Nothing to Know

Prologue

(I Was There)

All of us experience millions of unremarkable moments in our lifetimes, and that night was full of them. Returning to my seat next to Sophie with two beers in my hands. Watching the players line up for the second period face-off. Turning at the sound of a baby squealing from a few rows back.

Being at the game was fun, of course. But not remarkable. Not then.

Sometimes, the moments we experience become moderately more notable in the context of whatever happens next.

That night, a sip and a half of beer spilled over the back of my hand when I stood to make room for an older woman passing by.

I started to fumble for my phone to get a picture of the puck drop until I remembered I had taken one at the beginning of the first period.

The baby smiled at me and reminded me so much of my nephew that I almost texted my sister right then and there.

Still, I’m not sure any of those details would’ve mattered if the rest of the game had wrapped up like the dozen or so others I’d been to.

I was familiar with the excitement of a couple of goals, the songs that make damn near everyone sing along, and the predictable complaints about a bullshit penalty somewhere between one shot attempt and another.

That night was different though, and I'm glad I’d finished my beer by the time everything changed, because my stomach wasn’t quite the same afterward.

And Jameson Sinclair’s leg would never be the same again.

Some empathetic part of me wondered if he’d ever look back and think about how unremarkable his night had been before it became impossible to forget.

Then I realized there was a good chance he’d remember almost nothing, the trauma tucked somewhere out of his reach to keep him safe from having to relive one of the worst moments of his life.

There were enough people who would tell him about it someday, though I could never be one of them.

I saw him go after the puck in the corner. I saw him get checked into the boards. I saw him fall.

But I didn’t see how he fell.

I only heard the unholy sound he made on his way down.

Plenty of others would go on to watch gruesome replays of the injury—shared in slow-motion and zoomed all the way in—but I already knew I would suffer with the memory of a moment I barely saw.

And if the universe was kind enough, maybe Jameson Sinclair would live without the memory of a moment that broke his leg in four places.

All of us were on our feet while he lay on the ice, an irony not lost on me.

While waiting for a stretcher to be brought to him, I had time to notice that the beer I’d spilled had landed on my sneaker and seeped through to my sock.

I was grateful I’d taken that picture of the opening face-off, the last of Jameson Sinclair’s stunning career.

I heard someone behind me mutter what the absolute fuck, which sounded a lot like something one of my students would say.

Hell, it might’ve been one of them, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the medical staff long enough to check.

Moments.

So many of them crashing together now. Extraordinary. Outrageous. Remarkable.

Whatever else was true, or however much he’d remember, that night became the irrevocable divide between before and after for him.

He’d shown up at the arena hours earlier, dressed in his gear, warmed up with his teammates, and had two assists.

Then he'd been taken away amid one last standing ovation, and nothing would ever be the same.

One freak injury—one moment—and Jameson Sinclair’s life changed forever.

It would be years before I understood how much that same moment changed mine.