Chapter 14
MADARS
I made it out of the arena by leaning hard on my teammates and the medical staff, but the team doctor immediately ordered me onto a stretcher. After a cursory—and painful—examination of my knee, I was being wheeled out by the medical staff, heading to a hospital for an MRI.
That was when my day managed to get even worse.
I was already in a ton of pain, but as the gurney turned a corner, I saw a flash of blue.
A Vancouver jacket. The scout—the one who’d approached me the other day—gave me an apologetic look, but he didn’t say a word.
He just turned his attention back to something on his phone.
My heart had already sunk when I’d felt that familiar pop in my knee.
Now it hit the floor. Fuck. I’d known as soon as I went down that I wouldn’t play again for the rest of the Games.
Maybe even the rest of the season. And I knew as soon as I saw that NAL scout that he wouldn’t be calling me any time soon. Nobody from the League would be.
I’d gone down when my team needed me. I was injured when the NAL was scouting me. Fuck. Fuck! And it felt an awful lot like the same injury that had made every NAL team lose interest in me when I was a free agent.
In the back of an ambulance on the way to the hospital, I tried to get comfortable on the gurney. Tried. Failed. Ugh, my leg hurt so fucking bad, but even that wasn’t as awful as all the thoughts swirling in my head.
I closed my eyes and pushed out a breath. I swore I could hear all those doors slamming shut all over again. No one had wanted to sign me while I was recovering, and they were only now—after the past few years of proving I could still play at a professional level—paying any attention to me.
Or, well, they had been.
Fuck my life.
This didn’t feel like a career-ending injury. The medical staff thought I might have another MCL tear. Not a severe one, but one that meant my time playing here in Prague was over. If I was lucky, I might rejoin my professional team in the Swiss playoffs.
But my phone wouldn’t be ringing any time soon. Nor would my agent’s. No NAL scout or GM was going to bet on me while I was injured. They’d need to see me back in playing condition—need to be sure I hadn’t lost a step during my recovery—before they took that chance.
Pressing back against into the uncomfortable gurney, I stared out at ambulance’s rear window at the snow falling lazily onto the streets and buildings.
There was nothing I could do now. I’d have a diagnosis soon, and then I’d return to Genève and figure out my recovery.
I’d focus on rehabbing my knee and keeping my conditioning up so that when I returned to the ice—whether it was this season or next—my performance would draw the attention of those scouts again.
My dream of returning to NAL wasn’t over. It was just delayed.
Right?
Hopefully. I was still young enough to be worth the gamble. The longer I went without an NAL PTO, the less likely I was to get one.
And all that was assuming I recovered enough to be worth the NAL’s time. Guess I’d find out once the MRI was done.
The hospital got me in pretty quickly, and after the MRI was done, I returned to the emergency department to wait for the results.
I was told we’d be waiting a while, so Karolina, my Czech interpreter, left to get coffee.
Before we’d left, she’d grabbed my phone out of my locker stall, and I took it out to see how my team had fared without me.
Before I could even open the app to check the score, though, I realized I had a text.
Connor
Are you okay? Do you need a lift back to the hotel?
Oh, right. He’d been at the game, hadn’t he? I’d seen him in the stands. He must’ve been worried. And it was on-brand for him to offer me a ride; he was always taking care of everyone around him.
Waiting on MRI results. Probably an MCL tear. (sad emoji)
Team staff will take me back to the hotel.
He responded almost immediately.
Shit, I’m sorry. How bad is the tear?
Don’t know yet. The doc at the arena thinks it might be a 2nd degree.
Is that bad?
I don’t know much about those.
it’s not good but I might not need surgery.
Fingers crossed.
Your team was out for blood after you left.
oh yeah? I haven’t even seen the score yet.
6-3.
Wow, guess they did okay without me!
I think they were motivated to win FOR you.
A lump suddenly rose in my throat as I recalled a conversation from our past life.
“I let them down,” I’d said, cradling my bandaged wrist in Connor’s bedroom. “They needed me.”
“You got hurt,” he’d corrected. “That asshole who slashed you is the one who fucked up.” He’d scowled hard. “I can’t believe he didn’t even get called for it.”
I’d laughed bitterly. “With all the shit they let slide tonight, I’m not even surprised.”
“Yeah, but he slashed you hard enough to fracture your wrist.” Connor made a disgusted noise. “That should’ve been a game misconduct.”
My shoulders sank. “Maybe we could’ve scored a few times while that asshole was in the box. Tied up the score and maybe won.” I sighed. “I hate that I couldn’t be there to fight with them.”
“Madars.” He wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “They fought hard. I think they fought even harder because they were pissed that you got hurt. If the officiating hadn’t been so fucking lopsided, you guys probably would’ve won.”
“So, fuck the refs?”
His laugh and his eyeroll made my world brighter than stadium lights. “Yes. Fuck the refs.”
In the present, I swiped at my eyes. The pain and frustration were making me emotional, I told myself, but I knew that was a lie. They weren’t helping, of course, but it was the reassurance and the encouragement from Connor that was making me crack.
I’d been so overwhelmed during my major junior days.
The speed, the skill, the intensity—I’d thought I was ready, but it had been a lot.
Whenever I got discouraged, though, Connor had never let me get far.
He’d always known exactly what I needed to hear.
Somehow, he’d always known how to get my focus back on the rails and silence my imposter syndrome.
And now here he was, all these years later, refusing to let me believe I’d let my team down or that I’d caused their morale to falter. They’d rallied and won. Some part of me questioned if that meant they’d been stronger without me, but I could already hear Connor’s voice.
“You had the game-winning goal twice in this series, you bonehead. They’d much rather have you there.”
God, I’d missed him so much.
That thought brought me up short. It was true, I’d thought about him a lot over the years, but it was only now, after crossing paths with him at the Games, that I realized just how much I’d missed him.
I’d thought I was meeting up with an old friend, and then we’d let that innocent spark between us flare into something hotter, and now he was taking me back to those days when he always knew what I needed to hear.
Who was I kidding? He was what I needed to hear. And see. And touch. There was no chance in hell of sex before we left Prague, but was it too much to hope he might still want to see me? Even if I was a pathetic mess?
Only one way to find out.
I won’t be good for much. But can I still see you before we leave Prague?
The response was lightning fast.
Absolutely.
Let me know when you’re discharged.
I’ll be at the hotel for the rest of the night.
Are you doing okay?
Hurts a lot.
But I’m okay.
I didn’t add that it was his texts that made me okay. That the prospect of seeing him again soon, even when he knew he wouldn’t be getting laid, would carry me through this better than any painkiller ever would.
I put my phone down, closed my eyes, and pressed back against the gurney. Yeah, my time on the ice during the Games was over. I’d dropped off the NAL’s radar until I fully recovered and proved I was still as good as I’d been before my fall.
But everything suddenly didn’t seem as grim.
Because I’d see Connor again.