Chapter 8
Eight
Hawk felt a tearing, popping, screaming sensation in his knee the moment he got hit on his last drive to goal in the final seconds of the third period.
He would have loved to say that Wolford didn’t mean to hit him so goddamn hard, but the guy had it in for him, especially since Hawk had scored fifteen goals in the five games it had taken for them to win the Stanley Cup final.
He went down, sliding into the boards and biting back a shout when he slammed his leg again.
“What the fuck?” Terry Harrow, one of defenders, went after Wolford, checking him against the glass. “The fucking game was over, you dick!”
“Hawk. Cap. You okay?” His left wing, Connor Labieau knelt next to him.
He shook his head, nausea clawing at him. No. No, he was not okay. “Get me up.” The buzzer had gone off, the other team was filing off the ice, the carpet coming out.
“Cap, your leg looks a little wonky.”
He wasn’t looking. If he looked, he would know something was really wrong, and he had to get up.
“Up.” His voice sounded like he was running a rock over a cheese grater.
He had no idea how long it took, and medical was out on the ice by the time he was balanced on his uninjured leg, two of his teammates supporting him. Sweat poured off him, and Hawk felt like he was gonna puke.
“Get him to the bench!” someone barked, and he was hurried off the ice while the cup award stuff was set up on the ice, and the players started to gather.
“Just put a brace on me,” he rumbled. “I need to be out there for this.”
“Hawk, you need—”
“Goddamn it!” He finally focused on the medical trainer who was kneeling in front of him. “Gage, make it work for the next ten minutes, and then I’m all yours.”
“Okay, okay!” The medical team went to work, wrapping and bracing, and it was Harrow and Labieau who got him out on the ice again to accept the handshake and to heft the cup, kissing it before handing it off to his alternate captain, Labieu, for a victory lap.
By the time he got off the ice again, a medic on either side, supporting him all the way back through the tunnel, Hawk felt like a zombie. His ears were ringing, and his breath was heaving in his lungs.
“I think it’s fucked-up, guys,” he murmured. “Like bad.”
“I think you’re right.” Gage helped ease him down on a massage table. “We need to get you out of your gear, but you’re going to the hospital ASAP.”
“Fuck.” This was supposed to be a triumph. They’d won the series. He’d won his third Stanley cup, his second as team captain.
He was supposed to be celebrating with his team.
“Okay, don’t move it. Sit right there.”
He nodded, waiting as patiently as he could. His coach would be out there, the guys would all be loving on their families… God, his mom and dad were here somewhere. He looked around, trying to find his stall, trying to get his bearings.
But the pain in his leg was crushing all of that, and Hawk drifted until they came to put him on a rolling stretcher and haul him to the ambulance.
When he got a shot of painkiller, the relief was so great that he just went to sleep.
He would deal with all this shit when he woke up.
Hawk lay in his hospital bed, his brain totally fuzzy and groggy, his body heavy.
He’d gone into surgery within forty-eight hours of the final game of the series, the doctors telling him he had multiple ligament tears and a shattered kneecap. He now had pins and screws and wires in there, and they were saying rehab would take three to six months.
For normal activities.
He knew the orthopedic surgeon and the hospitalists were waiting for the team doctors to tell him the rest of the news.
Thank God for his mom, who was never going to blow smoke up his ass.
As soon as he’d come out of the surgery anesthesia, swinging like he was in a fight on the ice because whatever they’d given him for pain had made him wildly paranoid, she’d been right there, telling him what had happened, what they’d done to fix it, and how it would probably affect him.
She repeated it until he could understand it. Mom didn’t believe in surprises.
He loved her for it.
They’d given him something for pain again a few hours ago, and he’d fallen asleep, but now he was coming out of it, staring at the ceiling, his knee throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
He blinked hard, then turned his head, searching the room to see if he was alone.
His dad sat on the fold-out bed couch, head back, dozing. His mom was in the little desk chair, gently rolling back and forth as she tapped away on her laptop.
He cleared his throat, and his mom turned to glance at him. She smiled when she saw he was awake, rising to come and kiss his forehead.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like crap.” He tried to shake off the fuzziness. “Is there water?”
“Of course there is. Hold on.” She got the cup with the straw and held it up for him.
“Thanks.” He took a sip, then lay back with a groan. “So, I guess that’s it, huh?”
She titled her head. “You mean playing hockey?”
“Yeah.” He was… numb. Hawk was sure he would go through the whole gamut of emotions over the next… however long. But for now, he was numb.
“The doctors seem to think you should avoid things that put undue stress on it from now on, yes.”
Damn. He shook his head. “Okay.”
Her expression crumpled. “Oh, mon fils…”
“Nope. No crying.” He grabbed her hand when she rolled over and reached for him.
“I can cry if I want to.” She sniffled.
“Okay.” His head felt a little clearer when he squeezed her hand, his adrenaline amping up, maybe.
“Your coach came,” she told him. “But you were asleep.”
“I’m sure he’ll come by again, huh?”
“Yes. He brought you something. Someone sent a gift basket to the team offices for you.”
“Yeah?” Listless, he turned his head to stare at the big gift basket that looked as if it came from a fancy gift place. His eyebrows pulled down, because it looked somehow familiar.
“Would you like to see the card?”
“Sure.” He had a ton of stuff from the guys on the team, who had dropped in while he waited for surgery. Flowers. Stuffed mascot items from the team. Snacks and drinks for when he needed them. But this looked different.
His mom handed him the little gift card.
Returning the favor. Get better.
Caleb
A grin actually curved his mouth, and he rubbed the card between his fingers. This was Caleb’s way of paying him back for sending that basket to him during the Olympics.
It was good to have someone completely removed from hockey in his corner.
“Who’s Caleb?” his mom asked. “You don’t have a teammate by that name, do you?”
“No. No, he’s a snowboarder I met in Korea.”
Her eyes widened. “Caleb Lancaster? Son! You didn’t tell me you knew him!”
His cheeks heated. “We haven’t seen each other. We text.” He shrugged, because it seemed stupid now that they hadn’t tried to get together with him in Denver and Caleb in Vail. “But I sent him a thing when he got hurt in Beijing, so I guess he’s doing turnabout.”
“That’s sweet.” She studied his face. “If you ever get the chance to get his autograph…”
“Whose?” Dad’s voice held the gravel of sleep.
“Caleb Lancaster!”
“The snowboarder?”
“Can you believe it?” They went on to talk about him as if he wasn’t there, so Hawk checked out a little, thinking about Caleb and wondering how he was doing leading up to his next Olympic push in just under a year…
Maybe he’d spend some quality time texting with Caleb tonight when his folks went back to the hotel.