Chapter 44
I show up at my next physical therapy appointment ready to push myself, already anxious about getting back on the ice. Some days, I wake up and am fine with just taking it one day at a time and getting back out there when the time is right. Others, I feel nothing but the weight of expectation pressing down on me. My knee was aching before I even got to PT, but I'm here regardless, ready to put in the work. I’ll make this happen. I have to, I have no other options.
Each exercise causes a sharp and biting pain. I push myself harder, harder than I should, and just grit my teeth and get through my exercises. My physical therapist tells me to take it easy, to listen to what my body is telling me, but they don’t get it. It isn’t that simple, this is my life. If I don’t push myself, It’ll be too late before I get back to where I need to be to play. Hockey’s more than just a game, it's my livelihood, and it's a career that won’t last forever. Hockey is everything, and I want to be able to experience it for as long as I can physically. If pain is the price I have to pay to return to the ice, then fine. I’ll fucking do it.
I feel like I'm barely moving, but sweat pours down my face, and my muscles scream at me for relief. Nothing stops me, though. Every stretch, every movement, even subtle ones, feels like fire. By the end of therapy, I’m wiped out. My leg feels like it's been through a shredder, but I’m fully convinced that going hard and finishing each session is getting me one step closer and that I've shaved off an unknown amount of time from my time not playing. I push the pain aside and force a grin on my face despite the fact that I can barely limp to the car.
I’m getting everything out of the way this morning with back to back appointments. I drive straight from PT to Dr. Maria’s office for another check-up. I feel the positivity flowing through me today. This appointment will be the one that brings good news. I’m bound to be making progress. After all the work I've been putting in, my knee feels...well, not great, functional at best. But, hey, that’s something, right?
I try to chill out while I wait to go back to an exam room, but my mind doesn’t get the memo. Rachel and Lily flash in my thoughts in rapid blasts, the two of them motivating me each step of the way. I know I don’t have to be a hockey player for them to care about me, for me to be enough for them. Honestly, life would be easier if I wasn’t following a professional hockey player's schedule. But one thing I do want is for them to be able to count on me, and the best way to do that is to be able to provide for them financially. I plan to be there in more ways than financially, but no matter how much everyone hates to admit it, things become easier when worrying about money isn’t an issue.
After twenty minutes or so, I’m escorted back to an exam room, and it isn’t long before Dr. Maria glides in and greets me with a no-nonsense, grim expression, and the small sliver of hope that I had built up in my head dies. Maybe she just has an amazing poker face, and I should take her to Vegas next time I go. She’s probably going to keep me guessing until finally telling me I’m healing faster than expected, and I’ll be back on the ice by next season. Yet after some cross comparisons of scans and a thorough exam of my leg, I can feel it. I see it in her face before she even utters a word.
“Oren, I’m not going to sugarcoat it. While the ACL reconstruction was successful, there is additional cartilage damage that has become more prominent now that the swelling has started to diminish. The overall damage is more severe than we initially thought.” Dr. Maria sighs, looking up from the computer screen that holds the images from my scans. “You are making progress. It’s—it’s slower than any of us would like. You don’t want to hear this, but you need to prepare for the possibility that you may never be cleared by the team to play again."
What she says hits me like a truck that backed up over me and then ran me over for a second time before it drove off in some sort of hit and run assault. My brain and the room spins as I try to process it.
“What are you saying?” My voice is hoarse, barely forming coherent sentences. My heart pounds, drumming in my chest. "You’re saying I’ll never play again?"
“I can’t and won’t make that decision.” Dr. Maria meets my piercing stare, her eyes soft but firm. "There’s still hope, and you shouldn’t discount it. I want you to manage your expectations. The reality is even with the best rehabilitation, you may not regain the full strength or mobility you need to play professionally."
I’m stunned into submission, unable to move. It’s like my entire world just shattered into a million pieces. My entire identity was, no—is hockey. I don’t know who I am without it, my whole world has been built around it, and now she’s telling me it might all be over. Give me the physical pain of an injury, or surgery without anesthesia over this. I would rather have all of the pain in the world and be numb to the sensation that is associated with this harsh reality.
"Isn’t there anything you can do?" I ask, my voice cracking. "Another surgery? More rehab—something. Anything?"
Dr. Maria gives me a sympathetic look, but she doesn’t offer any false hope. "You’ll continue with your PT; nothing is changing with your treatment plan. But Oren, I don’t have a miracle cure. I’m sorry, you might not like what I have to say but I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t tell you the truth."
I nod robotically, not trusting myself to speak anymore. It feels like everything that I’ve been fighting for is slipping away through my fingers in the cold, suffocating silence of the exam room. Dr. Maria schedules my next appointment, but nothing around me is registering. My mind is spiraling, trying to grasp what she just said. What the hell does a life without hockey even look like?
I leave Dr. Maria’s office in a daze, feeling sucker punched by a blow I never saw coming. In reality, I should have seen it coming, but I didn't let myself. Today isn’t just a setback—it’s a fucking nightmare. Instead of heading home to drown myself in beer and pretend this never happened, I have to go straight to Elliot’s house. I’m recording a podcast episode with the boys. Let’s hope it’s a better distraction than stewing in my own thoughts.
As I limp over to my spot and sit down, I throw my headphones on. I’m wound up so tightly that I shouldn’t be in polite company. My knee is throbbing, but the pain is nothing compared to the shitstorm in my head. Elliot already has Bryce on the video call, checking the sound levels, and I just exist with no enthusiasm left in me.
“Ready to roll?” Elliot asks, giving me a curious look.
I give a noncommittal nod. We start recapping the first week of the playoffs. Unfortunately, the Red Wolves were knocked out early, which sucks for my team, regardless of if I’m playing or not. None of us focus on who has been eliminated, only on what is to come. Tonight’s game is huge, with the Miami Sharks versus the New Jersey Reapers fighting to advance to the next round. Normally, I’d be all over this, but right now, I can’t even think straight, and focusing seems futile.
“Dude, if you think the Reapers have it in the bag, you’re delusional,” I throw at Elliot, trying to get into it.
Elliot laughs, shaking his head. “Buddy, the Reapers have been on fire all season. You really think the Sharks stand a chance?”
“Yeah, they’ve been playing hard when it counts. Plus, they’re sneaky as hell,” I argue, leaning forward. “One bad game, one misstep by New Jersey, and the Sharks could eat them alive.”
Bryce jumps in with his take, and I'm grateful to not be talking. I can feel the little restraint I still possess slipping. The longer our conversation, the harder it gets. I’m trying to be present, but my brain keeps circling back to never play again.
I grit my teeth, willing myself to make it through to the end of this recording. “Look, I’m just saying the Sharks have been underdogs all season. The Reapers? They choke when it counts.”
Elliot laughs, but I can feel the dangerous edge creeping into my voice. I’m getting angrier, and it has nothing to do with the damn playoffs. It’s everything, my entire career, my identity—it’s all hanging in the balance, and I’m stuck here pretending like everything is fine.
“Alright, I know you didn’t pick New Jersey for the finals, but I didn't know you had such a strong opinion,” Elliot says, trying to defuse my escalation of anger. “Let’s just move on before Oren breaks something.”
I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white. “You know what? Fuck both of ‘em. Let’s see how they handle their shit when their futures are on the line.”
Elliot shoots me a look. “Whoa, bud. Easy.”
I take a deep breath, but it’s pointless, I’m too far gone. And this, right now, isn’t helping. Nothing’s helping. I’m just fucking pissed. We wrap up recording quickly after my outburst, and I take off before they can ask me any questions. I don’t have the capacity to explain the mess going on inside my head. For the first time in a long time, I have no idea what comes next. When I get to the apartment, the silence slams into me like a brick wall. It’s too damn quiet. The usual signs of life, soft giggles, beautiful voices, gone. There is nothing here but empty air, and that just makes everything worse.
I drop my keys on the counter and head straight to the fridge to pull out a beer. I crack the top, take a few large gulps, but it tastes like shit. I stare at the can for a second, a metallic tang lingering in my mouth like all of my life’s regrets. But that doesn’t stop me from finishing it. Frustration claws at my insides, and the pressure of the day boils inside me to the point where I feel as if I’m going to explode. I slam the empty beer can into the wall across the room. The sound of contact rings through the room and just frustrates me even more. I let out a raw, guttural yell, full of rage, as if screaming at the top of my lungs will make it all go away.
It’s only after all of the air in my lungs is gone that I hear it, the soft sound of the door shutting. I turn, my heart dropping as I see Rachel standing there, holding Lily protectively. Shielding Lily from me. The concerned look in her eyes, seeing fear on her face, crushes me. My anger fizzles out in an instant, replaced by a sickening wave of nausea brought on by guilt.
“Rachel…I’m so sorry.” My voice is rough and cracking, barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean for you to see that. Either of you…”
Rachel’s face softens slightly, her body still suspended in motion. “Oren, what the hell is going on? You can’t just—”
“No,” I cut her off, shaking my head. I don’t even know where to begin. “I can’t.”
Rachel opens her mouth to argue, but I stand up to her, bending at the waist until I’m eye level with Lily, who’s staring at me with wide, cautious eyes. I smile at her, trying to shake off the residual anger.
“Hey, Lily Goose,” I say softly, pulling her into my arms.
She squeals as I pull her into my arms, squeezing her in a tight hug. I sit down with her, letting her grab at the blocks scattered on the floor, attempting to build a tower. I push all of the nonsense out of my head, only focusing on playing with her. Out of nowhere, Lily throws a block across the room with surprising force, letting out a loud yell. The mirror image of what I just did.
Rachel’s eyes flick toward me, concern escalating on her face. I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face a few times.
“I’m sorry, Lily. I shouldn’t have gotten angry like that. ” I murmur, leaning over to grab the block and hand it back to her. “That’s not how we should handle what makes us mad, silly goose.”
Lily blinks at me a few times and then throws another block, shouting even louder. My heart clenches. Look at what I’ve done, already passing my bad attitude and stupid temper on. I’m ashamed of myself. Here I am showing my daughter how to not act.
Rachel kneels down beside us, her hand brushing over Lily’s dark curls. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says softly, her eyes finding mine. “We’ll work on it. Together.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sometimes,” speaking more to Lily than to Rachel, but my voice breaks. “Sometimes the feelings just get too big. And when that happens, it’s hard not to let them out the wrong way.”
Lily stares at me, her brows furrowing in confusion. I can tell she’s listening but doesn’t understand. I want her to learn before it’s too late, before she grows up like me, with no clue how to resolve my own anger.
Rachel watches us, her expression softens. “She’s got your fire,” she says, her voice light and full of love.
I smile, even though I feel too heavy to do so. “But she’s got your heart,” I say, brushing my thumb over Lily’s cheek.
“She’s got the perfect blend of both of us, actually.” Rachel chuckles, shaking her head. “But definitely your temper.”
I glance over at Rachel, wanting to say something, anything, to make up for my attitude. But before I can, Lily throws another block, and at least this time, she giggles. It’s enough to break the tension. We laugh with her, our joint laughter softening the edges of the moment. But deep down, I know I’ve got a lot to work on. Without hockey, it feels like everything is one small, very fragile thread from falling apart. I’ve spent my whole life defining myself by what I’m capable of on the ice, and now, I’m not sure who I am. Even in this very moment, surrounded by the two best things that have happened to me, there's a nagging feeling in my gut that I’m losing the only version of myself that I know.