20. Jamie
Chapter twenty
Jamie
Moving Forward
It’s been a few days and Keiha has said her goodbye.
Mrs. Alvarez looks up from the reception desk as I walk through the front doors.
"Good morning, Jamie."
"Morning."
She tilts her head, studying me for a second.
"Did you drive yourself today?"
"I did."
Her smile widens. "I'd call that progress."
"So would Colby."
She laughs. "I'm sure he’ll miss being your chauffeur."
"I'm not convinced he ever liked the job."
"Oh, I don't know." She reaches for the visitor log. "He seemed rather protective."
"He'll deny that."
"They usually do."
Still smiling, I head toward the therapy gym.
***
Annette is reviewing a chart when I step inside.
She glances up and immediately notices the keys dangling from my hand.
"You drove."
"I did."
A genuine smile spreads across her face. "How did it feel?"
I shrug, trying to sound more casual than I feel. "Normal."
"Jamie..."
She folds her arms. "Normal is a wonderful answer."
I hadn't thought about it that way. She closes the chart. "I'm proud of you."
The words catch me off guard. "For driving?"
"For trusting your shoulder enough to get behind the wheel again."
She studies me for a moment. "And for trusting yourself."
I look down at the truck keys in my hand. Funny, yesterday they had simply felt like keys.
Today they feel like proof.
"Still keeping the trips short?" she asks.
"Doctor's orders."
"Good."
She nods toward the treatment mat. "Come on."
As I follow her, she notices my phone lighting up. "Busy morning?"
"Always."
She doesn't ask who. She doesn't need to. By the time I set my water bottle down, I've already answered two texts and accepted a call from Coach.
Annette watches me slip the phone back into my pocket. "You've been awake less than an hour."
I grin. "I've been productive."
"You've been available."
There's a difference.
***
She hands me the resistance band.
"Let's see how that shoulder feels today."
The first few exercises go smoothly.
Halfway through the second set, my phone vibrates again.
***
Without thinking, my eyes flick toward it.
"Captain." I look back at her. "You've checked that phone three times."
"I haven't answered it."
"You've thought about answering it."
I smile. "You're getting remarkably good at reading my mind."
"No." She loops the resistance band back into my hands. "I'm getting remarkably good at reading you."
I start the next repetition and the phone buzzes again.
She sighs. "Give me your phone."
I blink. "What?"
"For the next forty minutes."
"You can't confiscate my phone."
"I absolutely can."
"I don't remember signing that form."
"It was hidden in the paperwork."
"I definitely would've read that."
She smiles. "No, you wouldn't have."
I laugh. "Fair point."
She holds out her hand. I hesitate for exactly three seconds before placing the phone in it.
She slips it into the locker beside my gym bag.
"There."
"What if someone needs me?"
She closes the locker door. "Does every message need to belong to you?"
I don't answer, because I honestly don't know.
She softens. "Jamie...You don't have to stop being captain while you recover."
My head comes up. She smiles. "I'd never ask you to. But I am asking you to remember that returning to your life doesn't mean returning to every responsibility all at once."
She gestures toward my shoulder. "Your body is ready for more."
Then she taps lightly over my heart. "Just make sure you don't ask this to recover faster than this."
I laugh softly. "I think that might be the more difficult rehabilitation."
"I know. That's why we're practicing."
"Shoulders?"
"Balance."
She nods toward the resistance band. "And not just the physical kind."
***
She steps back and studies me for a moment.
"One more question."
"Uh-oh."
"I know."
I grin.
"Whenever you say that, I end up proving your point."
"I'll try not to make a habit of it."
"I'm not convinced."
She smiles. "When you looked at your phone just now..."
I nod.
"What did you think had happened?"
I shrug. "I don't know."
"Try."
I think about it. "Coach."
She waits. "The foundation."
Another pause. "Liam probably did something stupid."
She laughs.
"That's always a safe assumption, Annette. I've known him a long time."
"I'm sure."
The smile lingers before she asks quietly, "Did it occur to you that maybe...nothing had happened?"
I blink.
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe someone simply sent a text."
I stare at her.
"Not every notification is a crisis, Jamie."
"No."
She gives me a gentle smile. "But you treat each one like it might be."
"I never thought about it that way."
"I know."
She reaches for my chart. "Because you've spent years believing it's your job to prevent problems before they happen."
She writes one last note.
"The difficult part..." She closes the folder. "...is realizing the world keeps turning even when you don't."
***
I let that sit. No joke. No comeback.
I’m thinking about what she said.
Then Annette notices. She doesn't like ending heavy conversations on heavy notes.
She never has, so she claps her hands once.
"Okay."
I look up. "Enough philosophy."
"Thank goodness."
"You’ve suffered enough for one morning."
"My shoulder?"
She smiles innocently. "Your brain. But I guess you'll survive."
"I've survived worse."
"Oh?" She starts walking toward the door.
"Name one."
"You."
She laughs. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
"I object."
"Overruled."
"I don't think therapists get to overrule people."
"We do in here." She points around the clinic. "My territory."
"I'm beginning to suspect you enjoy reminding me of that."
"Only on Tuesdays."
"It's Wednesday."
She smiles over her shoulder.
"I know."
***
Outside the therapy room, they slow near the lockers. She stands with one hand resting on the door and studies me with a look that I know too well.
“What?”
“I’m deciding whether you’ve earned it.”
“It’s my phone.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“I completed every repetition. With my full attention.”
“Exactly.”
Annette opens my locker and hands me my phone.
"I trust you."
I glance down at it. "That's dangerous."
"No." She shakes her head. "It's encouraging."
I slip the phone into my pocket without looking at the screen.
Her eyebrows lift just a fraction.
"You didn't check it."
"I figured..."
I shrug.
"...if the world survived forty-five minutes..."
She smiles. "It'll survive another five."
Something warm settles between us. Not excitement. Not butterflies.
Something quieter. Like pride.
I think she feels it too.
"I've got another patient waiting."
"Yes, you do."
She hesitates. Then... "I'm really proud of you today, Jamie."
There it is again. Not because I lifted more weight. Not because my range of motion improved.
Because I drove.
Because I handed over my phone.
Because I trusted someone else to carry things for a little while.
I smile. "Thanks, Annette."
For a second neither of us moves. Neither of us seems in much of a hurry to end the conversation.
Finally, she nods toward the parking lot. "Go enjoy that truck."
I grin. "I was planning to."
She smiles. "Just remember..."
I wait.
"Recovery isn't about standing still. It's about learning how to move forward without running yourself into the ground again."
I laugh.
"I'll work on that."
"I know you will."
***
For the first time in months, it feels great to be driving myself.
The orthopedic surgeon cleared me last week, provided I keep the trips short and avoid driving when the shoulder is fatigued. Colby had looked almost disappointed when I told him I no longer needed a ride, though he covered it by saying he was tired of listening to my opinions about his music.
The next fourteen days are full: a sponsor dinner, youth hockey banquet, foundation committee meeting, a radio interview, two community appearances, and three team practices behind the bench.
Then of course, rehabilitation and follow-up imaging. Nothing looks unreasonable on its own. Together, they leave almost no empty space.
I open the sponsor dinner first. The event is important. They have supported the Blizzards for years, and I have attended every season since becoming captain.
My thumb hovers over the contact information. Then Annette’s question returns. Does this truly need to be mine? Megan can send Liam. He will enjoy the attention, charm every guest in the room and probably convince someone to fund his next ridiculous locker-room poster.
I need to step back from next Thursday’s dinner while I complete rehabilitation.
Liam will be an excellent team representative.
I read my response twice. The words feel too formal.
Too final. Too selfish. I send it anyway, and the appointment disappears from my calendar.
The blank space left behind looks wrong.
I move to the radio interview. Postponed.
The extra foundation meeting can go to the executive director, who already understands the scholarship program better than I do. Delegated.
The youth banquet stays. I promised a group of twelve-year-olds I would answer questions about leadership, and that one feels like mine. It stays.
The rest begin to fall away. Not forever. Just for now. Each cancellation produces the same small jolt of guilt, followed by something I barely recognize. Relief.
When I finish, tomorrow’s calendar contains one appointment - rehabilitation.
The open afternoon beneath it seems almost irresponsible. I stare at the empty hours and hear Annette’s voice from weeks ago. It’s a beautiful habit. We’re just teaching you when to let someone help you.
I rest my head against the seat. “They’ll manage,” I say aloud. The words sound uncertain inside the truck. I say them again. “They’ll manage.”
This time, I almost believe it. My phone rings before I can start the engine. Coach.
I brace myself and answer. “Hey.”
“You canceled the sponsor dinner.”
No greeting. Straight to the point.
“I did.”
“And the interview.”
“Yes.”
“And handed the foundation meeting to Caroline.”
“She runs the program.”
“I’m aware.”
I wait for the criticism. It does not come. Instead, Coach says, “It’s about time.”
I straighten. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I thought you’d be upset.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m captain.”
“That title does not mean you personally attend every event within fifty miles of Frostholm.”
“It feels like it does.” “I know.” His voice loses its dry edge. “I made you captain because you know how to take care of people.” The compliment lands harder than expected. Then he adds, “I forgot to teach you how to take care of yourself.”
Neither of us speaks. Coach has never apologized to me for anything. He doesn’t need to now. Still, something inside me eases.
“You didn’t forget,” I say. “I wasn’t listening.”
A quiet laugh comes through the phone. “That sounds more likely.”
“I kept the youth banquet.”
“Good.”
“And practice.”
“Also, good.”
“The rest can wait.”
“It can.”
I glance at the open space on tomorrow’s calendar. “Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“Did the team fall apart while I was in therapy?”
“Liam attempted to hang another poster.”
“So yes.”
“Not entirely.”
I laugh and coach’s tone softens again. “Take the afternoon, Jamie.”
“I don’t know what to do with it.”
“That may be the point.”
The call ends before I can argue.
***
I walk beside the lake without my phone. No notebook, no schedule, and no plan.
The air has warmed enough that the snow along the shoreline has begun collapsing into the dark earth beneath it. Water moves under the thinning ice, faint and steady.
I follow the path behind the cabin until the roof disappears through the pines.
For once, nobody knows exactly where I am. I pause near the water and watch sunlight fade across the lake. Maybe protecting myself is not the opposite of leadership. The empty afternoon no longer feels selfish. It feels necessary.
Later, I stand in the kitchen and look at tomorrow’s calendar. One appointment, rehabilitation.
Nothing before it. Nothing after it.
I smile.
For years, progress meant adding more. More practice. More responsibility. More people depending on me.
Tonight, doing less feels like moving forward.