Small Victories
Chapter four
Jamie
The room is still dark when I wake up.
For a few seconds I don't move.
Hospitals have their own kind of silence. Not true silence. Machines humming somewhere down the hallway. Rubber soles squeaking across polished floors. A muffled voice at the nurses' station that fades before I can make out the words.
Just enough sound to remind you the world never really stops.
My shoulder throbs with the slow, steady ache that has become my new alarm clock.
The ribs join in a heartbeat later.
Apparently, they're offended that I forgot about them for almost six hours.
I lie there staring at the faint strip of morning beginning to creep around the edges of the blinds.
This is usually the time I'm already awake.
Coffee. Workout. Practice days start early.
Game days start even earlier.
Routine.
I've spent years believing routines solve almost everything.
Turns out broken bones don't care much about routines.
I slowly turn my head.
The call button rests on the mattress beside my right hand.
Close enough to touch without stretching.
Someone must have placed it there before the night nurse left. Convenient. Thoughtful.
I look at it for a long moment, then look away. I don't need anything. Not really.
The thought barely finishes before my body reminds me that's a lie. My bladder has apparently decided it's finished waiting.
Wonderful.
The bathroom is only a few steps away. Not far.
I've walked farther than that carrying two hockey bags.
I've walked farther than that after blocking slap shots that left bruises the size of dinner plates.
This should be easy. My thumb drifts toward the call button.
Stops.
If I press it...someone will come. Someone who's already taking care of too many patients. Someone who'll stop whatever they're doing because I don't feel like standing up.
No, I can manage this.
"I'll figure it out."
The words barely leave my mouth, mostly because I need to hear them myself.
Slowly, I push the blankets aside.
My left shoulder protests immediately, and the sling catches awkwardly against the blanket.
By the time I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, my ribs are already negotiating a surrender.
I sit still. Head down. Waiting for the room to settle. Nobody tells you how exhausting sitting up can become.After a minute, I plant both feet carefully on the floor. Cold tile presses through the thin hospital socks.
One hand grips the bed rail. I count to three, then stand.
Bad decision.
The room tilts hard enough that I grab the rail before my knees have a chance to argue.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Slowly. Not because I'm afraid of falling, but because if I breathe too quickly, my ribs remind me exactly why that's a terrible idea.
The dizziness eases a little. Good enough. One careful step. Then another. The bathroom suddenly feels much farther away than it looked from the bed. Ridiculous! Yesterday I played nearly twenty-four minutes against one of the fastest teams in the league.
Today...
I'm measuring success in footsteps.
By the time I reach the doorway, sweat has gathered across the back of my neck.
I rest one hand against the frame for a second, just a second. Nobody's keeping score.
Five minutes later I make the slow trip back.
Every muscle in my body seems determined to remind me that I've recently lost an argument with six-foot-four and two hundred thirty pounds of professional hockey player.
The mattress comes into view. Almost there. I lower myself carefully onto the edge of the bed. Too quickly. Pain flashes through my shoulder. I suck in a breath and immediately regret it.
The room is quiet again.
I lean forward, forearms resting on my thighs, waiting for everything to stop hurting quite so much.
The door opens softly behind me. "I had a feeling I'd find you exactly like this."
I look up.
Annette stands in the doorway; a tablet tucked beneath her arm. Her eyes move once around the room. The unmade bed. The open bathroom door. The untouched call button laying exactly where I left it.
She doesn't sigh. She doesn't lecture. She simply walks inside.
"How'd it go?"
I can't help it. I laugh. It hurts. Which somehow makes it funnier. "I've had better mornings."
A smile tugs gently at the corner of her mouth. "I remember."
She sets steps closer. "You made it."
"Barely."
"But you made it."
I nod once, then glance toward the call button. "I didn't want to bother anybody."
For the first time since I've met her, she doesn't answer immediately. She studies me for a moment instead, long enough that I begin wondering if I've said something foolish.
Finally, she speaks. "You know what I see?"
I shake my head.
"I see someone who walked twenty feet..."
Her voice stays gentle. "...when pressing one button would've accomplished exactly the same thing."
I shrug. "It seemed easier."
"No." A tiny smile. "It seemed familiar."
I frown.
"What does that mean?"
"It means..." She picks up the call button and sets it beside my good hand. "...you're much more comfortable taking care of yourself than letting someone else take care of you."
I look down at the button, then back at her. "I hadn't really thought about it."
"I know."
Another small silence settles between us. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.
She picks up her tablet. "Ready to start today's adventures?"
I look at her. "If I say no?"
"I'll give you five minutes."
"And then?"
"Then we're doing them anyway."
I grin despite myself. "You're tougher than Coach."
"I've been told."
***
An hour later a quiet knock sounds against the partially open door. Coach steps inside carrying a navy duffel bag over one shoulder. "You look terrible." I grin. "You always know exactly what to say."
"It's a gift."
He sets the bag beside the chair. "Colby stopped by your cabin after practice yesterday."
"My cabin?"
"He figured you'd want your own clothes instead of hospital gowns. He sent them overnight."
Coach unzips the bag. "He packed enough for about three weeks."
I laugh. "I'm only planning on being here a few days." "Apparently, Colby has met you before."
Annette glances up from the computer. Coach notices.
"He said, and I quote, “Jamie will try to escape the minute somebody turns their back.'"
She smiles without looking away from the chart.
"He's not wrong."
I point toward the doorway.
"Traitor."
Coach chuckles. "He also said the cabin's fine." Something inside me loosens. Not much. Just enough.
The cabin means home. Home means normal.
Coach continues. "The neighbors already grabbed the mail."
"I didn't ask anybody to…" "I know." He cuts me off gently. "Nobody waited to be asked." Silence settles for a moment. Then Coach squeezes my good shoulder. "I'll let you get cleaned up."
He heads toward the door. Halfway there he pauses. "Oh..."
I look up.
"Ethan finally answered my call."
Every muscle in my body stills. "And?"
"He won't stop apologizing."
I close my eyes briefly. "I figured."
Coach smiles. "I told him exactly what you asked me to."
"I think he needed to hear it."
Relief washes through me so suddenly I hadn't realized I'd been carrying the weight of it. Good. Maybe the kid will sleep tonight. Coach nods once toward Annette.
"Try listening to her today."
"No promises."
"I know. And Jamie. I’m going to be here until you’re ready to go home, so heal. Then both of us can get out of here."
He leaves smiling, and the room grows quiet again.
Annette closes the chart.
"So..."
She nudges the duffel bag lightly with the toe of her shoe.
"Ready to trade the hospital fashion show for something slightly more respectable?"
"I thought this gown was working for me."
"It has an undeniable breeze."
I laugh, immediately regret it.
She pretends not to notice.
I appreciate that. I unzip the duffel.
Colby packed jeans.
Sweatpants.
A sweatshirt.
Running shoes.
Three T-shirts.
Five pairs of socks.
Enough snacks to survive a minor apocalypse.
I shake my head. "He packs like somebody's grandmother."
Annette smiles. "I like him already."
I pull out one of the navy T-shirts.
Simple. Soft. Home.
Getting the sling off takes longer than I expect.
Getting one arm through the sleeve isn't much better.
I manage my right arm.
Easy enough.
The left side...
Not happening.
The shirt bunches beneath my arm.
I try again. Twist. Stop.
Pain shoots from my shoulder straight across my ribs.
I freeze.
Maybe another angle. I pull gently with my right hand. The fabric catches again.
I grit my teeth. Don't force it. One more try. The shirt ends up halfway over my head. My injured arm refuses to cooperate. For one ridiculous moment I'm trapped inside my own T-shirt.
Wonderful.
I hear a chair scrape softly across the floor.
Annette has been pretending to review the chart. Giving me privacy. Giving me dignity. She waits another few seconds.
Long enough to be sure I've truly reached the end of my options.
Then...
Very quietly...
"Mr. Walker?"
My voice comes out muffled somewhere inside the cotton.
"Hmm?"
"Would you like another set of hands?"
Silence.
The words hang between us.
This...
This is somehow harder than surgery.
Not because of the shirt, but because accepting help feels suspiciously like surrender.
I close my eyes behind the fabric. Take one careful breath. Then another.
Finally...
"Yeah."
One word. Barely louder than a whisper. She steps beside me. No hesitation. No triumph. No sympathy. Just calm professionalism.
Pulling the shirt all the way off, she directs me. “I'm going to slide the injured arm through first."
"Okay."
"If anything hurts..."
"I'll tell you."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
Gentle hands guide the sleeve over my left forearm. Slowly. Patiently. She never rushes. Never pulls. Never treats me like I'm fragile. Only injured. There's a difference.
Within seconds the sleeve settles comfortably over my shoulder.
She eases the shirt down across my back. Straightens the collar. Then quietly steps away.
"There."
I look down. The shirt is on. No dramatic victory.
Just...a shirt.
Funny, it feels like climbing a mountain. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She bends to take the discarded hospital gown.
Neither of us says anything. The silence isn't awkward. It's simply…respect.
For the first time since the collision, I'm wearing my own clothes.
And somehow...
I feel a little more like myself.
***
The room grows quiet again after the morning rush. Breakfast trays disappear. The physical therapist has another patient down the hall. Even the overhead announcements seem to take a break.
Annette settles into the chair beside the window with my chart balanced across her lap. Most patients spend this part of the morning sleeping, I spend it answering emails. Not the dozens from reporters.
She notices that much. Instead, every message I save on my screen begins with the name of a teammate.
I type slowly with one hand and stop frequently, deletes more than I send.
Finally, she looks up. "Working?"
I glance over the top of the phone. "Trying."
"I thought I banned that."
"You banned getting out of bed."
"I implied the rest."
I smile. "Lawyers would disagree."
She shakes her head. "Hockey players are exhausting."
"So I've been told."
She returns to the chart and tells me that the operative report is encouraging, and the postoperative notes look exactly as expected. Stable. Healing. Pain controlled.
Then she reaches the older records transferred overnight from the Blizzards' medical staff.
Sprained ankle.
Separated shoulder five years ago.
Broken finger.
Concussion protocol.
Pulled groin.
Broken nose.
Fractured wrist.
She keeps turning pages. There are more that are not catastrophic injuries.
Just...years of saying yes to pain. Jamie notices the silence.
"That bad?"
She looks up. "I was counting."
"Should I be worried?"
"You've accumulated quite a collection."
He smiles faintly. "Occupational hazard."
"I don't think most occupations include these many X-rays."
"No, they probably don't."
She closes the chart halfway. "Do you know what surprises me?"
He shakes his head. "Very few of these injuries kept you out very long."
Jamie studies the blanket covering his legs. "Most of them didn't need to."
"No?"
"If I could play..."
He shrugs. "...I played."
Another quiet settles between them. She isn't judging him. She's trying to understand him.
Finally, she asks: "Were you ever afraid?"
He laughs softly. "Every game."
That apparently surprises her. "I thought hockey players weren't supposed to admit that."
"We're not."
"Then why tell me?"
He looks out the window. "Because fear isn't the problem."
She waits. "It's deciding whether somebody else is going to pay the price if you don't."
The words hang in the room. Simple. Matter of fact. As though he's explaining the weather.
Annette looks back at the chart. One injury after another. None of them happened because he'd been reckless, most happened blocking shots. Protecting teammates. Playing through pain.
She finally understands what she's really looking at. She quietly closes the chart.
"The broken bones don't bother you much, do they?"
He smiles. "They'll heal."
"The ribs?" "They'll heal."
"The clavicle?" He nods. "It'll heal."
She studies him for another moment. "So, what keeps you awake?"
I don’t answer immediately. My eyes drift toward the window where sunlight reflects off the hospital parking lot. Families come and go. Visitors carrying flowers. Children holding balloons. Life continuing outside these walls.
Finally, I offer. "The people waiting."
Annette says nothing, so I continue quietly. "Missing games..." I shake my head.
"That's disappointing," she agrees. Another pause. "But knowing somebody else has to carry your responsibilities because you can't..."
My voice grows softer. "...that's the part that gets heavy."
The room falls silent again. I’m sure Annette has cared for hundreds of patients. She has treated broken bones. Collapsed lungs. Car accidents. Heart attacks. She has seen people afraid of pain. Afraid of surgery. Afraid of dying.
“I'm not afraid of getting hurt.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
I don't answer right away. “Someone else paying for it.”
Somehow...
That feels infinitely harder to explain.
Notes