Chapter 8
chapter eight
A dislocated shoulder.
Ryland sat in the athletic training room in his base layers after the game and swore.
It hadn’t been his first dislocated shoulder, but it had hurt like a son of a bitch.
His team’s athletic therapist had popped it back in, after which the pain had subsided substantially, and he’d managed to play out the game with a combination of adrenaline and pain meds.
But the agony. It had taken him what felt like five whole minutes but was actually more like thirty seconds, according to Des, before he’d managed to get to his feet and skate off the ice.
And now he had to wear a sling.
He swore again.
“Sorry,” Stephanie—the team’s AT—said with a smile that indicated she wasn’t sorry at all. “It’s got to be done. But only for a few days, a week at most.”
“How long will he be out for?” Coach Fahey asked from a chair against the wall.
“A couple of weeks at least. Maybe three. We’ll reassess after two.”
Ryland sent a pleading look Coach’s way, hoping he’d override her.
“Sorry.” Coach shrugged.
“We’ll want to consider surgery next summer.
” Stephanie handed Ryland a roll of athletic tape.
“You and I both know that one dislocated shoulder means it’s more likely to happen again, and the more it happens, the harder it is to reduce.
And you’ve had three in the past three years.
But for now . . . ” She tapped the roll of tape.
“This, plus two to three weeks of rest and recovery. I’ll put a plan in place for rehab, and you’ll have strength and motion back in no time. ”
Ryland hopped off the exam table. “Thanks, Steph.”
“Thanks, Steph,” Coach parroted, rising. “Got a second? I want to chat about Hewitt’s back.”
Leaving them to it, Ryland exited the training room.
The locker room was just down the hall, and it was quiet when he entered, his teammates having gone home for the night, showering, grabbing a post-game snack from the kitchen, or a post-game workout in the weight room.
He tossed the roll of athletic tape into his gym bag with a sigh, then sat on the bench in front of his stall.
Well. This sucked.
Miles Sheppard emerged from the showers and sat to his left, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist. “How’s your shoulder?”
Ryland shrugged his left shoulder—the good one. “It’s fine. But I’m out for the next two to three weeks.”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Considering Miles had just divorced his wife of four years, Ryland’s problem was peanuts by comparison. So he pasted on a smile and said, “Can I borrow your new game for the Switch? I’ll die of boredom if I don’t have something to do for the next two weeks.”
“How do you expect to play with only one hand?”
“I don’t have to wear the sling twenty-four seven.”
“Sure.” Miles rose and scratched his furry chest. “I’ll bring it by when I pick you up tomorrow. Assuming you’re still up for lunch?”
“Of course,” Ryland said, though he was feeling sorry enough for himself that he wasn’t really in the mood to go out.
But Miles was dealing with an empty apartment—literally.
He’d just moved out of his home and into an unfurnished apartment.
If he wanted to go out, Ryland would happily be his wingman.
“Hey, Miles?” When he looked over, Ryland said, “How are you doing?”
Miles glanced away and rearranged the towel around his waist that didn’t actually need rearranging.
“When you were a kid, did you ever try to get on a ride at the amusement park that you weren’t quite tall enough for?
You’d sneak into the lineup anyway, and you’d get all the way to the front.
But then someone would walk by with that height-measuring stick thing and send you on your way? ”
“Sure,” Ryland said, recalling exactly that happening at La Ronde in Montreal on a family trip there shortly after his parents divorced.
“The disappointment of not being able to get on the ride would be like . . . I don’t know.
” Miles rolled his shoulders. “Waking up for Saturday morning cartoons and getting a soap opera instead. That’s how I’m doing.
But on a brighter note, my new mattress and headboard get delivered tomorrow morning. ”
“Christ, Miles, you’re still in a sleeping bag?”
“Only for one more night.”
“I’ll never understand why you didn’t want to stay with me after you moved out.” Ryland rose and grabbed his phone from the shelf in his stall. “The bed in my guest room is super comfy.”
“Yes, I know. I helped you pick it out, remember? Who’s blowing up your phone?”
The screen had lit up when he’d picked it up, showing enough notifications to tempt him—for perhaps the first time ever—into setting it aside again.
“Um . . . everyone?” he replied, scrolling through notifications of texts and missed calls from his dad, his brother, his sister, Dabbs, his friends back home, and various NHL players from other teams he’d befriended over the years.
Before he had a chance to read any of them, several more arrived in quick succession, this time in the family group chat.
Brie:
Are you dead? Blink once for yes.
Jason:
That’s not funny, Brie.
Brie:
It’s kind of funny. He played out the rest of the game, so obviously he’s NOT dead.
Brie:
Ry, stop being a pest and let us know you’re okay.
Jason:
Do you need anything, Ry?
Dad:
How about we give him a chance to decompress after the game and talk to his medical team, huh?
That was Dad. Always the voice of reason.
Ryland:
I’m not being a pest, fuck you very much. I’ve been busy.
Brie:
He lives!
Ryland sighed and dropped his head back. “Please tell me why I put up with my family.”
Miles chuckled. “Don’t pretend you don’t love them.”
“Only some of the time,” he joked, secretly pleased that they worried about him.
“Liar. Go shower. You’re rank.”
That surprised a laugh out of Ryland. “I can always count on you to tell me the truth.”
Not wanting to seem like an eager puppy, he deliberately ignored the texts from Dabbs and went to shower. His shoulder felt okay when he removed the sling, but overhead motions would be more painful than usual for the next little while, so he made sure to shampoo with his left hand.
His non-dominant hand. Meaning it took twice as long to shampoo and rinse.
By the time he’d dressed, he was swearing again, this time at Connor Mavis, the asshole from Minnesota who’d tackled him like he thought this was a rugby game. The fuck had Mavis been thinking? He’d gotten a major penalty, but still. Talk about an illegal fucking move.
Ryland’s early-in-the-season injuries were becoming a bad habit. How was he supposed to win the cup if he had to sit on the fucking bench?
As he made his way out to the players’ parking lot, he opened Dabbs’ text.
Dabbs:
Shit, Ry. Are you okay? Dislocated shoulder?
Ryland connected his phone to the Bluetooth in his car, then called Dabbs before navigating out of the lot and toward the freeway.
Dabbs answered on the first ring. “Hey.”
Was it Ryland’s imagination or was that relief in Dabbs’ voice?
“You okay?”
“Good guess on the dislocated shoulder,” Ryland said, jumping on 315 to head north.
“Educated guess based on the way you were holding it. How’s it feeling?”
“Not bad. But I’ve got to sit out the next two to three weeks.”
“Rehab?”
“Yup,” Ryland said on a sigh. “I mean, it’s my third dislocated shoulder in as many years, so I know the drill by now. Sucks, but I’m fine.”
“Not sore?”
“Not at the moment. My AT gave me some over-the-counter pain meds.”
“Will you head home while you’re convalescing?”
Ryland smiled at the word—convalescing—and ran his tongue over the back of his teeth as he thought about it.
He shook his head. “Nah. There’s a shortage of athletic therapists in Maplewood, and I don’t feel like driving an hour to Burlington every day just for an hour of rehab, only to drive an hour back after. ”
“I hear you. I hope Cosmo managed to cheer you up.”
As he exited the freeway and stopped at a red light, Ryland replayed Dabbs’ words in his head.
But they still didn’t make sense.
“Cosmo? Your dog?”
Dabbs let out a laugh. “I’m guessing you didn’t get my text from earlier?”
Frowning, Ryland scrolled back through his text conversation with Dabbs. He smiled when he landed on a photo of Cosmo watching the hockey game and—
“Excuse you. Cosmo would never root for Minnesota.”
“Not after that shit Connor Mavis pulled, that’s for sure. What an asshole.”
Dabbs let out a grunt that had a breathy quality that spoke of discomfort.
“Are you okay?” Ryland asked, tapping the pedal when the light turned green.
“Haven’t been feeling great the past couple of days,” Dabbs said in a strained voice that took discomfort and ratcheted it up to pain. “I think I ate something that isn’t sitting well with me.”
Ryland winced in sympathy. “Food poisoning?”
“I haven’t been vomiting. I think it’s indigestion.”
“Try an herbal tea. They’re supposed to help with that.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Dabbs said. “I think I have peppermint tea in the kitchen. Anyway, I’ll let you go. Get some rest, okay?”
“Good luck with the indigestion.”
“Good luck with the rehab.”
“If I call you crying, send candy.”
Dabbs’ laughter as he ended the call was exactly the way Ryland wanted to end his night.