Chapter 2 #2
There was no time for “more carefully” during a game. I had to be able to play at full speed, or I was fucked.
Ugh. This wasn’t my first injury as a hockey player. Not even my first as pro. It was the first to take me out of the lineup for so long, though. And the first to feel so… precarious. As if I might do something as simple as lose an edge and wind up back on injured reserve again.
Damn. This season had started out so good, too. I’d gelled with Condit and Wilcox, as well as my second line wingers, and I’d adjusted quickly to Seattle’s systems. They weren’t that different from Vegas’s, so it had been an easy switch.
And then, just eight games into the season, another player and I had collided at high speed just outside the crease.
Somehow, I’d managed to avoid crashing into our goalie, Yanni, but I’d tangled myself up with the goalpost just right to sprain the shit out of my right knee.
The doctors said I’d almost torn my ACL, but I’d gotten lucky and it was only a sprain.
A bad one that had cost me a good chunk of the season, but a sprain.
It was also a pain I wasn’t going to forget any time soon.
“How long before I can skate without babying it or thinking about it?” I’d asked one of the trainers.
Dave had shrugged. “That depends on you, Vas. I’ve seen some guys bounce back and start playing like they’ve never been hurt. Others spend a few months skating on eggshells.” He’d paused. “Skating on eggshells isn’t great for your game, but your knee will heal.”
There was that. And I’d been doing exactly what he described ever since I’d started rehabbing on the ice. During my full-contact practices, I’d pushed harder, but I definitely wasn’t at a hundred percent. Not yet. Not while I could still feel that phantom pop followed by blinding pain.
I wasn’t going to get back to playing condition by babying it, though, so I gradually picked up speed.
I experimented with some sharp turns and hard stops, same as I had before each practice this week.
The coaches in Seattle had worked with me on those during my rehab, too, but I still needed to see for myself each day that I could do them without pain.
Without much pain.
There was that subtle ache inside the joint that hadn’t been there before.
That reminder—that warning—that I’d injured it recently.
It was more intense today than it had been the last few days, so I’d probably pushed myself too hard at yesterday’s practice, trying to keep up with my teammates and play like myself again. Now I was paying for it.
I closed my eyes and glided backward a short ways, letting the boards stop me. I’d be fine. I just had to keep working through it.
And be careful with it.
And not reinjure it.
Right then, the telltale sound of skates clomping on a hard floor turned my head, and three goalies trooped onto the ice. They started warming up, so I picked up the pace a bit myself. I had to push through the pain enough to play, especially if I was going to return to the NAPH in two weeks.
The more I skated, the better I felt. The ache was there, as was the vague tightness and the ghost of that ominous pop , but it eased a little.
My physical therapists had said the more I strengthened my leg, the more the ACL would be supported, and the less it would hurt.
Just had to grit my teeth and get through it.
Not long after the netminders had hit the ice, the rest of the team started to trickle out onto the rink along with the coaches.
I didn’t recognize many of them. I’d been so overwhelmed learning names and faces during training camp, they all kind of blurred together after a while. Some were vaguely familiar, though.
After everyone had warmed up a bit, Coach blew the whistle, and we all gathered by the whiteboard.
“We’ve got a new face for the next couple of weeks.” Coach gestured at me. “Vasily Abashev is up from Seattle for a conditioning loan.” To me, he said, “Chevy, I’m going to start you on the third line for your first game to manage your minutes. After that, you’ll be on the top line.”
I nodded. My pride wanted to feel the sting over being relegated to the bottom six, but truthfully, I appreciated it. Playing twenty-plus minutes at full speed my first time out probably wouldn’t be a good idea.
“Wils and Cams.” Coach gestured toward me again. “You two are on Chevy’s line. You’ll be the third line tomorrow night, too, but it’s only for one game.”
They both looked at me. Cams’s face didn’t even register because?—
Oh, fucking hell.
No, that wasn’t…
Was that…
Judging by the way Wils yanked his gaze away from me, and judging by the sudden blush in his cheeks, yeah—I’d seen him before. It had only been that one night, and it hadn’t lasted long before I’d run out like the place was on fire, but I remembered him.
And I remembered his name.
Not Wils—Taylor.
That was definitely Taylor. The guy from the dance club… and my temporary linemate.
Fucking hell. This was going to be the longest two weeks of my life.