Chapter 38 Out of Focus
Chapter thirty-eight
Out of Focus
Jameson Sinclair
I wince as I bend my knee to lace up my skate in the locker room. It’s more sore than usual, but this isn’t a game I want to miss.
“You look like you shouldn’t be in here,” Nash says quietly from beside me.
“PT cleared me,” I reply.
“Yeah, well, I know you, and I’m sure you disguised every bit of your pain while he was poking and prodding.”
I finish lacing the skate and move to the other one.
“I’ll be fine. If I need to, I can take the next game off.”
As I’m speaking, my phone buzzes on the bench next to me. I pick it up and notice a text from Marigold.
Goldie: Thanks for the food. You didn’t have to do that.
I ordered pizza for her and her roommates.
It may not be the most balanced of choices, but I’m more concerned with her eating at all, rather than what she’s eating.
I know her well enough to know that it’s going to take reminders to get her to eat while she’s working on a deadline.
Hopefully her roommates will do that part. I’ve done what I can for now.
Nash shakes his head. “Playoffs are next month. You’re risking a lot.”
“I’m fine,” I grind out. “Drop it.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Someone is in a mood.” He tips his head to the side. “I thought things were good with you and Red?”
I glare at him. “They are.”
“The man doth protest too much,” Nash says with a cheeky grin. “That’s Shakespeare.”
“I’m aware,” I say in a flat voice. “Even though you misquoted it.”
“I adapted it for my purposes.”
“And what are those? Annoying me until I throw you into the boards?”
Nash shrugs. “If that’s what it takes to get you to admit something’s wrong.”
I scrape a hand over my face. “Nothing is wrong besides you bothering me when we should be getting ready for the game.”
“Time for warm-ups!” Coach Rhodes shouts into the locker room.
I stand up off the bench and ignore the way my knee immediately protests the movement. I’ve been following the protocol as much as I can, but I know I haven’t rested enough.
“I’m just trying to help,” Nash says as we walk out of the locker room and into the tunnel.
“I don’t need help.”
“That’s the sort of thing a guy says when he does need help.”
I glare at him again. “Are you really not going to drop this?”
“Your head isn’t in it,” he states bluntly. “And you can blame me, but we both know I’ve got nothing to do with it.”
I pull my helmet on and buckle it beneath my chin. Nash follows suit.
“I’ll be fine once I’m on the ice.”
“You can’t be unfocused and injured.”
I clench my jaw. I know he’s right. I could end up much worse off than I am now.
But playing this game is the only thing keeping me from finding Marigold and trying to convince her to see things my way.
I know I need to let her make her own decisions, but the ones she’s choosing are hurting her. And I hate it.
“Look, I need to play tonight. Not because of Coach or the team. I just need to be on the ice.”
Understanding washes over his features. He bobs his helmet. We step out on the ice.
“All right, but if your knee bothers you too much, promise you’ll quit? I can’t have you out of the playoffs.”
“I promise,” I reply, because I really don’t want to end up severely injured. I think I’ll be okay tonight, though.
I skate a few laps around the ice, then stretch with the guys and run a couple of drills.
My knee starts to loosen up some, and I’m even more confident that this was a good call.
Even if I can’t help but check the stands for red hair.
I know she’s not here, but it’s hard not to wish she was.
It wouldn’t bother me as much if I knew she was working toward something she loved.
But she’s not. She’s going to stay up all night writing the perfect article and getting behind in her classes despite the fact that she’s dreamt of writing novels since we were kids.
The game begins, and I try to center my focus on playing my best. Still, my mind keeps getting drawn back to Marigold.
I think of what my mom said about her looking exhausted and not like herself.
I recall the photo of her passed out in a blanket fort, only sleeping because we forced her to.
Then I think back to the look on her face when Charlie said the article wasn’t any good.
He might as well have told her she was gum on the bottom of his shoe. She looked so dejected.
My focus is split, and probably most of it has been given to Marigold.
Coach yells at me every time I come by the player’s bench.
We’re not losing, but I’m not helping much either.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t see the stick in front of my skates.
I trip over it, but instead of just sliding to the ice, I collide with another player and my legs tangle awkwardly as I fall.
A sharp pain shoots through my knee, making me cry out.
I go to push myself up, but my knee won’t take the weight. I roll over onto my back. The game is stopped, and I hear the ref send the player that tripped me to the penalty box. Our PT rushes over.
“Your knee?” Ricardo guesses immediately.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “I can’t put weight on it.”
“All right, we’ll help you out of here.”
Another person from our staff comes over, and they help me up. The fans cheer, but I’m in too much pain to try to wave or even nod my head in acknowledgement. Worries flit through my brain at lightning speed.
Is it just a pulled muscle?
Have I torn something?
Will I be out for the season?
“I think it would be best to take you straight to the hospital,” Ricardo says. “We can get an MRI and some pain meds.”
I nod my consent.
“I’ll have Gregory grab your duffel to bring to the hospital and—” He continues telling me information that might be important, but my thoughts are too loud to listen. The loudest being:
Did I just jeopardize my hockey career?