An Ordinary Morning
Chapter fifteen
Jamie
Thursday mornings have developed a rhythm.
I don't notice it until I realize I'm humming along with the radio as I button my flannel shirt.
Not well. I've never been accused of carrying a tune. Fortunately, the cabin doesn't complain.
The coffee maker finishes brewing with its familiar gurgle as pale winter sunlight begins creeping across the frozen lake beyond the kitchen window.
The cabin is still, peacefully still.
A few months ago, the silence bothered me. Now it feels earned.
I pour a mug of coffee and carry it to the front window.
Fresh snow blankets the shoreline. The lake stretches across the morning like polished glass, interrupted only by the distant tracks of a pair of deer that wandered through sometime during the night.
I stand there for a moment. Just breathing.
Three months ago, every morning began with the same question.
How much is this going to hurt today?
Now I mostly wonder how much farther my shoulder will reach. It's a better way to wake up.
The notebook lies open on the kitchen table where I left it last night. I glance down at the page.
Today's Win Another eight degrees.
Someone I Encouraged Each other.
Something I'm Grateful For Someone who reminds me I'm more than a hockey player.
I close the notebook gently.
Funny. Three months ago, I measured my mornings by practice schedules, game film, and travel itineraries.
Now...
I measure them by stretching, coffee, and whether I remembered to do my home exercises before breakfast.
Life has become unexpectedly ordinary. For years I would've called that boring.
Turns out ordinary feels a lot like peace.
***
Colby honks once as he pulls into the driveway.
Never twice.
Apparently one honk says I'm here.
Two honks say something's on fire.
At least according to Colby.
I zip my coat, grab my keys and a slice of toast, and step into the crisp morning air.
Fresh snow crunches beneath my boots.
Colby rolls down the passenger window. "Ready?"
"As ready as anyone can be for resistance bands."
"They're vicious."
"They're color-coded."
"Exactly. False advertising."
I laugh as I climb into the truck. "You've definitely been spending too much time with Liam."
"I've been spending the appropriate amount of time with Liam."
"There isn't an appropriate amount."
"Fair point."
He eases the truck onto the snow-covered road leading toward Frostholm.
For the first several miles neither of us speaks. We've never been the kind of friends who mistake silence for awkwardness.
Eventually Colby glances over. "You look different."
"I showered."
"That's not it."
I smile. "I know."
"You don't look like you're counting anymore."
I turn toward him. "What do you mean?"
"You used to measure everything.”
He keeps his eyes on the road. ‘Forty-three days since surgery. Nine weeks until evaluation. Sixteen degrees gained this month.’
I grimace. "I really talked like that?"
"You really did."
"And now?" He smiles. "Now you just say..." He taps the dashboard once. "...'It's Thursday.'"
I stare out the windshield. He's right. Somewhere along the way...recovery stopped being my entire identity.
It's still part of every day, it just isn't the whole day anymore.
The realization settles quietly inside me.
Maybe that's progress too.
***
The rehab center already buzzes with activity by the time we arrive. Down the hall Elise steps out of an exam room carrying a clipboard. She spots me and smiles. "Well, look who's early."
"I didn't want Annette to accuse me of skipping exercises."
"Oh..." She pretends to make a note on the clipboard. "...she'd absolutely do that."
"I know."
Elise glances toward the therapy gym. "She's with another patient."
I nod. Before I realize I've done it, my eyes drift toward the open treatment area.
Empty stations. Parallel bars. Resistance bands hanging neatly on the wall. And one familiar auburn ponytail near the far windows.
Elise catches the movement immediately. "I didn't say you had to look quite that fast."
Heat creeps into my face. “I was just..."
"Checking?" She smiles knowingly. "I figured."
Shaking my head, I continue into the gym.
At the far end of the room, Annette stands beside an older gentleman practicing reaching into a mock kitchen cabinet.
"Excellent," she says warmly. "Now one more."
He reaches a little higher.
Smiles. "I did it."
"You certainly did."
The pride on his face could rival a Stanley Cup celebration. Annette smiles right back, like his victory matters just as much. Maybe to her it does. She tells him how well he is doing and sends him off to the locker room.
When she turns and sees me, her whole expression brightens. "Good morning, Jamie."
Funny.
I've heard twenty thousand fans cheer my name.
I've skated beneath television lights.
I've worn the captain's "C" in sold-out arenas.
None of those welcomes feel as good as hearing those three simple words.
"Morning."
She walks toward me with her tablet tucked beneath one arm. "Ready to make me proud today?"
"I thought I already had."
"You have." She smiles. "But I have very high standards."
"I was afraid of that."
She laughs. "Come on, caa... "
She starts to say Captain, then catches herself.
A teasing smile touches her lips.
"I mean..." She looks directly into my eyes. "...Jamie."
For reasons I can't quite explain, I like hearing that even more.
***
The first fifteen minutes of therapy unfold exactly the way they've begun for the past several weeks.
Annette checks my range of motion, compares today's measurements to last week's, and nods with quiet satisfaction. I work through the stretching routine without trying to bargain for extra repetitions, and she rewards my unusual restraint with a smile that says she's noticed.
"I may have to revise my opinion of hockey players," she says.
"I wouldn't rush into anything."
"I wasn't planning to."
"I appreciate your caution."
She records another note in my chart. "You've earned that."
The words warm me more than I expect. Progress has become strangely addictive. Not because I need another number or another milestone, but because each small improvement feels like another piece of normal life returning.
We move to the cable station. The resistance is still light, but enough to make the shoulder work instead of simply moving through the motions. I finish the first set, pause exactly where she tells me to pause, and lower my arm under control.
She looks genuinely pleased. "I don't believe it."
"What?"
"You stopped when I asked."
"I can be taught."
"We'll put that in your permanent record."
Before I can answer, my phone vibrates on the nearby bench.Neither of us pays much attention. It vibrates again. Then a third time.
Annette glances toward it. "Popular today?"
"I doubt it."
I walk over and pick it up. Megan Brooks. Director of Public Relations for the Blizzards.
I hesitate. Annette notices. "You should answer."
I nod and step a few feet away.
"Jamie."
"Good morning, Captain."
I smile despite myself.
"Megan."
"I hope I'm not interrupting."
"Rehabilitation."
"So yes."
"A little."
"I'll be quick." Her voice changes slightly. Business. "We've got a situation."
That usually isn't a sentence anyone enjoys hearing.
"What happened?"
"Nothing bad." A pause. "The Blizzards Foundation charity skate is next Saturday."
I remember.
Every January the team hosts an afternoon skate for children from local youth programs. Autographs. Equipment giveaways. Fundraising for community rinks.
Normally I'd spend half the day tying skates and pretending not to lose games of mini hockey to eight-year-olds.
"We'd love to have you there."
I look across the therapy gym. Annette is helping another patient adjust a resistance band but hasn't completely stopped paying attention.
"I can't skate."
"We know."
"I can't sign for three hours."
"We know."
"I'm still in rehab."
"We know."
Another pause. "No interviews. No skating. No speeches. Just..." Her voice softens. "...show your face."
I close my eyes briefly. Of course. The captain should be there. The foundation matters. The kids matter. Sponsors matter. Everything matters.
"How long?"
"Thirty minutes. Maybe forty-five."
"You'll arrive after the opening ceremony. Say hello to the kids. Take a few pictures. Then head home."
I don't even think about my answer. "Of course, I'll do it."
"Thank you." Relief fills her voice. "We'll handle everything else."
When the call ends, I lower the phone slowly. For a moment I simply stand there looking at the blank screen. The quiet I'd built over the past several weeks suddenly feels farther away. Annette walks over carrying another resistance band.
She doesn't ask who called. She already knows. "The team?" I nod.
"They want you back."
Not really a question. "No." I slip the phone into my pocket. They want Captain Walker."
Something flickers across her face. Not surprise. Understanding. "They're different people?"
The answer comes before I have time to think. "They're supposed to be."
For the first time since I arrived that morning...my shoulder feels tight again.
Not because of the surgery, but because the world outside this building has just reminded me that it hasn't stopped needing the captain. And I'm no longer sure I remember how to be both.
***
I slip my phone back into my pocket and return to the therapy station.
Annette is waiting beside the treatment table; a resistance band looped around one hand. She nods toward the exercise mat. "Let's finish."
I nod. "Sure."
The word comes automatically. My thoughts don't. I pick up the band and begin the first movement. Slowly out. Pause. Return. I've done this exercise dozens of times. Today my rhythm feels wrong. The band snaps back a little faster than it should.
Annette notices immediately. "Control the return."
"Sorry."
I begin again. This time my shoulder tightens halfway through the movement. Not sharp pain. Just enough resistance to make me compensate. I know I'm doing it, but I can't seem to stop.
"Relax your neck."
I lower my shoulders.
Start over. Better. Not good.