Chapter 3
ASHER REYNOLDS
Until now, I’ve been fortunate to have never spent much time in the sports medicine room. It’s clear that’s all about to change.
And sure, it’s impossible to be a hockey player and never have had an injury. It’s literally a sport that allows for punching. So, like most of the guys, I’d stop by ahead of games to get taped up or have to check-in the day or two after I was gifted a gash on my face by the opposing team.
But nothing like this.
I’m seated in one of two offices, which are enclosed in glass and look out to the sprawling main medicine room. The deepest that I’ve ever gone into the room is the bay of padded tables where we’d line up religiously for Zane, the athletic trainer, to get us prepped ahead of games.
Today, I’m looking at it through completely new eyes. I’ve never realized how massive the space is, usually because I was only ever heading here on my way to somewhere else. But now, it’s practically going to be my home away from home.
Which is made clear when Chase tells me, “We’ll meet two to three times a week, depending on how your recovery is progressing, Asher.”
I momentarily want to correct him. To tell him that everyone calls me Dutch. Only, the words don’t come out of my mouth. My team calls me Dutch because I always like things to be fair. I don’t even know the meaning of that word anymore.
I don’t look at him, instead choosing to focus on the large flatscreen behind him that has my treatment plan casted from his laptop. My next three-plus months in all its sixty-inch televised glory. It’s the last time that I’ll be seeing anything about my accomplishments on a big screen for a while.
We’ve spent the last thirty minutes reviewing the phases of my recovery.
In Michigan, my treatment plan was focused on stabilization for two weeks post-surgery along with making sure that my muscles didn’t atrophy.
Plus, limiting pain as much as possible.
My parents drove me to the outpatient rehab center for my appointments, where I felt like I was doing nothing but also everything, all at the same time.
The following weeks were better, when I was finally able to use my body again. Per the plan, which somehow, I’m still on track to achieve, I’m close to completing phase two.
It’s still a bummer to consider that there are six phases, so I’m not even a third of the way to where I need to be.
I sigh. “Makes sense.” There’s no point in fighting this. I talked to my parents last night, and I’m more sure than ever that I wouldn’t be able to function back in Michigan right now.
After my conversation with them, I barely slept. And that’s not ideal, given that I was already sleeping like shit. Whenever I close my eyes, I can feel the impact from the crash. I wince now with the memory.
“You okay?” Chase asks, clocking my movement. I’m glad that he misinterprets it for physical pain.
I scratch my beard. “Fine.”
A decade ago, I’d have lost my mind if you’d have told me that I’d be sitting in the same room as Wyatt Chase.
I’m never going to tell him this, but he was my absolute favorite player to watch growing up.
Which is weird to think about, considering he can’t be more than five years older than me.
But the difference between a thirteen-year-old with big dreams and an eighteen year-old playing at Michigan U, my state’s team, was massive.
I watched him every year, as he set and then subsequently broke his own school scoring records.
Most of them still stand today. And that was with him having already been drafted by the Seattle Sails his freshman year.
Too bad he only got to play pro for a single season.
It’s like he can read my mind, as his dark eyes land on me. “Every recovery process looks different. Unfortunately, sometimes we don’t bounce back the way we hope or the damage is permanent.”
“Are you preparing me for some kind of worst case scenario? Because I don’t know whether you should be bringing your shit into my recovery plan.” I want to cross my legs at my ankles to block off my stance, but I can’t. My range of movement is still too limited.
And then, he fucking smirks with his trademark perfect smile. Not only was he one of the best NCAA players and then named rookie of the year his first NHL season, but he was also known for his antics off the ice.
I’m sure he still does all right for himself. He looks fit enough to play professional sports. And even though he looks a little dorky in his team polo and glasses, he’s somehow making it work.
He was everything that a hockey-obsessed teenager wanted to emulate. And then he just… disappeared.
I don’t know why, but it sparks something to life in me. A bit of drive that I haven’t felt in too long. Like he’s daring me to fail. But then, it leaves my body too quickly, and the emptiness takes over again.
I think that he’s going to comment on it, but he changes tack. “How were your first two days back?”
Needing something to do with my hands, I pick up a stress ball on his desk emblazoned with the Radford U logo and squeeze it. “Fine,” I answer again, like it’s the only word in my vocabulary.
I’m unrecognizable to myself from last year.
The tone of my voice sounds strange in my ears, now that it’s laced with disaffection.
Usually, I’d have some long-winded, philosophical speech or reframing exercise flitting through my mind as a way to figure out a path forward.
But it’s like I’m standing in the middle of a pitch black room, and there’s nothing beyond.
I don’t tell him that I felt like a complete fraud in my uniform yesterday, dressed in my game clothes for team pictures.
He runs his hand along the back of his neck, and his bicep flexes against the arm of his cherry red Radford polo shirt, the same that most staff members wear day-to-day. “I have to say, I’d have expected a philosophy major to be able to articulate their thoughts a bit better.”
I throw the ball up in the air and catch it. “I didn’t know that I was being graded on my vocabulary.”
He glances down at his watch. “Do you have any questions for me before we get started on your PT today?”
I blink, and I almost miss catching the ball that I just lofted into the air.
I’ve been throwing it progressively higher.
I’d forgotten that we were going to actually work out today.
I’ve been doing my independent exercises in my apartment since I arrived over the weekend, but it’s been close to a week since I’ve worked out with a professional.
I’m not looking forward to it. “Sounds good,” I lie.
“I asked if you have any questions.” He levels me with a serious stare. “You’re under my treatment now, and even if you don’t take that seriously, I do.”
“I’m not–”
He cuts me off. “It’s your choice to be here.
What happens over the next few months is completely within your control, even if it doesn’t feel like that.
I can’t promise miracles. And I can’t promise that your life is going to work out exactly the way that you want it to.
But what I can promise is that I’ll do everything within my power to help your body recover to the fullest extent that it’s able.
I cannot do that without your partnership and buy-in.
If I’m not confident that you’re being honest with me, I’ll have to report that to Coach Donovan.
It’s a waste of everyone’s time for me to have you walk out of here worse than before. ”
I swallow, absorbing his words–the strength and confidence in his tone.
They’ve managed to cut through some of the emptiness.
He’s not treating me like some wounded bird, and I’m surprised at how much I appreciate it.
I know what he wants to hear, but I don’t say my next words because of that.
“I don’t have any questions.” I put the ball back on the desk and run my hands down my jogger-clad thighs.
“I’m ready to get started when you are.”
I let out a deep breath, beads of sweat dripping down my face.
I’m not in pain, but I do feel like I’ve run a marathon.
Crazy, considering I’ve shown about the same range of mobility and physicality as an eighty-five-year-old nursing home patient.
After Chase put me through the wringer getting a baseline for my current state, we moved over to one of the padded tables that I had no idea could double as a torture rack, where we’ve been working for the last fifteen minutes.
Or, I guess that working isn’t exactly the right word. The better way to describe it is that I’m being worked.
“Let me know if you experience any pain or tingling,” Chase says at the same time he lifts my leg.
I feel a little bit like an idiot, the way that we’re positioned.
I thought that I’d gotten used to being poked and prodded when I started physical therapy, but this is a whole other beast. Maybe it’s because I used to have a poster of Wyatt Chase on my bedroom wall, but I can’t get over how weird this is.
And by “this,” I mean Chase having me bent over the table, stomach down, with my hips pressed against the edge.
My t-shirt’s ridden up a little bit, and the padding is cool against my abs.
I try not to fidget. My good leg is resting on the floor, and he’s standing between my thighs, facing my injured leg.
His strong palm is working down the length of my femur, performing an anterior hip glide.
At the same time, his other hand is providing stability to my knee, holding me in place.
Through it, I’m taking deep, calming breaths.