Chapter Eight
Eight
Jack
I can feel adrenaline pumping through my veins; the game is brutal, with New York tied up with us in the third period. Their center, Peterson, is on fire tonight, but Jankowski has been there every step of the way. It feels like we can do no wrong.
There’s barely a minute left on the clock when we all line up for face-offs, and even if only to myself, I have to admit that my arm is throbbing something fierce.
I took a shot earlier in the second that New York’s goalie promptly blocked, but the force of it left a twinge in my wrist that hasn’t faded in the time since. I’ve done my best to ignore it.
Jankowski gets his hands on the puck when the buzzer sounds, shooting to Sanchez just for Sanchez to pass it to Ian.
My best friend looks fierce as he glides across the ice, just barely dodging Kowalski from the other team before his eyes find mine.
I nod as he lets the puck fly my way, and I all but hold my breath as I grab hold of it, taking off toward New York’s goal with the clock showing twenty seconds left.
I’m going to do it, I think. I’m going to win this fucking thing.
I take a shot as Peterson approaches from my left, his elbow clipping me as he pivots just as the puck flies across the ice.
I watch it with bated breath—only releasing the one I’m holding when the lamp lights up and cheers erupt in the arena.
My teammates rush me all at once, knocking helmets and clapping padded shoulders, and I have to grit my teeth against the sudden pain in my arm that racked me the minute I let the puck fly.
I grin through it, celebrating the win with my team that will mean we’re going to the playoffs.
That we’re one step closer to the finals.
We line up to shake hands after, and even that is a chore, I find. The ache is so potent that it scares the actual shit out of me—wondering if this is the moment where my arm will suddenly stop working.
It’s gonna be fine. It’ll be fine by tomorrow.
My team whoops and hollers the entire way down the chute, everyone starting to peel out of their gear as they recap all the highs and lows of the game we just played. Rankin snaps my ass with a towel as I pass by, grinning at me.
“Way to fucking play, Baker,” he praises.
I force a smile, nodding back at him. “Did you expect anything less?”
“Don’t boost his ego,” Ian laughs. “It’s big enough.”
“You’re right,” I smirk. “As big as my di—”
“Baker,” Coach calls, nodding his head toward the office. “Can I see you for a sec?”
The team makes a low sound in unison when he disappears behind the door, like I’m a kid who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“What’d you do?” Jankowski asks.
Sanchez snorts. “Maybe he’s going to finally tell Jack to stop riding our asses on the ice like he’s a baby coach.”
“Someone has to make sure you guys stay on your toes,” I laugh.
I only feel a slight twinge in my stomach when I make my way toward Coach’s office—wondering what he would need to talk about after a win like that. I turn the handle to his door and push it open in only my compression gear, popping my head inside to find Coach at his desk.
“You wanted to see me?”
He nods. “Have a seat, son.”
I do as he asks, plopping down into one of the chairs across from his desk.
“Hell of a game tonight,” he says. “That was a great shot there at the end.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But don’t think I didn’t notice you favoring that arm in the third period.”
I wince, instinctively reaching for it. “What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Baker,” he sighs. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you came back from your break. You were hurting out there tonight.”
“It’s really nothing,” I try. “Just a little sore still.”
He gives me an unimpressed look, arching one brow. “Try again. The team doctor said you shouldn’t still be hurting if it was just a simple sprain, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I can’t help the scowl that touches my lips.
“Did Ian say something to you?”
Coach narrows his eyes. “Chase keeping something from me too?”
Shit.
“No. Not really. He just—I just—” I scrub a hand down my face, huffing out a breath. “Fine. It’s not just a sprain.”
“Then tell me what’s up. What did they really say when you went to the hospital a few weeks ago?”
I hesitate, knowing that if I come clean it could come back to bite me in the ass, but the way he’s looking at me—I know I’ve been caught.
So I tell him everything. About the diagnosis, about the suggested treatment—all of it.
Coach listens with a solemn expression, his fingers steepled at his chin as he regards me.
His graying mustache twitches when I’m finished, and he rubs two fingers at the slight wrinkle in the ebony skin between his eyes as he sighs.
“You should have told me,” he says.
I nod. “I know, but I don’t intend to quit playing.”
“You may not have a choice,” he says. “What happens if you ruin your arm? I can’t have that on my conscience.”
“It’s not as bad as they’re making it out to be,” I tell him. “I can barely feel it most of the time. I have the rest of the season in me, Coach. Really.”
He taps a finger against his lower lip, studying me.
No doubt calculating whether or not this is worth the risk.
I don’t know how to plead my case with him, don’t know how to explain that if he benches me for the rest of the season, it will kill me—so instead I just wait with rocks in my gut, letting him hold my future in his hand.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says finally. “You’ve played phenomenally this season, even missing the first little bit.”
I wince, hearing the word even without him saying it. “But?”
“But we really can’t risk you losing functionality in your arm for a game, son.”
“Coach,” I plead, feeling panic welling inside. “You can’t bench me. You can’t.”
His jaw works as he continues to study me. “I don’t want to bench you. We have a chance to go all the way this year, and since I know Chase is talking about retiring…I don’t want to break up my team this close to the finish line.”
“So you’ll let me play?”
“With conditions,” he says. “One: You tell me when you’re hurting, and you’ll sit your ass out without complaint when it happens .”
I don’t love it, but I nod anyway.
“Two: We let Lievman take up some of the slack during the games.”
“Lievman? The guy is barely out of the draft. I can’t just—”
“Those are my terms, kid,” he says. “Take ’em or leave ’em.”
The thought of being benched for however long each game just to see a fraction of my usual play time guts me. But the alternative—not being able to play at all? That threatens to swallow me whole.
“All right,” I say finally. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, son,” Coach says. “I’m just trying to make sure you still have an arm to play with after this season.”
I nod back at him, already feeling myself start to spiral, just wanting to get the fuck out of here before I embarrass myself. Coach dismisses me after that, and I ignore the questions of my teammates when I step out of his office, heading straight for the showers instead.
Don’t break down.
There will be plenty of time for that later.
My room is a fucking disaster.
I’ve pulled everything out of my closet and from underneath my bed—all in the name of finding some inane item I’ve gotten into my head that I need right this second.
I get like this when I’m stressed, and I know that later I’ll regret this little manic episode, but my conversation with Coach has been playing on a loop in my head.
Knowing that I’ll be giving up ice time because of my stupid arm is killing me, and the more I think about it, the more desperate I feel.
I pick up a shoe and throw it at my bedroom door, making a frustrated sound as I slink down on the floor at the foot of my bed.
I tug at my hair and rest my forehead against my knees, trying to calm down.
I have my meds for this; there’s a low-dose beta-blocker sitting on my bedside table for emergencies, to slow my heart rate when I get like this, but even just taking the short walk to get it seems too hard right now.
I jolt when a knock sounds at my door, sitting up straight when I hear Abby’s voice asking, “Everything all right in there?”
Fuck.
I didn’t think she’d be home for a little while longer.
“Everything is fine,” I call back.
“What was that banging noise?”
“Nothing. I tripped.”
“Are you decent?”
“Rarely,” I quip back.
“Are you clothed?” she amends.
I glance down at my sweats and my sleeveless T-shirt. “Yes.”
“Then I’m coming in.”
“No, wait, don’t—”
Too late; my door opens, and then she’s just standing there, her eyes rounding as she takes in the mess that is my room. “What happened in here?”
“I was just looking for something.”
“Was it a black hole? Because it looks like you found it.”
“Hilarious,” I mutter.
“I heard a banging sound,” she tells me. “Did you really trip? Are you okay?”
I try for a smirk. “You just wanted to peek in my bedroom.”
“Oh, sure.” She eyes the mess. “Real happening spot in here.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I feel smaller under her scrutiny. Her piercing gray eyes seem to look past the mess and straight through the heart of my little anxious episode, her lips turning down into a frown.
“Did something happen today?”
My pulse trips as I remember the conversation from earlier, my tongue suddenly feeling too thick, and all my anxiety seems to fall on her all at once.
I can’t help the bitter words that pour out of my mouth. “What do you care?”
“I didn’t say I did,” she says coolly. “I can leave.”
She goes to shut the door, but I call after her. “Wait,” I say, watching her pause in the doorway. “I’m sorry. That was dickish. It’s just…been a bad day.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Is that Abby asking or the baby psychologist?”
She shrugs. “Bit of both?”
And I can’t help it—the feelings I’ve been trying to keep at bay start to well up inside me all over again. The panic, the fear, the uncertainty…all of it. I feel my heart begin to race as my fists clench, and to my embarrassment, I feel my eyes get wet.
“I can’t do this,” I say. “I just can’t.”
My breath comes out in harsh pants, and I clutch my chest, trying to calm the pounding beneath it but only feeling it ratchet up higher. I notice when Abby takes a step toward me, her expression laced with concern.
“Jack?”
“Pill,” I manage through gritted teeth. “Bedside table. Propranolol.”
She doesn’t hesitate, moving to the side of my bed, where I hear the rustling of items being moved around before the telltale rattle of a pill bottle. She rushes back with her fist closed around one, and when she hands it to me, I swallow it dry just as my body begins to shake.
I hate her seeing me like this, hate that anyone would see me this way—especially considering I’ve taken so many steps to ensure no one ever does.
I rock in place slightly, and to my surprise, I feel Abby’s arm come around my shoulders, her hand squeezing the one it lands on as she speaks in soft tones.
“Breathe, Jack,” she says. “Just breathe.”
I do as she says, drawing in slow, steady breaths just to let them out. She keeps a hold on me through all of it, and I know that tomorrow I will be embarrassed about this, but right now? Right now it just feels nice not to be dealing with it alone.
When I finally calm, I let out a shaky exhale. “Sorry,” I manage.
“Does that happen often?”
“Just…sometimes.”
She is quiet for a moment, but then, “I’ll ask again. Do you want to talk about it?”
And there’s no reason for me to unload my problems on this woman who I’m not even sure likes me, but for once…the idea of saying everything out loud, of unburdening myself of all the things that have been keeping me awake at night…it actually sounds nice.
“Sure,” I say quietly. “If you don’t mind.”
Abby just squeezes me tighter. “I don’t mind.”
The weight of her arm around my shoulders is easy to focus on in the wake of my panic, and weirdly enough…I’ve never been more grateful for such a simple touch.
It makes it a lot easier to open my mouth and start talking.