Chapter 2
WYATT CHASE
Sure, it feels like a lot of change, all at once, but I’ve been working my way to a hockey program like Radford’s for the last six years.
Maybe I won’t ever be a top hockey player again, but I can still be the best at this.
I glance down at my watch. Five minutes until the first official team meeting of the year. I’ve been working with the coaching staff and other medical professionals on the team for a few weeks now, and I’ve been on-site every day for the past week, now that training camp’s started.
I take a quick look around and stand up. Even though I also played for a D1 school in college and then managed a year in the pros before my injury, I’ve never experienced a training and recovery facility like Radford’s.
I walk out the door and turn left, leaving the sports medicine area.
On one side of the hallway is a door leading into a rec room, where players can relax or hang out before practice.
To my right is a shooting room, decked out with full rink glass around it.
I’d love to get a few minutes in there to take a couple of shots, but I’m not sure what the rules are for staff using player spaces for personal use.
I’ve met most of the team, but until this morning, the large building has felt more muted. That’s not the case today. I pass someone in at least every hallway I walk down, and I nod when I recognize them.
A few feet in front of me are Kyle Dane and Jack West, two of the top defenders heading into this season. They’re both juniors but built like brick houses. I would have killed to have guys that size backing me up when I was playing in college.
“Chase,” Jake Barner, one of the assistant coaches, says as the hallway he’s walking down meets mine, spokes coming together into a main hub.
Hockey players love nicknames, but that’s my honest-to-god last name.
It didn’t hurt that my top speed in breakouts was over twenty-four miles-per-hour, which meant that I was always being chased.
I smile, thinking about the past. These days, I don’t have the same disappointment in my gut when I lament on all the what-ifs.
I nod at Jake and we fall into step together.
He’s around my age–late twenties–if not a few years older.
He’s been with the Radford Renegades for the past three seasons as an assistant offensive coach.
And he’s invited me out for a drink after practice once or twice to try and welcome me to the team, not that I have time for that.
My work schedule is already hectic enough and the season hasn’t even officially started. Plus, I don’t want to spend any more time away from Lyla than I need. We just moved into our new apartment together, and I know that it’s an adjustment for both of us.
“How are you getting settled in?” he asks.
“The facilities are elite. It’s insane how much money the school’s put into the program.” That’s an understatement. There are hydrotherapy systems with warm and cold water immersion tubs, underwater and anti-gravity treadmills, top-of-the-line compression tools. I’m still in awe.
He slaps me on the back. “You’ll get used to it. A lot is expected of the team, and they spare no expense. I have to imagine your pro facility was a lot like this?”
I’m not surprised by the question. Division 1 college hockey is the highest level for the majority of the coaching staff. Maybe the junior leagues for a few years. I know because I looked it up. Only the head coach, Coach Donovan, was a former professional player.
Jake, for instance, played on the West Coast for a D1 school, but he wasn’t drafted and wasn’t signed onto one of the AHL teams or a Canadian league.
But hockey is more than a sport–it’s a lifestyle. And for a lot of guys, finding a way to stay in the world after their career is over is a natural next step if they can swing it.
I know that me making it to the pros was a one-in-a-million chance, even if it was cut short.
I realize that I haven’t answered him as we come to the double doors that lead into the locker room. “Honestly, the Renegades’ set-up rivals the facilities in Seattle.”
He nods, contemplative. “Good to know that we’re keeping up.”
Instead of letting the conversation draw out, I push open the double doors. I’ve never been an especially chatty guy, even if I’m trying to get better for Lyla.
My breath catches when I walk into the locker room.
It’s a large circular area with the lockers curved around the wall so that the players are always facing one another.
Accountable to each other. Game uniforms are already hanging on the rods running behind the obscenely padded seats, with the players’ names emblazoned across the back of each one.
Their skates and gloves sit atop a shelf just above.
On each of those obscenely padded seats is a player, already seated.
My eyes scan around the bodies as I join the coaches and staff filing in near the door. With twenty-six players and about a dozen coaches and staff in the room, it feels intimate but not too cramped.
“Gentlemen,” Coach Donovan’s deep voice calls at the same time the last coach joins the group.
Twenty-six sets of eager eyes land directly on him, and my skin prickles.
I’ve missed this. The possibility crackling in the air like it’s a living, breathing thing. We have the whole season in front of us, to make it the best that it can possibly be.
Actually, make that twenty-five sets of eyes, I correct internally, my focus landing on a player settled near the end of the left side of lockers.
His locker is embossed with the last name Reynolds.
But he’s not looking at the coach. His eyes are cast downward, like his shoe is the most interesting thing that he’s ever seen.
It gives me a moment to take him in. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve been waiting for him to arrive.
I wasn’t informed until a few days ago that he’d be coming back for the team this year.
And of all the players kicking off the season, he’s the only one who already has a serious injury that requires recovery instead of maintenance.
I’ve spent hours pouring over the files of every single player suiting up for the Radford Renegades this season. Asher Reynolds is by far the most interesting–at least from a therapeutic standpoint.
Coach Donovan kicks off a speech about the season and all of its possibilities, but my attention isn’t focused on him, even if it should be.
Asher Reynolds is large, especially for a wing.
I already knew that from his file. Six-three and two-hundred-and-ten-pounds.
He’s only wearing a t-shirt, and one of his arms is covered in an intricate nature design, which is something that the manila folder that I’ve looked over multiple times wouldn’t tell me.
Even though he’s sitting still, I can see the awkward angle of his left leg, stretched out more than it would be otherwise.
All of the other players are sitting with their feet about hips-distance apart, with their forearms resting on their thighs, watching the coach intently. Reynolds, in contrast, is leaning back into the locker space, one foot planted on the ground and the other one bent only slightly.
His file told me a lot, but I know it’s not the whole story. A car accident this summer, with one casualty–his sister. That wasn’t in the file either. Coach Donovan told me that tidbit, when he shared Reynolds’ player profile with me last week.
The facts of Reynolds’ injury are wholly surmountable, which is great news for him.
He suffered a full hamstring tear which was operated on five weeks ago, along with some deep bruising and a shoulder tweak that’s mostly healed by now.
I’ve already had multiple phone calls with his doctors in Michigan, along with the clinical staff there that originally put his recovery plan together.
There are only a few small tweaks that I recommended, especially coming from an athletic background myself.
I frown. Unfortunately, the emotions associated with what he’s been through are probably another story entirely.
Like he can feel me staring at him, he looks up and meets my eyes.
Haunted is the word that pops into my mind.
Dark, half-moon circles are under bright blue irises, which somehow only makes him look worse.
Dude honestly looks like he’s spent the night doing shots at every bar in town, even though I know that’s probably not the case. I hope, at least.
I make myself focus on whatever Coach Donovan is saying, a little overwhelmed by the intensity of the stare that Reynolds gives me.
Coach’s voice is steady, as always when he says, “Let’s have a great week on the ice.
Classes start next Monday, so this is the opportunity for us to get our ducks in a row without anything else occupying our focus.
I know that we’ve lost some valuable team members over the summer, but I have no doubt that our new guys will grow to fit some impressively big skates. ”
Different versions of, “let’s do it,” echo around the circular room.
The team is pumped, and everyone stands up quickly to start changing for practice. All except for one person. I make a beeline over to him.
“Wyatt Chase,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m the new physical therapist.”
He eyes me up and down curiously. “As in the former professional hockey player?”
I’ve spent six years getting used to that tone, so I’m not exactly sure why it hits me somewhere different when he says it. “In another lifetime. Now, I’m the one who’s going to be working with you on your return to sport plan.”
I watch him nod, taking in my words. A beat passes before he says quietly, “Doesn’t seem like recovery protocols worked all that well for you.”
It’s not like I was expecting him to roll out the red carpet, but I am a little surprised, which I know is obvious from how my brows have drawn together.
But instead of feeding into his pity party of one, I clear my throat.
I’ve been where he is. The only difference is that he doesn’t know there’s life on the other side of it yet.
“I’ve already discussed you spending the day watching the practice to get a feel for the team, and then tomorrow is a media room day and team photos.
Wednesday morning, you’re due in my office while the team’s doing strength training.
We’re going to review your protocol plan and start your first physical therapy session. Any questions?”
Something like embarrassment flashes across his face, but it disappears quickly. In its place is left a passive indifference, like he’s trying to let me know that he doesn’t care either way. I expect him to cycle through the stages of grief over and over again a hundred times before this is over.
My unique perspective on injury recovery is one of the reasons that a top program like Radford was willing to bring me on with only two years of experience as a college physical therapist–at a D2 school on top of that. The mental recovery is as hard, if not harder, than the physical recovery.
And too bad for Reynolds, but he’s going to need to learn to fake it until he makes it.