Chapter 25
twenty-five
. . .
Jason
Though, finally getting to be with Amelia after four days apart? Worth it.
After we fucked the horniness into abeyance, we curled up in each other’s arms and dozed. It was so nice to simply hold her again. I already miss her, and she’s just a few feet away off the ice, watching me from the tunnel.
I shake my head, trying to focus. I can’t afford any more distractions.
She snuck out of my room a little past four, and then got ready for dinner and a movie with her friends.
As much as I wanted to join them, I forced myself to spend time with MacGregor, Logan, and Gonzo instead.
After dinner, we went back to MacGregor’s room and played video games.
It was the perfect low-key night to cap off a great day.
But it would have been better if Amelia was there with me.
No. Focus.
Coach calls for a line change, and I vault over the boards, flanked by Larsson and MacGregor. We set up shop in Dallas’s end, and as anticipation wars with adrenaline in my veins, a steady sense of calm rushes over me.
This is where I belong. This is what I’m meant to do. No matter what it takes, I’ll work as hard as required to stay in this league. Nothing else compares. Nothing I’ll ever do for the rest of my life will ever be as meaningful as this.
Although it’s is a low-scoring game, it’s as high intensity as ever. Dallas’s players are huge, and their hits are massive. I spin to avoid a check from number 72, rubbernecking with the boards to escape. I don’t even have the puck on my stick.
But Allen and I go way back; he’s had it out for me ever since we both played for Detroit seven years ago, and I got more ice time than he did. The back and forth proved was good for both of us; it made us better players. Doesn’t keep him from hating me, though.
I learned to let it go. I don’t hold grudges.
Hockey is too volatile a sport. Sometimes, I’m bitter about the plays that injured me, the hit that caused my third knee surgery, the trip that broke my wrist in the playoffs.
But it comes in waves; it’s not a steady-state thing.
Mainly, it’s when it twinges that I get salty.
Right now, I’m healthy as a horse. After the athletic massage Graham did on my knee this morning, I feel better than ever. Spending time with Amelia definitely helped, too. Now, we only need to figure out a way to hook up on every road trip.
MacGregor passes the puck, and I scramble to meet it, and it lands on my tape with a satisfying thwack. I carry it up the center of the ice, deking around Allen and Haney, the massive defenseman.
Larsson is behind me, and I drop the puck back to him, turning to meet Allen’s check.
And that’s when I hear it. A pop.
White-hot pain laces through me, and I collapse onto the ice. Tears well in my eyes, and I blink a few times, trying to breathe through the pain.
The refs realize I’m still on the ice, and call the play dead. My heartbeat echoes loudly in my ears when I try to sit up. I get halfway there before the pain gets to be too much and I have to stop.
Larsson skids to a stop, inadvertently spraying me with ice. “What is it? Your knee?”
I shake my head. It’s not my knee that’s hurting. “I don’t know.”
“Derek’s on his way,” MacGregor reports.
Around me, all the players take a knee. It’s never a good thing when a guy goes down; it’s worse when he doesn’t get back up.
Derek scurries over, wearing grippy cleats over his shoes. “Your knee?”
“I heard a pop,” I tell him. I’m sweating, and it has nothing to do with the game. “Something is wrong.”
“You need a stretcher? You didn’t hit your head.” He studies me carefully, assessing my condition. “Do we need to go into concussion protocol?”
I shake my head again. “It’s my ankle. Or my leg. I don’t know. I can’t get up on my own.”
“Okay. We’ll do it together.” Derek nods to MacGregor and Larsson, and my teammates grip my arms and lift me onto my skates.
I try to put weight on my left leg, and pain radiates through me. Blinking back the water in my eyes, I swallow and try to skate with my left foot hovering off the ice.
There’s a cheer, and then applause, and I realize it’s for me. Stick taps on the boards. For standing up. For doing the bare fucking minimum to get my bearings back.
“You’ve got this, Cap,” MacGregor says, clapping my shoulder. “You’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”
“Nothing a bit of PT can’t fix,” Larsson adds.
I choke out a laugh. “Sure. Yeah.”
We stumble-glide to the chute, and then Derek helps me keep the weight off my leg as we hobble down the chute.
“Amelia,” he barks. “You’re my eyes and ears.”
She salutes him, but there’s no disguising the worry on her face. “You got it, boss.”
It’s almost good that she can’t be here for this part; I don’t want her to see me like this.
Inside the dressing room, Derek heads straight to the medical bay. He hoists me onto the table, and then takes a pair of scissors to my laces, slicing through them. He eases my skate off my foot.
“Oh, fuck.” Without the skate compressing everything, the pain is worse.
He takes off my second skate—probably so he won’t get sliced by accident—and then cuts through my socks and tears off my shin guards until my left leg is bare to the chill of the room. But I’m burning up.
There’s a knock on the open door, and then Doc Hudson is bustling into the office. He’s wearing a team polo and warmup jacket rather than a white coat, but there’s no mistaking his authority.
I lay back on the table as he does a visual examination while Derek debriefs him, and then he snaps on a pair of gloves and examines me himself. Every touch hurts more than the one before, and I can’t keep my mouth shut.
Luckily, Doc is used to a little cursing.
“We’ll need an MRI to be sure,” he finally says, reaching for the tablet that Derek hands him. “Looks to be your Achilles.”
“Fuck.” I cover my face with my hands. “Do I need surgery?”
“Probably.” At least he’s honest about it. “You’ll be out for a bit.”
“The rest of the season?” There’s only seven weeks left before playoffs start.
“Most likely,” Doc says. “I’ll call the ambulance.”
“No. I don’t—”
“We need to do an MRI, and we can’t do it here, son. I’ll stay with you the whole time.”
“Is there anyone we can call?” Derek asks. “A girlfriend?”
I shake my head. “I need my phone.”
“Harper?” Doc asks. Guess he didn’t hear about the divorce.
“No. Someone else.”
Derek raises his brows. “You’re seeing someone?”
There’s commotion in the hall behind us as the team funnels into the dressing room for intermission.
“It’s new,” I clip out, trying to swing my leg over the side of the table.
“Whoa. Where do you think you’re going?” Doc sets a hand on my chest.
“To see my team. They have to know I’m okay. They need a pep talk.”
I know what it’s like to see a guy go down on the ice—and when he doesn’t get back up.
It’s my job to lead this team. To inspire them, to boost them up, and to give them a dose of reality when needed. I didn’t want it to happen like this, though.
Derek helps me hobble out of the exam room, and into the visiting dressing room. The guys are assembled at their cubbies, half of them undressed. I don’t like to take off my kit between periods, but other guys exchange their jerseys or pads for fresh ones.
A silence falls over the room as I limp out, and then stuttered applause floods the room.
“I’ll be okay,” I tell them, leaning against the wall for support. “I’m going to get checked out, but I’ll be alright. You guys are going to score a fucking goal, you’re going to win the damn game, and when you get back to Boston in three days, I’ll be there to cheer you on.”
Logan frowns. “You think you’re out?”
“Still need to run some tests, but I don’t think I’ll be back on the ice for the next game, maybe two.” That’s all I’ll say about it.
My gaze roves over my teammates, my brothers, and the staff members who support us in everything we do.
And then I catch sight of Amelia in the corner. Her eyes are glassy, but they won’t meet mine.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, my gaze focused on her. “Now, go kick some Dallas ass.”