Chapter 5
5
I didn’t hear him because my two Stanley Cup rings were plugging my ears.
– Patrick Roy
Frank
The FaceTime ping comes through just after I finish on the weight machines. I’ve been remembering the good times on the ice, the Stanley Cup teams I was on, and the surprising year when I was awarded the Lady Byng for "player adjudged to have exhibited the best type ofsportsmanshipand gentlemanly conduct combined with a high standard of playing ability." Three Norris trophies too.
Hockey is my home, my only love, the one thing I could do well. Now I’m on a steep downhill slide and for the first time in my life, I’m scared of the future.
Mom’s face, the color of a good Bordeaux, fills the screen. She’s on her soapbox before I can say hello, raring to tell me I take too many chances on the ice. Every word detonates like a land mine. Blood pounds in my ears and my lungs work overtime.
The honeyed tone clues me that she wants something. “Frankie, feeling okay this morning?”
“Uh, yeah. I’m fine.” No way am I telling her anything.
“That’s great. I was worried when I saw that fight.”
My lips twist in disgust and disbelief. “That was nothing.”
“If you say so,” she says, sugar raining down the line.
“Is that it?”
The familiar wheedling tone takes over. “Frankie, we’ve had a lot of extra expenses this month. Could you…?” She leaves the actual ask hanging in the air.
The plea for more money comes around this time every month. “How much?”
“Couple of thousand?”
A bit more than usual. Maybe she thinks that holiday spirit will infuse me with more generosity. “You want two thousand?” I’m too loud and a couple of guys look over. “Sorry, I’ll keep it down.” I walk, dragging my bad leg, out of the training facility and lean against a wall in the empty corridor.
“Frankie, are you still there?”
I don’t say anything.
A fist slams against something and I wince at the pieces of falling plaster.
“Don’t play games with me, kid,” she snarls.
I blow out a noisy breath. “You want two thousand,” I repeat.
“No.”
My sigh of relief is short-lived when she says, “We need ten thousand.”
Disbelief practically knocks me down. They get fifty thousand from me every month and can’t live within their means.
“Nope. I can’t do it.” I don’t even care what it’s for.
Her voice screeches over the airwaves like a red-tailed hawk.
“Frank, you’re a real Scrooge, a mean, ungrateful bastard.”
“Did Dad know?” I ask.
That stops her briefly. “Know what?”
“That I’m a bastard?”
The powder keg ignites. “Are you calling your mother a whore?”
The little smile curling up the ends of my lips infuriates her, as does my next comment. “No, you pasted that label on your forehead, not me.”
“I should have sent you to a military boarding school. You never should have become a hockey player, My mistake for not selling your equipment and forbidding you to play. But I was too lenient.” The fist shake accompanying it is too threatening to be laughable. If she was in the room, my nose would be mashed into my lips.
“I blame your father for buying you those skates. For putting you on the ice. Three years old. What was he thinking? Paying for ice time, equipment, team fees. Driving you to games. And then he up and died, foisting it all on me. At thirty-five you need to stop playing games and grow up. Retire and find something else to do.”
Against my better judgment, I ask, “Like what?”
That brings on the retread recriminations and taunts. “Not good at anything else, are you? Never took any advice to train for something besides hockey. Your fault for not getting more education. Get a buyout. That should give you something to live on while you find a job. I’m sure you’d make a great greeter at Walmart.”
“You need my money. You just told me so. What will you do without your cash cow?” My teeth grind like millstones, making my jaw ache.
“I hear that sound, dear. Unclench your jaw. And be careful of that mouthful of expensive temporary choppers.”
I swallow several curses, reminded that several therapists have advised cutting the ties. Damn it, though. She’s my mom, no matter how often I wish she weren’t.
Meanwhile, she ignores my question and twists the knife. “God, you’re a piece of work, Frank.”
My gut wrenches from the imaginary kick in the gut. The old cliche comes to me—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“And you may be jeopardizing the only other thing you’re good at.”
What is she driving at now?
“Saw that hit in the gonads, Frank. Hope you were wearing your cup.”
I wish we weren’t on FaceTime. The gloat on her face is too much. Not able to look at her, my eyes squeeze shut as I mumble, “Always wear the cup on the ice, Mom. And protection off it too.”
Not known as a womanizer, I’ve never had much interest aside from casual hookups to scratch the occasional itch. I have a couple of friends who are gay, and I know rumors pop up that I’m into guys. But guys don’t do it for me either. I sometimes wonder if I’m asexual, but I’ve never talked to anyone about it.
The truth is, growing up in a houseful of controlling women blunted any desire for intimacy. Then a vision of Maya floats before me. Shit. “My ability to impregnate is unimpaired,” I say, my voice grating.
The huff that comes over the line can be heard from Chicago to Kelowna. “Watch your mouth.”
“Coach is calling,” I lie. “Talk to you later.”
When Doc Gnauss finds me, I’m playing LEGO Fortnite on one of the lounge machines to get rid of the bad taste of mother non-love.
“Sauer, I need to see you, now.”
I spread my arms wide. “And here I am.”
I expect him to call me on my smart mouth, but he just motions me to get up, observing as, hand on the back of the gaming chair, I clumsily push myself forward to the edge of the seat, steady my bad knee, then use my forearms to push up, and slowly walk toward him, shuffling slightly, still trying to hide the limp.
Gnauss maneuvers so he lingers behind me. I can feel the scrutiny as he assesses me.
“Stop, Frank. Walking like that will only exacerbate the problem with your knee without hiding the limp. I can call for a wheelchair if you need it.”
“No wheelchair,” I protest, then limp forward, ignoring his scowl.
“You took a couple of heavy falls last night and I need to check you out.”
Ax must have sicc’d him on me. FU, Ax. Keep your nose out of my life.
Like an animal at bay, I growl and swivel my head to give him the side-eye. “Forget that. I’m fine.” The wince catches me unawares. “At least fine enough to get to the diagnostic tables.”
We proceed silently down the long hall until we reach the med center.
“Get up on the table. Let’s look at the knee and see what’s what.”
Not moving, I fold my arms. “Maybe I can have a maintenance day tomorrow. And a few painkillers to get me through. Tape it up before the next game and I’ll be fine.”
The deep rumble that meets this comment prods me to move.
I try to jump up on the table. Gnauss brings over a step stool and I sheepishly pull myself up, legs hanging over the side. But that shoots new pain through the knee so I scoot back as far as I can go and stick out the leg to keep the joint straight.
“Hurts to bend it. Hmm. Not a good sign. Did you feel a pop?”
I lie, shaking my head no. I know what a pop means, and that happened when I came off the ice last night.
When he probes the joint with a finger, I clamp my jaw to keep from howling like a strong nor’easter. He motions me down. “Pants off. I need to see the swelling.”
My balance is precarious. With one hand on the table, I slip my shoes off. Then I have to lean back as my fingers fumble with the belt buckle and unzip. The pants drop and I waddle over to a chair. Can’t get the pant legs over my feet and off unless I sit down. Moans rise into my chest; heartburn follows. Moisture gathers on my lashes. This may be the worst day since my dad died twenty-five years ago.
Doc clicks his tongue as he helps me back to the table. I rub an arm across my damp face, and wriggle from the dampness that makes my shirt cling to my back.
His chilled fingers feel good against the heat around my knee. I strain my ears but his mumbles are unintelligible. Negativity blankets us. Then he just stands back, eyes glued to the obvious swelling and redness.
Every nerve tells me he is going to recommend I go on injured reserve. But I can’t afford not to play. My position is already tenuous with the team. The only way to prove my worth is on the ice.
“Sorry, Sauer,” he starts, just as Ax walks into the room.
“What’s the verdict, Doc?” He looks offhand, standing in his long-sleeved team blue-and-silver marled turtleneck, hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks.
A click of heels announces another interloper. I glance around. Maya, jacket discarded, has donned a white coat over her blouse and slacks. Somehow the look is sexy. Can’t tear my gaze away from her rosy lips, porcelain complexion, and curly brown locks.
Goose pimples rise on my forearms as I try to erase the sudden lust swamping my brain. 1916, 1924, 1930, 1931, 1944, 1943 … I start to count down the years the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup.
The breeziness of Maya’s tone disconcerts me. “Adnan is amazing. I loved the studio space. I think I made the right decision to come to Chicago.”
My head buzzes as she gushes. I want to get up, grab her, and stop her mouth with mine. Stop her talking. Feel her soft lips… Everything dies away in the sweet-sour fantasy of the moment.
Ax shakes my shoulder. “Sourpuss, you okay?”
Little tickles have been moths fluttering around my spine all morning but this is an exponential explosion I didn’t expect. When I force away the ripples and paste a scowl on my mug, Ax takes it as a normal response but for my own peace of mind, I need to scare Maya out of the room. Out of Chicago. Back to wherever she came from. “Shut up, woman,” I yell. “I can’t stand your driveling. Just go away.”
Fists against her hips, the scorching heat rolling like a cloud toward me ignites not fear or anger but the trembling of uncontrollable excitement. I hear Ax as if from underwater. “Is he having a heart attack?”
Doc’s response rumbles like a far-off volcano. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s ready to climax. Never seen anything like this. The pain must be unimaginably intense to cause this reaction.”
My vision blurs and I gasp at the sensation of falling. The last thing I remember is a cuff tightening on my upper arm.
When I come to, the room is black, punctuated with lights winking red, yellow, blue, and green. My throat is on fire but when I try to sit up, bands across my chest and abdomen keep me immobile. My cry of protest, when it comes, is more of a squeak.
Within a few seconds, shoes schuss across the floor. A hand presses against my forehead. Then the steps retreat. Indistinct mutters filter in from somewhere and a man and a woman approach me.
“Mr. Sauer?”
Not able to respond, I blink my eyes to let them know I can hear them.
A dark shadow falls over me. A gritty male voice asks, “You need me?” Is this the angel of death? Or Charon, preparing to row me to the underworld? My lips move, but still no sound. Panicked, I fight against the bands.
“Unstrap him and we’ll sit him up. Probably needs some water before he can talk.”
I focus on thick fingers deftly unclipping the bindings, then he hits a remote to raise the head of the bed. A woman in sage green scrubs holds a lidded cup with a paper straw up to my mouth. After a few sips, she pulls it away.
Desperate for more, I grab at her, clamping what should be an iron grip around her wrist. Instead, my fingers are flaccid and I can barely hold on. A scratchy incomprehensible noise pushes up from my chest.
A Texas twang cautions me as she slaps my hand away. “Stop that, young man. Just sips for a while.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bed, a man in blue scrubs has the tips of a stethoscope inserted in his ears. He holds the bell against my chest. “Seems to be recovering.”
I hear my voice in my head. “What happened?” No response. Try again. Still crickets. Whispers swirl around me. Tears of frustration dot my cheeks. One more try.
My mouth opens and I scream, “What the fuck is going on?” The thready sound barely carries, but the world comes to a screeching halt. The blue scrubs guy says, “Relax, Mr. Sauer. You had a minor cardiac incident brought on by the injury to your knee.”
The nurse gives me another sip of water. The sensation of swallowed glass shards rips at my throat, but a little volume comes back. I expect to see blood spray out when I ask, “Does that mean I’ll be released soon?”
“Once we have you completely stabilized, the orthopedic surgeon will be in with your team doctor to discuss the knee options.
Options? The only option I want is to play in the next game.
Machines beep, lights pulse, and I slowly slip back into sleep.