16. Jayce
SIXTEEN
Jayce
“ J ay, the progress is there, but—”
The vinyl treatment table sticks to my skin as I shift, paper crinkling beneath me. The room smells like eucalyptus and sweat, its white walls plastered with muscle diagrams and forced motivation. I hate being here. Every part of me does. That’s why I avoided my physical therapist, Carter, for weeks. But now, here he is, leaning against the counter, flipping through my file with that same unreadable expression as ever.
Being in this room forces me to face everything I’ve been trying to ignore. My condition, my limitations, all the things I can’t do anymore. Hell, I couldn’t even fuck Rosie the way I would have if I were still whole. And that thought alone nearly destroys me.
“But it’s not enough,” I mutter, rolling my shoulder against the lingering tightness.
Carter exhales, closing the file. “Not yet. Your leg is getting stronger, but if you push too hard, you’ll set yourself back even further.”
Frustration burns in my chest, and I grit my teeth as I look at my salt-and-pepper-haired hero. I’ve heard this before. That’s why I missed our sessions on purpose. I just don’t know how much longer I can stand it. All those people telling me that my leg will never fully heal. You’re healing, but not enough. The damage to your knee…you won’t be back on the ice, Jay. Not as a player.
Carter exhales as he sets the charts down like they physically weigh him down too. “Your blood work isn’t good either. You need to cut the alcohol, Jay. Your liver’s already protesting, and if you don’t give your body time to heal, it’s only going to take longer before you can walk without problems.”
The words hit like a puck straight to the ribs—unexpected and breath-stealing. My fingers twitch against my knee, a desperate attempt to ground myself. I knew it was bad. I just didn’t want to hear it.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “So, what then?” The words come out rougher than I mean them to. It’s not Carter’s fault. It’s all mine.
Carter crosses his arms, the white fabric of his scrubs shifting. “You know what Mercer said.”
Of course Mercer told him. Carter’s been with the team long enough to know when to intervene, to know when one of us is spiraling before we can even admit it to ourselves.
“You could coach, Jay.” He’s more careful now, like he already knows how much I hate the idea. “It’s not the same, but you’ve got the mind for it. Strategy, leadership—those don’t disappear just because you’re not on the ice. We’ve always had you on our mind when it came to a future coach.”
Coaching. It’s not playing. It’s not stepping onto the rink, skates laced tight, feeling the cold air slice across my skin. It’s not my name in the lineup or my body moving in sync with the game I’ve given everything to. But it’s something . It’s hockey. A way to stay in it. A way to not be nothing.
I force myself to nod. “What do I need to do?”
“Stick with PT. You need to be mobile—at least enough to stand during games. Right now? You don’t last twenty minutes before your knee gives out.”
I look down at my hands. My fingers curl into fists. “I don’t know if I can do it. A better man would, but I’m too jealous…”
Carter doesn’t blink. “What else do you want to do with your life?”
Rosie flashes through my mind before I can stop it. Rosie, who still looks at me like I could be more. Rosie, who deserves someone whole. Not a broken man who can barely walk.
Carter sighs, running a hand through his hair. “If you keep pushing yourself like this, your leg’s only going to deteriorate. It’ll get stiffer, and you might end up needing a wheelchair. Damn it, Jay. This is a major setback, no doubt. But at least you had a full career. Think of all of those who never even got the chance to start because an injury cut their dreams short. Think of your father—”
“Don’t start with him. Don’t bring him up.”
I love my father, but damn, I know I’m not worthy of him. He’s in a wheelchair and never, not once, let it make him pathetic the way I have. He’s proud to be alive, living his life just like he should. And then there’s me. Pathetic. Miserable. Drowning in self-pity.
“Sorry,” Carter says.
But the air turns thick around me. It’s too heavy. I grip the edge of the paper-covered exam table like it might hold me up.
Fucking fuck.
I know I’m being petty. But this was my life. Everything I knew. I don’t understand how people just move on from something that changes everything. How do they do it? How does everyone else look so damn happy? I can’t be the only one struggling this much. I can’t.
Carter leans back against the counter, watching me carefully. “Come back in two days. We’ll work on it. Day after day. We’ll get you walking without pain.”
I nod, almost laughing at it.
That’s what I get. Walking without pain.
Maybe I should walk in pain, just to be reminded of what it’s like to be able to walk. Fuck, it feels like my chest is collapsing inward, wrestling with the turmoil inside. And as I step outside, I clutch my phone tightly.
I should call Mercer.
I need to figure out if this coaching opportunity is even feasible for me. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to accept staying behind. If I can watch my team. My friends. I cross the threshold into my apartment, and just like that, the silence greets me like an unwelcome specter, dense and oh-so suffocating. For the first time in ages, I question whether I even know how to navigate this path—or if I even want to heal. I stare at my phone again, maybe if I call Rosie…but no. She’s busy on her own. I can’t use her for my own good just because she makes me feel so much better. She’s not my object to use when I feel worse. Not my babysitter. I can’t pull her down with me.
But maybe it’s true.
Maybe I should rather focus on small steps. On going to PT, fixing my damn leg, and maybe I should focus on this coaching thing.
But to do that I need to at least be able to talk about the games with Mercer. I have no idea where the Falcons are at right now.
Yeah, I should start by watching a game. Just a few minutes.
I take the subway home and flop onto the couch.
The remote control feels heavy in my hand as I flip through until I land on the last recording of a recent Falcons’ game. The familiar sounds of sticks slapping against pucks and the roar of the crowd fill the room, and my chest tightens. My heart races and I don’t think I’m getting enough air. I undress the pullover and sit in only my shirt, my legs shivering as I watch.
And just like that, the incident comes rushing back, uninvited, replaying in my head like an old, unwelcome movie. It’s a routine play, nothing special, just part of the game like always. I’d made this exact move a thousand times. It all happened so fast, but it was one of those split-second moments that changed everything. We were just going for the puck, nothing out of the ordinary—and then I hit the boards. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, just a bad break. A hard check, my body twisting wrong, and then snap . I fell and tried to catch myself, but my opponent’s skates came down in the wrong place, cutting deep into my leg at the same time.
I’ve had bumps and bruises before, that’s part of the game, but this was different. I heard the tear, felt the sting, and in that instant, I knew. I wasn’t getting back up the same way. The pain shot up my leg, and it was like my body was telling me everything I’d been avoiding: this was the end. My end.
Sweat drips down my forehead and I notice I’m back in my apartment. I’m panting. Fuck. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m alive. I can live.
I’m so hot. I get rid of my shirt as if it’s burning me alive. With shivering knees, I try to focus on the game before me. I notice missed passes, sloppy plays, and a lack of coordination that would have been unthinkable when I was on the ice. I grab a notebook from my coffee table, jotting down notes—things Mercer could work on, strategies to tighten the team’s performance.
But with each note, the ache inside me grows and grows.
I want to be with my team.
I want to be out there.
I watch how Riley gets flanked by a player, Colton doesn’t see the opening. I would have seen it. The notebook falls down on the floor. Shit. My whole body is wet.
My gaze drifts to the bourbon on my kitchen table, the amber liquid catching the light. It’s like a siren’s call, promising me a temporary relief. But no, it’s not making things easier. It’s going to stop my body from healing, and I have a deal with Rosie. If she can quit drugs, I can stop drinking.
I need to drown it down the drain just like she did.
I pause the game and reach for the bourbon, my hand trembling as I hesitate. Rosie’s face flashes in my mind, her promise to me, and mine to her. I take the bottle to my kitchen and I’m about to drain it when I see a glass ready.
Just one sip maybe.
Maybe that fucking ache leaves my body.
Maybe I stop sweating.
Maybe it gets a bit easier.
I pick up the glass, the weight of it familiar in my hand. The bourbon smells rich and smoky, a scent that usually brings me comfort. But it feels like a betrayal too. But the pain is too much, and I’m not strong enough to resist.
I pour myself a glass and take a swig, the liquid burning its way down my throat. It’s a harsh reminder that some wounds don’t heal with time. The fire in my chest spreads, and for a moment, it numbs the ache in my heart. But then, like a tidal wave, the misery crashes back in, heavier and more oppressive than before.
I set the glass down, my hands shaking harder now. I feel like I’m drowning, like the bourbon isn’t saving me but pulling me under. I think about the game I just watched, about how the team fell apart without me. It’s not just the loss of hockey that hurts; it’s the loss of who I was. Without the ice, I’m just a broken man with a broken body and a broken spirit.
I grab the bottle again.
And I drink.