3. Jamie
Chapter three
Jamie
The Hardest Patient
Morning arrives in pieces.
First the steady beep somewhere to my left.
Then the dull ache buried beneath my collarbone.
Then the sharper reminder every time I breathe too deeply.
My eyes stay closed for another few seconds. Maybe if I don't move...my body will forget it lost yesterday's argument.
No such luck. Pain has a remarkable memory.
I slowly open one eye. The hospital room is quiet. Sunlight filters through the partially opened blinds, turning the pale walls almost golden.
For a moment I have no idea where I am. Then I notice the sling. The IV. The monitor.
Right. Away game.
Collision.
Surgery.
Wonderful.
Carefully, I reach for the bedside table with my good hand. My phone sits exactly where someone left it. Most likely Annette.
Funny, I've known her for less than twenty-four hours and I'm already assuming competence.
The screen lights up.
One hundred forty-three unread messages.
Reporters.
Sponsors.
League officials.
Three television producers.
My publicist.
I swipe past every one of them.
Coach.
Colby.
Caleb.
Liam.
Toby.
Ethan.
Those are the names that matter.
Coach has already texted. Surgery went well. Proud of you. Call when you're awake.
Colby: Don't be stupid today. That's my job.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Toby's message is exactly three words. Need anything, Cap?
Liam somehow manages six messages overnight.
The first five are terrible jokes.
The last one simply says...Missed seeing you on the plane. That one hits harder.
Caleb's message is only one sentence. Heal properly. Trust a goalie to use two words when everyone else writes forty.
Then...Ethan.
My thumb hesitates over his name.
A text started but no message.
My chest tightens. That tells me more than anything he could have written.
The kid's blaming himself.
I set the phone down and rub a hand across my face.
Coach first.
I hit the call button. He answers before the second ring. "Morning, Captain."
"You sound tired."
Coach chuckles softly. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing."
I lean back against the pillows. The movement reminds every rib that it's broken.
Wonderful.
"How are you?"
There's the question everyone keeps asking. How are you? I ignore it.
"How's Ethan?"
Silence. Not long. Just long enough.
Coach sighs. "I figured that would be your first question."
"He okay? Coach?"
"No."
The single word lands heavier than I expect.
"He's convinced he ended your season."
I close my eyes. Of course he is.
No...don't think that. I smile to myself. Strike "of course" from the vocabulary, Walker.
The truth is simpler. He's nineteen. He cares.
"Put me on with him."
"Not yet."
"Coach—"
"He won't answer."
I let that settle. The kid probably isn't answering anyone.
"Then tell him something for me."
"I'm listening."
"Tell him..." I stare out the window. "...that I'd make the same choice again."
Another pause.
"He didn't ask me to step in."
"I know."
"He didn't do anything wrong."
"I know."
"So, make sure he knows."
Coach's voice softens. "I will."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. He's always been good at that, never filling the quiet just because it exists.
Finally, he asks again. "Now..."
"Yeah?"
"How are you?"
I look down at the sling, at the hospital bracelet around my wrist, at the room that feels entirely too still.
"I've been better."
Coach laughs.
Before we can continue, there's a knock at the door. The handle turns. And a familiar calm voice says, "Good morning, Mr. Walker."
Annette, clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other, and looking entirely too awake for this hour.
Coach chuckles through the phone. "I'll let your nurse win this round."
"She's not my…"
Annette raises one eyebrow. I stop talking.
Coach laughs outright. "I'll call later." The line goes dead.
Annette looks from me to the phone, then back again.
"Trying to organize the hockey world before breakfast?"
I set the phone aside. "Only my tiny corner of it."
She smiles, just a little. "I was afraid you might say that."
"How's your pain?"
"I've had better mornings."
"I remember. You used that line yesterday."
"So did you."
For the first time since waking up I laugh and somehow the room feels a little less like a hospital.
Annette walks to the sink and washes her hands before turning back toward me.
"How'd you sleep?"
"I was unconscious for most of yesterday."
"That wasn't my question."
"No."
"It rarely is."
She slips the blood pressure cuff around my right arm with practiced efficiency, no wasted motion, no unnecessary conversation.
She reminds me of Caleb in goal. Everything economical. Everything is exactly where it belongs.
The cuff tightens and the machine beeps. She writes the numbers on her chart. "Blood pressure looks good."
"I've always been an overachiever."
"Hmm."
That tiny sound somehow tells me she doesn't believe a word I say, and I find myself smiling again.
Strange.
Most people either treat me like I'm made of glass...or like I'm supposed to entertain them.
She does neither. She simply treats me like a patient…a stubborn one. But still a patient.
"Pain?"
"Four."
She looks up and I immediately regret answering.
"Six?"
"Five."
One eyebrow rises. "Seven?"
I sigh.
"Does this usually work?"
"Every time."
"Fine." I lean my head back against the pillow. "Seven."
"There you are."
She makes another note. "I liked you better when you were unconscious."
"I've heard that before."
"I doubt it."
"So..." I nod toward the clipboard. "What's next?"
"Incentive spirometer."
I stare at the clear plastic device sitting on the tray.
"You're kidding."
"No."
"I hate that thing."
"I know."
"You don't even know me."
"I know patients."
She hands it to me anyway. "Ten deep breaths every hour."
"I've got broken ribs."
"Yes."
"It hurts."
"Yes."
"I'm sensing a theme."
"The theme is that pneumonia hurts more."
Well. That's difficult to argue with. So I wrap my fingers around the mouthpiece and take the deepest breath I can manage.
Halfway in, pain wraps around my ribs like a tightening vise. I stop.
Annette doesn't say anything. Doesn't encourage me. Doesn't cheerlead. She simply waits.
It's oddly effective.
I try again. A little farther. Another breath. Another.
By the fifth one sweat has gathered across my forehead.
By the tenth...I'm ready to negotiate with the hospital administration.
She quietly takes the spirometer back. "Better."
"I'll take your word for it."
"You should."
She reaches for the medication cup. "Pain medicine."
"I don't really need—"
She waits. I stop talking. It's becoming an unfortunate habit around her.
I swallow the pills and she marks another line on the chart.
Then she notices my eyes drifting toward the phone again. "Waiting for news?"
"My team."
"I suspected."
She pulls the visitor chair closer instead of leaving.
Not close enough to feel personal. Close enough to have a conversation.
"May I ask you something?"
"You just did." The corner of her mouth twitches.
"I'll rephrase."
I gesture grandly with my good arm.
"Permission granted."
"Why do you always answer every question with someone else's name?"
I blink. "What do you mean?"
"Yesterday..."
She begins counting softly on her fingers.
"'How's Ethan?'"
"'Where's Coach?'"
"'Is everyone else okay?'"
She looks back at me.
"This morning..."
"'How's Ethan?'"
"'Did the team get home?'"
"'Can I call Coach?'"
She tilts her head. "You've been in this hospital almost twenty-four hours."
A pause. "You've asked exactly one question about yourself."
I think about that. She's right. Funny…I hadn't noticed.
"I guess..." I shrug carefully. "I already know how I'm doing."
"And?"
"I'll heal."
"You sound very certain."
"I don't have much choice."
"No."
She closes the chart. "You don't."
Silence settles over the room.
Comfortable. Not awkward. Just...quiet.
Finally, she asks..."So why everyone else first?"
I look toward the window. The morning sun catches the edge of the parking lot below. People coming to work. Going home. Living ordinary Tuesdays.
***
"When you wear the C..." I say quietly, "...you stop being the most important person in the room."
She doesn't interrupt. "You become responsible for making sure everyone else can do their job."
Another silence.
"That's what captains do."
It’s not...who I am.
Not...what I'm famous for.
Simply..."The job."
Annette studies me for a second longer than usual, then she smiles.
Not because she agrees. Because I think she finally understands.
Maria knocks softly before pushing the housekeeping cart into the room.
"Good morning."
"Morning, Maria."
She smiles the instant she hears her name.
"You're awake. I was hoping I'd beat breakfast."
"You lost."
"I've been losing a lot lately."
She laughs as she empties the trash.
Annette watches quietly from the computer outside the room.
She hears Jamie ask: "Did you tell Mateo I said good work?"
Maria stops, turns. “I told him I met you and what you said. He was impressed that his Abuela had met the great hockey man!”
“Well, you tell him I think his Abuela is pretty great too, okay?”
She leaves nodding and smiling.
Late morning brings the physical therapist.
Only a few careful steps today.
Nothing ambitious. I stand slowly. The room immediately tilts. My hand grips the walker harder.
Annette is already beside me.
Not touching, ready.
"Easy."
"I am."
She says nothing. The therapist smiles knowingly.
"Every athlete says that."
I take one careful step. Then another.
Each breath catches against the healing ribs.
By the fifth step it’s obvious I’m feeling the pain..
"Enough."
Jamie's head turns. "I can do another lap."
The therapist smiles. "So could I."
Pause.
"But neither of us should."
Reluctantly, I nod.
As Annette helps me settle back into bed she says quietly, "You seem surprisingly familiar with rehabilitation."
"I've spent a lot of time around it."
"As a patient?"
A small smile.
"Sometimes."
She smiles back.
"I'll take that as a mysterious answer."
"You should."
**
That afternoon the orthopedic surgeon arrives, x-rays clipped beneath one arm.
"Good news first."
I look up.
"The surgery went exactly as planned."
A pause. “The plate is secure. The lung is already improving."
"The ribs..."
He smiles sympathetically.
"...are going to take their own sweet time."
My eyes stay on the X-rays.
"When can I skate?"
No one in the room mistakes the question. The surgeon answers honestly. "Months."
Silence.
No false optimism. No empty promises. Just truth.
I nod once. "Okay."
After the surgeon leaves, the room grows quiet. Annette doesn't fill it. She adjusts the IV tubing. Straightens the blanket and checks the monitor. She gives me space to absorb a future I never imagined.
Finally..."Guess I'm not very good at sitting still."
"No." She smiles gently. "I've noticed."
Near the end of her shift Annette finishes charting outside my room.
Another nurse glances toward the doorway.
"You know..."
she says quietly, "he never asks for anything."
Annette looks up. "What do you mean?"
"If he needs something..."
The nurse smiles. "...he'll try to figure it out himself first."
Almost on cue, Jamie reaches awkwardly toward the water pitcher on the bedside table.
It's only a few inches beyond his fingertips.
He stretches a little farther.
Winces.
Stops.
The call button rests beside his hand.
He looks at it. Then away. He'd rather go thirsty.
Annette watches for another second, then quietly walks into the room.
Without a word she fills a fresh cup with ice water.
Places it gently within reach.
Jamie's eyes lift. "I could've gotten that."
"I know."
He studies her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
No lecture. No reminder. No comment about asking for help.
Just...water.
She turns toward the door. Pauses, and looks back once more.
The famous captain. The stubborn patient. The man who thanks everyone, remembers everyone's stories, and worries about everyone else's future.
Yet couldn't bring himself to press a button because it might inconvenience another human being.
She finally understands what she's been seeing all day. Jamie Walker has spent so many years taking care of everyone else...
...he honestly has no idea how to let someone take care of him.
She quietly pulls the door closed behind her.
And for the first time, she isn't thinking about the captain.
She is thinking about the man.