Chapter 5 Wes
WES
The injury created a structure I did not ask for and could not escape.
Every morning for two weeks, Luca Moretti arrived at my stall fifteen minutes before anyone else, carrying two cups.
Tea for me. Coffee for him. He set the tea down, said good morning, and then helped me into my modified practice gear with the efficient, impersonal professionalism of a man doing his job.
Except it didn't feel impersonal. It felt like something else entirely, and the something else was the problem.
The ribs were bad. Not broken, which was the good news, but bruised deeply enough that raising my arms above my shoulders sent a lightning bolt of pain from my hip to my neck.
Pulling on a shirt required a negotiation with my own body that I lost more often than I won.
Lacing skates, which required bending at the waist, was an exercise in controlled suffering.
Luca handled all of it. He arrived with the tea and the steady hands and the specific kind of patience that I had not previously associated with a man who talked as much as he did.
He was quiet during the dressing. Not silent.
Quiet. He narrated what he was doing the way a surgeon might, low and calm and purposeful.
"Left arm first, that's it, now the right, easy, don't force it.
" His hands moved across my body with a precision that erased the line between professional service and personal attention.
The intimacy of being dressed by someone is something I was not prepared for.
Luca dressing me was his hands at the hem of my compression shirt, lifting it over my head, his knuckles grazing my stomach on the way up.
His fingers on my shoulder pads, adjusting the fit, the heat of his palms bleeding through the foam.
The surrender of autonomy was so disorienting that for the first three days I held my breath through the entire process.
On the fourth day, he noticed.
"Chen. Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"You're not. You hold your breath the entire time I'm helping you. You turn slightly purple. It's concerning."
"I'm concentrating."
"On what? Not breathing?"
"On not being a burden."
He stopped what he was doing. His hands were on the straps of my shoulder pads, frozen mid-adjustment. He looked at me with an expression that I hadn't seen on him before. Not warm. Not amused. Something harder. Something almost angry.
"You are not a burden," he said. "You are an injured athlete being helped by the guy whose literal job it is to help injured athletes with their gear. This is what I'm here for. You breathing during the process is not optional."
"I didn't mean to offend you."
"You didn't offend me. You made me sad, which is worse."
He finished the adjustment and stepped back and I took a breath, a real one, and the air filled my lungs and the ribs complained and I let them complain because Luca Moretti had just told me I made him sad and the information was sitting in my chest alongside the bruised ribs, taking up space I didn't have.
We developed a routine. This was inevitable.
I was a man who survived on routine and Luca was a man who built them instinctively, the way some people build friendships and others build walls.
By the end of the first week, the routine was this: tea at 6:45, gear at 7:00, modified practice at 7:30, rehab at 9:00, lunch at noon, film study at 1:00, more rehab at 3:00, gear off at 4:00.
Luca was present for the bookends, the dressing and undressing, and increasingly present for the middle, appearing in the training room during rehab with a fresh bottle of water or in the film room with a question about defensive formations that he didn't need answered but that gave him a reason to sit near me.
I did not ask him to sit near me. I did not tell him to stop sitting near me. The distinction between these two things was narrower than it should have been.
We talked. This was the part I hadn't anticipated.
The routine created pockets of time that were too short for real activity and too long for silence, and Luca filled them the way water fills a container, naturally and completely.
He talked about his family. The Morettis of Hoboken, New Jersey.
A loud, large, Italian-American family that operated on a frequency of warmth and chaos that was as foreign to my experience as hockey had been foreign to my parents' experience when I first picked up a stick in a Boston public rink at age six.
His mother, Rosa, called him every Sunday and sent care packages that contained homemade pasta and passive-aggressive notes about his diet.
His father, Antonio, ran an auto body shop and had never understood hockey but had driven Luca to every practice and game without complaint for twelve years.
His sister, Sofia, was an attorney in Jersey City who texted him constantly and who he described as "the smartest person I know and also the most terrifying, which is the same thing in Italian families. "
He told me about Northeastern. About the scholarship, the team, the shoulder.
"Sophomore year," he said. We were in the training room, me on the table doing modified exercises, him sitting on the counter swinging his legs like a kid on a fence.
"Practice. A routine hitting drill. My arm got caught between the boards and another guy's body and I felt something go.
" He mimed the sound with his mouth, a wet pop that made my own shoulder cringe.
"Three surgeries. Two years of rehab. And then the doctor sat me down and said the words every athlete prays they'll never hear. "
"You can't play anymore."
"Not can't. Shouldn't. Which is worse because it implies a choice.
You could play, technically, but you'd be risking permanent damage, and the risk-to-reward ratio doesn't justify it.
So it's not that the door is closed. It's that the door is open and you're choosing not to walk through it, and that choice feels like dying even though it's supposed to feel like wisdom. "
I understood this. Not from personal experience. My body had never betrayed me in that specific way. But I understood the sensation of a door that was technically open but practically closed, the agony of proximity to a thing you cannot have.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be. I found the next thing." He gestured around the training room.
"This. The equipment gig. Being near the game without being in it.
It's not the same. It'll never be the same.
But it's close enough that I can still smell the ice and hear the sounds and feel the specific electricity of a locker room before a big game, and close enough is enough. "
"Is it?"
The question came out before I vetted it.
A direct, unfiltered question that I would normally have swallowed because directness was vulnerability and vulnerability was exposure and exposure was danger.
But Luca had been telling me about the worst thing that had ever happened to him with an openness that made my own guardedness feel small and mean, and the least I could do was ask a real question.
He looked at me. The leg-swinging stopped. His eyes, which were brown with flecks of gold that I had not noticed until this moment because I had not been this close to his face before, held mine with a steadiness that I associated with people who were about to tell the truth.
"Most days," he said. "Some days it's not enough.
Some days I watch you guys play and I feel the phantom of it in my shoulder, the muscle memory of a body that still thinks it's supposed to be out there.
And those days are hard. But hard isn't the same as bad, and the thing I've learned is that the life you build after the life you lost can be just as good.
Different. Smaller in some ways. But real. "
I nodded. The conversation sat between us with a weight that was comfortable rather than heavy, the way some silences become after you've shared something true inside them.
"What about you?" he said. "What's the worst thing that happened to you? Equal exchange. I showed you mine."
"I don't do equal exchange."
"Of course you don't. You do unilateral withholding and call it independence."
I looked at him. He looked at me. And then I did something that surprised both of us.
I laughed.
Not a big laugh. Not a Luca laugh, which was an event that affected everyone within a thirty-foot radius.
A small, huffed exhale through my nose that was closer to a cough than a laugh but was definitely, undeniably, a laugh.
The first one that Luca Moretti had extracted from me, and the expression on his face when he heard it was like watching a man discover gold in a river he'd been panning for weeks.
"Was that a laugh?" he said.
"No."
"That was absolutely a laugh. Wes Chen laughed. I need to mark this day on my calendar."
"It was a respiratory event."
"It was a laugh and I'm claiming it. That laugh is mine now. I earned it."
The warmth in his voice was doing something to my chest that had nothing to do with bruised ribs.
I looked away. At the wall, the equipment, anything that wasn't his face and his gold-flecked eyes and the specific curve of his mouth when he was delighted about something, which was a detail I should not have been noticing and could not stop.
"My college boyfriend," he said, unprompted, his voice shifting into something quieter. "That's the other worst thing. Besides the shoulder."
I looked back.