Chapter 6
6
A good hockey player plays where the puck is. A great hockey player plays where the puck is going to be.
– Wayne Gretzky
Maya
The team bus bumps against the curb and we all pitch forward, then back as the driver maneuvers the vehicle around hovering cars. My head bounces off the back of the seat in front of me and my seat mate, Morse Ainslie, turns and scans my forehead.
“You okay? Or do we need to ask for concussion protocol?”
The joke isn’t funny and I frown.
The door swings open and Doc Gnauss hurries back to me, practically hauling me out of the seat. The feel of Ainslie’s palms pushing against my butt makes me turn my head. “Hands off or Carina will hear about it.”
“Just helping you out,” Ainslie huffs, sitting back into the seat with a mock sulky expression.
Trying to avoid being knocked over, Gnauss moves back and lets go of my hands when Ainsley pushes me. Now he stands close to the stairs down, and bounces heel to toe, heel to toe. “Let’s go, Maya. Someone from ortho is waiting to take us up.”
We climb down from the team bus into cold, windy morning sunlight. A polar vortex has settled over the city and a cloudless blue sky intensifies the icy temperature. The rest stream off behind to camp out in a waiting room, but Gnauss and I hit the revolving door at speed to be greeted by one of the ortho orderlies.
He comes forward, hand out to Gnauss. “Good to see you, Doctor. Looks like you have a cheering section today.”
“Everyone wanted to come. The team’s like that.”
“I heard he’s kind of a prick.”
“When he plays. He’s definitely a team guy though. And they all appreciate it.”
“Someone will come down and take them to a private waiting room.”
The hospital’s planning is impressive.
I’m looking at the elevator indicator as the orderly says, “He’s mostly sleeping, so we haven’t had much trouble. But he also doesn’t know the bad news yet.”
“Waiting for me to break it to him?” Gnauss grins.
“Nope, that’s my job,” Phil Marshall says, striding up to us. He hadn’t been on the bus, so he must have driven himself over. With this weather, probably not in his fancy Maserati, specially painted in the team colors.
With a whoosh, the elevator doors part and we stand in the four corners, silent, as we climb to the eighth floor.
The lights in Sauer’s room are dim and we can only make out a colorless form. The nurse adjusts the lighting as we approach the motionless figure on the bed. When we get closer, we see he’s on his back, leg immobilized. A nurse maneuvers past with a breakfast tray. “Time to crank you up, Mr. Sauer. I have breakfast here for you.”
I’m drawn deep into flickering brown eyes crusty from sleep. “Not hungry,” he says, sounding rusty. He draws a finger around the corners of one lid and regards the junk on his finger. The nurse hands him a tissue. A bewildered look crosses his face. “I don’t remember ordering room service.”
The nurse places the tray on the table, raises the head of the bed, then moves the table closer. Its laminated wood-grained top stretches across the width of the bed. A sippy cup of water, another of orange juice, accompanied by a piece of leathery looking whole-wheat toast sitting in a pool of mushy butter. “You’re in the hospital. Don’t you remember?”
The creases across his forehead deepen, creating a road map of ruts. He looks down at his right hand as she slips the tissue out of limp digits, then slowly raises it to run fingers through short caramel-toned hair. When he tries to move his legs, the scream of pain sends a jolt of sympathetic anguish through me, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
Reaching around him, the nurse pushes a button that delivers a measured dose of painkiller through the IV line anchored in his left hand. Relief is almost immediate. His “Thank you” is barely audible and the attempt at a smile fails.
In the corridor, Doc Gnauss says something to the surgeon, who taps on his cell phone. When he slips it into the pocket of his white coat, they walk past me toward the bed.
When Sauer sees them, his eyes lose their hazy look and tighten into slits. You’d think a death squad was imminent. “What’s going on?”
“It’s your ACL.”
“My ACL has bothered me for a long time.”
“Too long, and now you have to have it fixed. We checked it out after you were admitted, thinking we could clear out debris and get you to the end of the season, but the ligament ruptured and you can’t put off surgery any longer.”
The man rubs the back of his hand over the still-crusted eyes. “Can’t be that bad. I can still walk.”
Gnauss glowers. “You shouldn’t be walking. The fact you practiced yesterday probably exacerbated the problem. The swelling underneath the ACE bandage is extensive. Bruising too from the falls.”
Sauer starts to protest but the surgeon puts a hand on his arm. “We need to do grafts for several ligaments and repair the cartilage using chondrocytes that we harvested from the debris and grow in the lab.”
“So two surgeries?”
“Yes, the MACI procedure will take place about six weeks after the ACL surgery. By then we should have the material from the lab.”
I watch his face fall into his hands. In the background, machines beep and lights flash. No one speaks and minutes tick by. The nurse takes away the cold toast, butter congealed on the surface, leaving the cups behind.
“How long before I can be back on the ice?”
Gnauss scratches his cheek, as if unsure what to say. Phil Marshall takes over. “Your season is done, Sauer. You won’t even be able to walk without crutches for at least six weeks. The doctor here,” he indicates the surgeon, says you’re looking at a year, at least, maybe more.”
“I might lose part of next season too?”
“Maybe all of it,” the surgeon chimes in.
Gnauss puts a consoling hand on Sauer’s shoulder. “You’ll be in good hands. Maya is tasked with your recovery. She’ll be with you every step of the way.”
From the horror on his face, I can tell this is Frank Sauer’s worst nightmare.
“And,” Phil goes on, “your mom is coming to help take care of you.”
“Noooo,” comes a pained cry from the injured man. And I realize that I am not the worst-case scenario.