Chapter 25
KNOX
The mood in the locker room is upbeat. Dante Moreau pops the cork on a bottle of champagne and showers Weston and I with it.
“We did it, baby!” he shouts in his thick French-Canadian accent.
The Vancouver Storm were tied with us in the race to secure the third spot in the Pacific division to go to the playoffs.
We’d each lost three games this season, and with tonight’s win we were back in the running.
Now we just have to hold on to it. We have three more games to go in the regular season.
Still enough time for them to catch up, but at least we won’t be fighting to come back from behind.
My arm shakes as I start to take off my pads.
I could barely carry my stick by the time I stepped off the ice, but so far I’ve been able to keep the worst of it from my teammates.
As far as they know I’ve successfully completed my rehabilitation.
West has been eyeing me closely, but he’s a suspicious motherfucker on a normal day.
“Rennick, there’s members of the press wanting to speak to you,” Coach Henry shouts over our celebrating.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I yell back.
West comes over and starts unstrapping my pads. He speaks low, so only I can hear him. “You have been overdoing it. Did you actually get the green light to play again?”
“Do you really think that Coach would have let me back on the ice without Dr. Frost okaying it?” I ask him.
The part I don’t admit to him is that I only managed to convince the team doctor to clear me the same way I’ve made it through every game since I’ve been back, pills.
The prescribed dosage doesn’t cut the pain anymore, and I’ve found myself taking more and more just to function.
I’m able to play, but I find myself living in a fog more than not.
I keep telling myself it’s only for a little while longer, but I’m afraid I’m lying to myself more than anyone else.
There’s a gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach every time they start to wear off.
Worse, that time is starting to get shorter and shorter.
I’m starting to play this little game with myself to see how long I can ignore that feeling, but the shaking of my hands won’t give me a single second of peace as I try to stretch out dosages.
Finally free of my pads, I groan and prepare myself to talk to the press.
Weston puts his hand in the middle of my chest, stopping me. “Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“Probably the typical bullshit answer,” I say.
“That’s not going to work. We lost several games while you were away, so if you say they had you sit out for an abundance of caution or some shit they’re not going to buy it,” he points out.
“Whether they buy it or not isn’t really my problem. I’m going to retire at the end of the season, so they don’t have that much longer to speculate either way,” I say.
“Are you really going to walk away from all of this?” Weston asks.
“I might be limping away if I have to keep playing this hard. We all know it’s time.
That doesn’t mean it’s yours though. I started a lot younger, and my shoulder has taken as much as it’s going to.
I just want it to last through the season,” I tell him.
I’ve said this to him before, but I don’t think he really believed I was ready to walk away.
“Knox!” Several reporters yell for my attention.
I turn to face them as several of them shove microphones in my face. “Settle down everyone, I’m not in a hurry. Ask your questions.”
“How is your shoulder doing?” The sports reporter for the Portland Times sends me a softball question.
“It’s on the mend. I’m not at a hundred percent yet, but we’ve got great doctors, and I’m following the rehab program exactly,” I reply. The truth is I’m overdoing it a bit, but that’s not really their business.
“Considering you just came off the injured list, and that this is your sixteenth season, what thoughts do you have about your future in the game?” This is from a Sports News Network reporter.
A deep breath helps me not to lash out at the reporter. There are plenty of younger players that have had injuries much more serious than mine. Besides, since when did thirty-eight qualify someone as a senior citizen?
“Every player thinks about their future in the game. We all live with the knowledge that we’re one injury away from being benched permanently.
I’ve been blessed to have lasted sixteen years in the game with such a great organization as the Portland Titans.
When I make a decision I’ll announce it. Right now, my focus is on this season.”
I wait a minute for anyone else to ask another question if they have one. “Well, if no one has any more questions I need to shower and catch a plane. I’ll see you guys in Toronto,” I say and head back in the locker room.
Without thinking about it I shake out a couple of pills into my hand and swallow them dry. Not an easy feat since they’re practically horse pills. I float through my shower, and before I know it, I’m back on the bus heading to the team plane.
The team plane is pretty swanky, but being confined for over four and half hours after playing over eighty percent of three periods of hockey would be a lot for anyone, but is murder on my shoulder.
Halfway through the flight I take another pill to keep the numbness going until I can let the knots unwind under the spray of a hot shower.
All my stress floats away with the pain. As we cruise toward Toronto the plane isn’t the only thing flying.