I answer honestly, “No. I was hoping for different news.”
Was I? Dr. Patel warned me at my six-month follow-up appointment that I probably wouldn’t play again. I just didn’t believe him. A month later, I went back to Dr. Cammarelli for a second opinion on that, and he’d recommended retirement as well. If the injury I have is so unpredictable, then why the fuck did I waste my time and money on therapists and rehab?
“I know, Luke. And I am truly sorry. I don’t know how helpful the program the league has for players who have to leave the game due to injury is, or if they even have one. That’s my homework for you. Find out. Talk to people you trust. You need support right now.”
I nod, though I’d stopped listening to him when he said he was sorry. He’d just confirmed—once and for all—that my hockey career was over.
“The transition is going to be hard, Luke,” Dr. Patel continues, reaching out and grabbing a business card from the bamboo card holder on his desk. He flips it over and scratches his pen across the back. “This is the number for a good friend of mine. He’s a therapist who has worked with multiple athletes who have been in a similar situation.” He looks up quickly. “If the league doesn’t have the resources you need, give him a call.”
He holds the card out to me and I take it. “Thanks.”
“This isn’t the end, Luke. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to work in the sport. You’re a star. The Aviators don’t dump their stars.”
I nod again. It’s the only movement my body seems to allow right now. At this moment, I feel like I could go through the rest of my life nodding. Not listening. Not reacting. Not caring. Just nodding.
I’ve been in a fucking desk job with the team for the last six months. It’s not the life I want. I want to be on the ice. I want to be in the locker room with my teammates. I want to skate around the rink holding the fucking Stanley Cup over my head. Realizing that dream is the reason I’ve worked my ass off for the last twenty years.
A win against the Capitals two nights ago clinched us a playoff spot for the first time in four years. I know our chances don’t look good, but I’ll be damned if someone tells me I’m not going to be able to play in my first postseason NHL game.
My right arm may be fixed, but now it feels like everything else is numb.
I rise to my feet and walk to the door, glancing at the name Dr. Patel wrote on the back of his business card. Richard Johnson. Come on. Is he for real?
“Give my friend a call. And take care of yourself, Luke.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “I’ll be sure to give Dr. Dick a call, ASAP.”
Not my finest moment, but I don’t give a damn, because walking down the hallway toward the exit door feels like the fucking green mile on the way to my execution. Once I step outside, the thing I’ve refused to accept for almost a year will be real.
The death of my hockey-playing career.
Chapter 6
Bree
I haven’t been able to get Luke Daniels out of my head. Though I’ve tapped on the simple “Had a great time with you” text he sent me a few hours after I left his condo on multiple occasions, I decided not to respond. He served a purpose—a hot, no-strings-attached purpose. I can’t even remember the last time I had a one-night stand. Probably in college.
A quick fling was exactly what I needed. There’s absolutely no reason to get too involved while on assignment in a city I could never see myself settling down in. Sure, Charlotte is cute, but it’s not home. Hell, it’s barely even a city, I think and chuckle to myself.
“What are you laughing at?” Summer, the nurse who’s training me, asks. She’s nine months pregnant and about to go on maternity leave. “Do you need me to repeat that?”
Shit. The last thing I needed was this poor pregnant lady to think I’m not going to be able to take over for her when she’s gone. Daydreaming of sex with hockey players has already taken up too many hours of my life. Time to get back to business.
“Sorry, Summer. I totally heard you. Something funny just crossed my mind.”
“Your head has been in the clouds all day.” She starts to smile, but she suddenly grimaces.
“You okay?” I ask.
Tonya, another nurse in our unit, runs into the room. I make a mental note of her seemingly supersonic hearing. “That kid about to drop?” she asks.
“Just a small contraction. Nothing crazy. Get back to work,” Summer says, dismissing our concern.
Tonya turns halfway toward the door, then spins around and squints at me.
“Why does Tinkerbell have that dazed look in her eyes like she got some?” she asks.
I’d earned the nickname on my second day. While I’d like to believe it came from my positive attitude and constant smile, I’m sure it had more to do with the glitter specks that kept falling onto my shoulder from the cheap earrings I’d worn that day.
Summer’s head swivels toward me. Her eyes are wide when she asks, “Did you?”
Instead of answering, I gently push her out of the way with my shoulder and take hold of the keyboard and mouse. “This is where I input the notes. I press F3 to get there, right?”
“Yep. And to save—oh shit!” Summer whispers.
Liquid splashes onto the hem of my purple scrubs and then my shoes. Summer is known for carrying a thirty-two-ounce water bottle with her at all times, so my first thought was she must’ve spilled it. But we’re standing at the computer in a patient’s room, and I know she left her water at the nurse’s station.
When I look at her all I see are her dark roots spidering into caramel highlights on the top of her head. She’s bent over, inspecting the spill. Because she’s technically not on duty, Summer’s wearing a maxiskirt instead of the standard scrubs. That’s when I realize it’s not regular old water—or even urine.
It’s amniotic fluid.
Summer’s water just broke all over the floor—and our feet.
“It’s time!” I cry out with glee, ignoring the liquid on my pants.
Everyone in our department has been waiting for Summer to go into labor. We even have a pool going on in the break room. She’s already a week past her due date, and she’s only been coming in to the hospital to train me.