Chapter 17 Doctor’s Orders
DOCTOR'S ORDERS
GRANT
Isat in one of those plastic chairs that were designed to be uncomfortable, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight enough that my knuckles had gone white.
The coach mask was still on—had to be, with the team scattered through the waiting area, with Rook pacing near the windows, with reporters probably already circling outside—but underneath it, I was barely holding together.
The image of Jace hitting those boards kept playing on repeat in my head. The sound of impact. The way his body had crumpled. The blood on the ice. The way he'd looked at me—dazed and terrified and trying so hard not to show it—before he'd passed out.
Stay with me, Jace. Please.
I'd said it out loud. In front of the team. In front of everyone. And I didn't give a fuck.
“Coach.” Tess appeared in front of me, tablet in hand, looking exhausted. “They're doing imaging now. Should have results soon.”
“What are we looking at?” My voice came out flat, controlled. “Best case, worst case.”
“Best case? Separated shoulder, couple weeks rest. Worst case?” She hesitated. “Fractured collarbone, torn rotator cuff. Could be looking at surgery and months of recovery.”
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral. “And the head?”
“Possible concussion. They're monitoring him. He was conscious when they took him back, which is good. Coherent, mostly. Asking about the game.”
Of course he was.
“How long until we know?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe an hour.” She glanced at her tablet, then back at me. “Grant, he's going to be okay. The kid's tough.”
“I know he is.” But that didn't make this easier. Didn't make the guilt sitting in my chest any lighter.
I should have seen it coming. Should have known Boston would target him. Should have pulled him off the ice before—
Stop. This isn't on you.
An hour turned into ninety minutes. The team gradually dispersed—some guys went back to the hotel, others stayed in the waiting area, quiet and tense. Rook sat down next to me at one point, said nothing, just sat there like a silent anchor. I appreciated it more than I could say.
Finally, a doctor appeared. Not our usual team physician since the team doctor was travelling.
“Coach Sutherland?”
I stood immediately. “That's me.”
“Dr. Warren. I've been reviewing the imaging and Mr. Hartley's medical history.” He gestured toward a consultation room. “We should talk.”
That wasn't the tone of someone delivering good news.
Tess and I followed him into a small room with a lightbox on the wall. He clipped up several images—shoulder, neck, spine—and I felt my stomach clench at what I was seeing even before he started explaining.
“The good news first,” Dr. Warren said. “No fracture to the collarbone. No spinal damage. The concussion appears mild, though we'll monitor him overnight to be sure.”
“And the bad news?”
“Grade two shoulder separation. Significant soft tissue damage. He’ll need at least six weeks of rest and rehabilitation before he can even think about returning to play.”
Six weeks for the shoulder alone. That took him through the prelims. Possibly into the playoffs if we made it that far.
“But that’s not the real problem,” Dr. Warren continued, and something in his tone made every muscle in my body lock up.
“What do you mean?”
He pulled up another image. Not the shoulder. The leg.
“When we were doing the full-body assessment, we noticed irregularities in his left leg. Old scar tissue. Evidence of previous tearing in the hamstring that isn’t documented in his current medical file.”
I stared at the scan, my brain refusing to catch up. “What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Hartley has a history of hamstring tears. Significant ones. The scar tissue pattern suggests at least one major tear that was rehabbed aggressively, likely pushed too hard, too fast.” He tapped the image.
“And it’s showing signs of re-injury. Microtears.
Inflammation. The kind of slow damage that comes from playing through pain. ”
My stomach dropped. Microtears meant he could numb it, tape it, pretend it wasn’t there. It also meant every shift could be ripping it open again.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that if he keeps pushing it, he’s at risk of a complete rupture.
That would require surgery and easily three to four months of recovery.
Possibly longer.” Dr. Warren’s voice stayed clinical, matter-of-fact.
“Given the existing scar tissue and the pattern of repeat damage, there’s also a significant risk of permanent complications.
Reduced mobility. Chronic pain. Career-shortening issues. ”
“Why wasn’t this in his file?” My voice came out tighter than I meant. “Why don’t we have documentation of a previous tear?”
Dr. Warren glanced at Tess, and whatever passed between them made my skin go cold.
“That’s a good question,” he said carefully. “One you should ask your medical staff.”
I turned to Tess slowly, and the answer was already written across her face. Guilt. Discomfort. The look of someone who’d been asked to carry something they never should’ve agreed to carry.
“Tess.” My voice dropped. Dangerous in how quiet it was. “Tell me you didn’t know about this.”
“Grant—”
“Tell me you didn’t know he’d had a previous hamstring tear and kept it out of his file.”
She looked away, jaw tight. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not.” The control I’d been gripping with both hands started to slip. “Did you know?”
“Yes.” The word landed soft, then hard. “I knew.”
The room went silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.
“How long?”
“Since before the season started.” She met my eyes, defensive now, like that could protect her.
“He came to me in the summer. Said he’d had hamstring issues in the offseason and worked with a private physio to rehab it.
He asked me not to put it in the official file because he didn’t want to be flagged as injury-prone. ”
“And you agreed to that?” My voice climbed. “You agreed to hide a major injury history that could end his career?”
“He was cleared to play.” She pushed the words out like they were a shield.
“The private physio signed off. He passed all my tests. And you know how this works, Grant. If I put it in his file, the front office starts asking questions. They start monitoring him more closely. They start seeing him as a liability.”
“He is a liability if he’s skating on a leg that could rupture at any second.”
“I was managing it.” Her hands curled at her sides. “I’ve been monitoring him all season, adjusting treatment, making sure—”
“Making sure what?” I stepped closer, heat rising in my chest. “That he could keep lying about his body? That he could keep gambling with his future?” I could see her swallow. “You don’t get to place that bet, Tess. You don’t get to make that call.”
“It wasn’t a gamble. It was player autonomy. He wanted to play. He wanted to compete.” Her voice cracked into frustration. “And the system—” She cut herself off with a sharp shake of her head. “The system pushes everyone to play through pain. You know that. You’ve done it yourself.”
“That’s different.”
“How? How is it different?”
“Because I’m an adult who gets to destroy his own body if he wants.” The words came out rough. “He’s twenty-six and terrified of being benched. He doesn’t have the distance to understand what he’s risking.”
Dr. Warren cleared his throat, pulling the room back onto its tracks.
“Regardless of how we got here, the current situation is clear. Mr. Hartley needs to be shut down. Shoulder rehab for six weeks minimum. Hamstring rehab for at least eight to twelve weeks to stabilize and actually heal. No skating. No training. Nothing that loads the leg or risks turning microtears into a full rupture.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my lungs burned.
“I need to talk to him,” I said.
“He's sedated right now. The pain medication—”
“I don't care. I need to talk to him. Now.”
Dr. Warren hesitated, then nodded. “Room 314. But keep it brief. He needs rest.”
I turned and walked out without waiting for Tess to follow.
Jace looked like shit.
He was propped up in the hospital bed with his left arm in a sling, an IV in his right, and a monitor beeping steadily beside him.
His face was pale, bruised along the left side where he'd hit the boards.
There was a cut above his eyebrow that had been stitched.
His eyes were half-closed, glassy from pain meds, but they tracked to me when I walked in.
“Coach,” he said, and his voice was rough, slurred slightly. “Did we win?”
Of course that was his first question.
“Game went to overtime. We won in a shootout.” I pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “That doesn't matter right now.”
“It matters.” He tried to shift and winced, pain flashing across his face. “Fuck. Everything hurts.”
“That's because you got hit into the boards at full speed.” I kept my voice level, controlled, even though I wanted to reach out and touch him. Couldn't. Not here. Not now. “The doctor told me about your shoulder.”
“How bad?”
“Grade two separation. Six weeks minimum.”
His face went even paler. “Six weeks. That's—the prelims start soon.”
“I know.”
“Coach, I can't—I need to be ready. I can push through rehab, I can—”
“There's more.” I cut him off, and his mouth snapped shut. “They found something else during the imaging. Old scar tissue. In your leg.”
I watched him go very, very still.
“Jace.” My voice dropped lower. “Tell me about the hamstring tear.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn't nothing. The doctor said it's significant. Old damage. Scar tissue. Signs of re-injury.” I leaned forward. “Why wasn't it in your medical file?”
Silence.
“Jace. Answer me.”
“Because I asked Tess not to put it there.” His voice came out flat, defensive. “I tore it in the summer. Worked with a private guy to rehab it. Got cleared. Came back fine.”
“And you asked Tess to keep it off your official record.”
“Yeah. I did.”