2. Annette #2
"While you were being prepped for surgery?"
"I could still listen."
The answer is so simple, he does not appear to understand why it affects me.
"You remember everyone's name?"
He glances toward the doorway Maria just left through. "I try to."
"Why?"
For the first time all morning, he does not answer quickly. He looks down at his right hand resting on the blanket. His left arm stays immobilized against his side.
"People deserve to be known."
No performance. No captain voice. No polished media answer.
Just truth. Quiet. Clean.
I write his next vital signs in the chart because my hands need something to do. That is the first moment Jamie Walker becomes harder to dismiss as another stubborn athlete.
Fame can be manufactured. Kindness usually cannot.
***
Late morning brings Coach. He fills the doorway before he steps through it, broad shoulders, tired eyes, and a team jacket zipped to his throat. He has the look of a man who slept in a chair and would deny it under oath.
Jamie's whole body shifts toward him. Too fast. He immediately regrets it.
I raise a hand. "Slow."
Coach notices. So does Jamie. Neither comments.
"Cap."
"Score?"
Coach's mouth tightens. "We won."
Some tension leaves Jamie's face, but not all of it. "Ethan?"
Coach looks at me first. I give him the smallest nod. He steps closer to the bed.
"He’s physically fine. Not a scratch on him."
Jamie closes his eyes.
The breath he lets out is the deepest one he has taken all morning. The monitor steadies.
His hand unclenches against the sheet. Only then do I understand.
The questions about Coach, the laptop, the team, all of it had been noise around the one thing he really needed to know.
Ethan is safe. The rookie is safe.
Jamie could breathe now because someone else was okay. That should not make my throat tighten. It does anyway.
Coach lowers his voice. "Emotionally, he's a mess, Cap. Thinks it should've been him."
Jamie's eyes open.
The captain, capital C, returns so quickly I almost see him pull the uniform back on despite the hospital gown.
"Bring him up."
"No," I say.
Both men look at me. Coach with surprise. Jamie with challenge.
“Jamie, don’t forget you’re in Riverton, not home.
It’s my understanding that everyone but Coach left on the team jet last night after the game.
” I add. “Anyway, you’re post-op, medicated, and breathing shallowly because three ribs are reminding you that they exist. If Ethan walked in here and saw you pale, sweating, and trying to comfort him from a hospital bed, he’d feel worse. "
Jamie says nothing, but Coach nods in agreement.
“So,” I continue. “If you want to help him, sleep first. Second, sit up without nearly falling. And third, breathe properly. Then we discuss visitors and video calls."
Coach's mouth twitches. Jamie glares at him. "Don't," Jamie warns. Coach lifts both hands. "Didn't say a word."
He did not need to. Jamie looks back at me.
For a long second, the room holds quiet. The kind of quiet that decides whether two people are going to spend the next several weeks fighting or respecting each other.
Finally, he gives one short nod.
"Fine."
"Good."
"I want updates."
"That can be arranged."
"And my phone."
"Later."
"Laptop."
"Remember? Much later."
Coach coughs into his fist. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I ignore him.
Jamie does not. "You enjoying this?" he says. "A little," Coach admits.
I check Jamie's oxygen saturation again. Better, but still not where I want it after the exertion.
"One more breathing set," I say.
Coach points at him. Jamie looks like she asked him to skate suicides. "Do what she says."
"Everyone's very bossy today."
"We're calling it medical care."
He takes the spirometer again. This time, he does not make a joke before using it. Progress. Small. Real.
After Coach leaves, the room quiets. Jamie rests back against the pillows, eyes half closed, but I can tell by the set of his jaw that he is not sleeping.
His mind is still working. Still searching for a problem to solve.
I adjust the blanket near his feet. "Try to rest."
***
"When can I skate again?"
There it is. The question I knew was coming.
He asks it evenly, too evenly. Like a man bracing before impact.
I pull the chair closer to the bed and sit, not because the answer requires it medically.
Because the person hearing it does.
"You had a displaced clavicle fracture repaired with hardware.
You have three fractured ribs. Your pneumothorax is small and improving, but it still needs monitoring.
Best case is that you are looking at months before you are cleared for contact sport.
You may be able to skate gently in a month or so, but no games or heavy practices. "
Something flickers across his face but is gone almost immediately. A crack in the mask.
Then the captain’s smile appears. Controlled. Polite. For everyone else's benefit.
"Months," he repeats.
"Yes."
He nods once.
"Okay."
It is the same kind of okay I used on the ice last night. Not acceptance. Information gathering.
I let the silence settle. Some moments deserve better than quick answers, but I do not offer any.
At last, he looks back at me. "You're not going to tell me it could have been worse?"
"Do you want me to?"
"No."
"Then no."
His eyes hold mine for a moment. A different kind of look this time. Less challenge. More recognition.
Professional respect is not warm. It does not flutter. It does not blush. It simply lands.
Solid. Useful.
At his door I turn. "Rest, Jamie. You’ll be able to talk with your teammates after you recover a bit."
"You promise?" The question is quiet enough that I almost miss the edge beneath it.
I look at him. The famous captain, the most difficult patient on the floor, the man who remembers housekeeping grandsons and nearly tears himself open worrying about a rookie.
"I promise they know exactly where to find you."
That earns the faintest smile.
In the hallway, Caroline, one of the day nurses, glances up from the medication cart. "How's our celebrity?"
"Stubborn."
"They usually are."
"This one is gifted."
Caroline smiles, then looks past me into his room. Her expression softens. He’s a pretty big deal in sports, I know. But he’s a really nice guy. I don’t think anyone has walked into his room without him smiling and asking their name. And he never asks for help. We have to remind him.
For the first time that day, I do not see the captain of the Frostholm Blizzards.
I see a man who has absolutely no idea how to let someone take care of him.