Chapter 28
twenty-eight
MIKE
The sports medicine suite hits me with that same nauseating combination—sharp alcohol disinfectant mixed with the latex-rubber smell of athletic tape—that I got used to last year.
Except, last year, coming here meant hours of grinding through exercises that made my eyes water, Dr. Morges’ careful hands manipulating my useless ankle, the humiliation of needing help to walk.
Now it’s just another medical office, maybe with better equipment, and as I drop onto the examination table, vinyl squeaking under my weight, all I can think of is Sophie’s text glowing on the screen of my phone:
If you bring home another box of Pop-Tarts, I’m staging an intervention.
My thumbs fly across the screen.
You love it. Admit it.
Three dots pulse immediately.
The Pop-Tarts or you?
The grin takes over my face before I can stop it.
Both, obviously.
More dots dance across the screen.
The Pop-Tarts are on thin ice. You’re… tolerable.
I’m typing a response when Dr. Morges walks in, same clipboard, same encouraging smile that kept me from punching holes in walls during the worst of rehab.
“Mike!” He sets the clipboard down and crosses his arms. “Not limping, not scowling, so did aliens abduct my patient or what?”
“Very funny.” I pocket my phone. “I only threatened to murder the resistance bands, not actual people.”
“The resistance bands filed a restraining order.” He gestures for me to stand. “Let’s see how that ankle’s holding up.”
The routine unfolds with practiced precision—single-leg stands that used to make me shake, heel raises that once brought tears I’d never admit to, resistance exercises that made me want to quit hockey forever. Now my ankle performs each movement smoothly, almost showing off for its former torturer.
“Range of motion is excellent.” His fingers probe the joint. No pain, not even a twinge. “No swelling, no favoring. You’re doing the home exercises?”
“Every day.”
It’s mostly true. I do them when I remember.
When my mornings don’t start with Sophie’s hair spread across my pillow and her hand warm on my chest. But he moves past it, swallowing my lie, and has me doing jumps and lateral movements that would’ve had me gasping last year. My body responds perfectly.
“Strength is actually better than before your injury.” He sounds genuinely impressed. “The cross-training really paid off.”
“Yeah, who knew yoga would make me a better defenseman?” I swing back onto the table. “Though I still can’t put my foot behind my head.”
“Please don’t try.” Morges lets out a long laugh. “I don’t want to see you back here.”
He pulls up his rolling stool, the universal doctor signal for serious talks. “How’s the season going?”
“Great.” The word comes out too fast, too bright. “We’re on a six-game winning streak. I’ve had at least a point in every game. Scouts at every home game…”
The words hang between us, hollow and rehearsed.
“That’s all very impressive.” He tilts his head, waiting. “But I asked how you think it’s going.”
The examination room shrinks. The fluorescent lights hum louder. “What do you mean? I just told you?—”
“Last year at this time, you’d have given me shot percentages broken down by period. Ice time comparisons. Plus-minus ratings sorted by opponent.” His voice stays gentle, curious. “You once asked if you could chart your recovery metrics in your sleep.”
“That was a legitimate question.”
“It really wasn’t.” He grins. “Now you’re giving me headlines. What changed?”
I consider the answer. Everything. Nothing. Hockey still matters—God, it matters—but somewhere along the way, after meeting and getting with Sophie, the edges of that need have softened.
“Life stuff,” I finally manage. “Balance.”
His eyebrows climb. “Balance? You?”
He laughs, but there’s something else in his expression. Pride, maybe.
“Actually,” he says. “My friend runs an elite mobility program. Three sessions a week, two hours each, perfect for someone going pro.”
The numbers slam into me. Six hours a week. Plus travel. That’s Tuesday movie nights with Sophie. Thursday study sessions where she reads horrifying medical cases while I play with her hair. Saturday mornings when we attempt breakfast and mostly just make a mess.
Six months ago, I’d have signed up before he finished the sentence. Would’ve restructured everything, calculated the percentage increase in my likelihood of being drafted and how much more it would have earned me on my first NHL contract. But now…
“Can I think about it?”
The words surprise us both.
Dr. Morges blinks, then his expression softens into something knowing. “Of course.” He studies me. “You seem different, Mike. Calmer. Happier.”
“I started meditation back up.” The lie springs out of me. “After you said I gave up on it too quickly.”
“Really?” His tone says he’s humoring me, because he knows that experiment lasted a week. “How’s that working?”
“Oh, you know. Very… meditative.” What the hell is meditation anyway? “Lots of breathing. Focusing on the present. Om?”
He actually laughs. “Mike, you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
“Fine. I fell asleep. Every time.”
“So what actually changed?” He leans back, genuinely curious now. “Because something has.”
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. How do I explain how Sophie makes terrible jokes during horror movies?
That Andy and I spent last weekend failing spectacularly at mini golf?
That Maine’s stupid Mario Kart challenges matter as much as power play percentages?
That new things excite me as much as hockey?
“Remember how you said I should find things outside hockey?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Well, I did. Pottery, dance classes, poetry readings, rock climbing with eight-year-olds. I’m terrible at all of them, which is actually kind of nice.”
“Not needing to be the best at everything is growth.” His approval warms something in my chest. “That’s huge for you.”
“And I met someone,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
“Ah.” His smile turns knowing. “That explains the phone checking.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“You’ve looked at it four times since I mentioned the mobility program.”
Heat floods my face. “She has an exam next week. I’m… supportive.”
“I’m sure that’s all it is.” But his eyes are kind. “Mike, I’ve worked with hundreds of athletes. The ones who last—who have careers and lives they’re proud of—they figure out there’s more to life than their sport, and that there’s nothing wrong with being happy.”
“But what if focusing on other things means I lose my shot?” The fear I’ve been swallowing for weeks spills out. “What if I’m sacrificing the NHL for?—”
“For happiness?” He stands. “Let me ask you something. If you could only have one—the NHL or this life you’re building—which would you choose?”
The question should be automatic. Hockey has been my religion since I could hold a stick. The NHL isn’t just a dream; it’s the only dream that ever mattered. But, like the night at the bar with Maine, suddenly it doesn’t feel like everything I want.
Instead, I think about Sophie stealing my coffee this morning, and being offended by how much sugar she put in. About her victory dance when she finally understood some complicated nursing concept. About waking up excited for reasons that have nothing to do with ice time or scout reports.
“I don’t know.” The admission tears something loose inside me. “Not now.”
“Good.” He pats my shoulder. “The fact that it’s not automatic anymore? That’s called growing up, Mike. Keep doing your exercises, keep playing your heart out, and keep making time for whatever’s putting that smile on your face. The rest will work itself out.”
I slide off the table and he walks me to the door, physical slash mental therapy done for the day. And, when I’m outside, my mind churns through the implications of that question.
The old Mike had one setting: hockey. Every decision filtered through how it affected my game, my stats, my shot at going pro.
This Mike: he’s calculating whether six hours of mobility training is worth missing time with Sophie.
And, as if on cue, my phone rings as I push through the exit doors. Sophie’s name lights up the screen. “I thought we were texting,” I answer, already smiling.
“We were, but then I realized I needed to hear your voice to properly convey my horror.” Her breath comes fast—panicked, not winded. “Maya just informed me that there’s a mandatory nursing school mixer next Friday. With dancing, Mike.”
“So?”
“So I don’t dance. I especially don’t dance in front of the faculty who grade me.” Her voice pitches higher. “It’s a disaster.”
The panic in her voice makes my chest tight. “I could go with you. If you want.”
“To my nursing school mixer?”
“Sure. I’ll be your dance protection. Anyone tries to make you dance, I’ll challenge them to a dance-off.”
“That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard.” She pauses, and her voice softens. “You’d really come to a boring nursing school thing for me?”
“Sophie, I’d do a lot more embarrassing things than crash a nursing mixer for you.”
Her laugh fills the parking lot, bright and real. “OK. Friday. It’s a date. But if you actually try to teach me the two-step or whatever, I’m breaking up with you.”
“We’re dating?” I tease. “Nobody told me. I would have worn better underwear if I’d known…”
She hangs up, but I know she’s smiling. I can always tell.
And, suddenly, a nursing school mixer with her sounds great.
Dr. Morges called it balance.
But I call it everything.