Chapter 38 Colt
Colt
February
Three weeks later, I’m sitting in the locker room, fully suited up for practice. It’s been nine weeks since the University of Maryland game, and I’ve got the all-clear from the doctors that my skull is fully healed.
I just have to talk myself into stepping back out on the ice.
I didn’t think it would be this hard. I didn’t think I had any lingering apprehension about hockey; I’m well aware that what happened to me was a freak accident.
Yet, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the mind is good at playing tricks on you. And this particular anxiety isn’t unwarranted.
“You don’t have to come back yet, C,” Beau says, coming to sit beside me on the bench.
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’m just saying, everyone would understand if you didn’t,” he continues.
“Yeah, but also we’ve been having our asses handed to us without you…repeatedly,” Drew adds helpfully, making me huff out a laugh.
“I’m going out there. It’s just practice. I just have to…” I trail off, not even having an excuse ready.
Fuck it.
I stand up without another word and make my way to the ice.
When I step out into the rink, skating over toward the huddle Coach Winchester has called, the entire team goes quiet.
Then Booker—not as my captain, but as my friend—starts to clap.
One by one, my teammates joined in, showing me their love and support and applauding my return to the ice.
When the clapping finally dies down, Coach slaps me on the back and proceeds with practice as if nothing happened.
I got here early to speak with him before the other guys arrived. I told him I didn’t want him to act like I was any different than I had been before. The doctors said I was as good as new, so that’s how I was going to be.
Back in December, he did tell the team that my injury had caused some memory loss and that if I seemed off or forgot something, they should just talk to me like normal, which I had appreciated.
Over the last nine weeks, I have received countless texts from them. Their messages weren’t just the standard “get better soon” bullshit. It was as if I hadn’t been hurt and MIA. They continued to include me, like an equal, and I appreciated every man on this team more than I could ever express.
We begin practice with some warm-up skating and non-contact shooting drills. I know Coach started out that way for my benefit, and I’m internally grateful. Eventually, I fall back into my old rhythm, and I’m not even thinking about being on the ice anymore.
The stick becomes an extension of my arm.
I move as if the last nine weeks never happened.
Gally can’t seem to block a single shot I take during drills, no matter how hard he tries.
At first, I think he’s letting my pucks pass to boost my confidence, but the look on his face—a mixture of frustration and astonishment—is enough to convince me that he’s really trying and can’t seem to block me from the net.
“Atta boy, Crosby!” Coach hollers from the sideline, clapping when I send the puck into the top left corner.
After a quick break, we’re split into teams to run plays and scrimmage. Coach doesn’t even look in my direction when he announces this, knowing I don’t want to be coddled.
“Booker, you’re Captain for White Team. Crosby, Blue Team.” This shocks me. Coach has never named me captain during a scrimmage. Usually, he gives it to one of the other seniors.
“Coach, are you sure? I just got back—” I begin to protest, but Coach Winchester cuts me off.
“Are you going to be captain next season after Booker and the other guys graduate?” Coach asks gruffly.
“Yes, sir… If the team chooses me,” I reply.
“Then you’d better get some experience leading the team now, son.” Coach finished splitting the team between Booker and me, then skates away to be the referee.
Drew is on my team; Beau is on Booker’s. I’ve also got Gally, our starting goalie, while Booker’s team has Jackson Young, a sophomore and backup goalie. Other than that, the teams are fairly split between starting players and underclassmen. This is going to be fun.
Back in the locker room, music is playing through a portable speaker as we all shower and get changed from practice. A rambunctious, celebratory energy fills the space after the win my team pulled during the scrimmage. Even Booker and his team are happy that I led my team to victory.
“You earned that win, C,” Booker had said, clapping me on the back as we skated off the ice.
“Comeback season!” Drew shouts, causing all the guys to whoop and holler my name.
“When are you game-ready, Crosby?” Simmons asks.
“Not for another couple of weeks,” I reply. “Doc says I need to get back in the groove before I’m thrown into a full game.”
“We need you back, man,” Gally cuts in. “Our record has tanked without you on the ice.”
I hate how conceited it makes me sound, but the team really has been struggling without me.
Although they’ve held their own the last few months, we need to win our next three games to make it to the playoffs.
This means they’ll need to win this week’s and next week’s games without me playing, then we’ll have to win my first game back.
No pressure.
The anxiety must show on my face because Booker says, “Hey, don’t sweat it, C. Even if we don’t make it this year, you’ll have your senior year to get a Final Four win under your belt.”
For Booker, as one of the few seniors, along with Simmons, this is their last chance for a Final Four win. Saint Augustine’s hasn’t won an NCAA tournament in six years, meaning that none of the seniors have even made it to the Frozen Four.
This year, though, our team was on the way to breaking the school record for the number of Wins in a season until I got hurt.
“We’re getting you to the Final Four, Book,” I say with as much conviction as I can muster. I won’t let my nerves lose him that opportunity. Booker may already be signed to the Flyers, but he deserves to end his college career with a bang.
Stella is at work tonight, so I join the boys at the house for dinner. Conversation stays light, the never-ending talk of hockey making me feel more at home than I care to admit.
Drew and Beau tag-team cooking the meal, making grilled chicken and all kinds of sides.
Sitting on one of the barstools, I think about all the meals I’ve cooked since coming back from Denver, and a small smile plays on my lips.
My injury may have been scary as hell, but if one good thing came out of it, it’s getting me back into the kitchen.
I have never felt closer to my dad—to both of my parents—than I do when I’m cooking dinner with Stella.
I realize I’m lost in thought when Beau throws a cherry tomato that catches me in the forehead.
“Earth to Colt. Anyone home in there?” he’s saying.
“Fuck off, B,” I chuckle, picking up the tomato and throwing it right back at him. He dodges out of the way, narrowly missing the flying fruit, which just happens pelt Drew in the side of the head.
“Ow! Motherfuckers, quit making a mess in my kitchen,” he reprimands, but Beau and I are too busy laughing to pay any attention to him.
Booker walks through the door, carrying a case of bottled water and a case of beer—because balance is key in life—and takes in the scene with a smirk.
“You’ll never guess who I saw at the store,” he offers to the room, addressing no one in particular.
“Who?” Beau asks, never the very patient type of guy.
“Technically, two someones. Coach’s daughter, Maya, and her friend from out of town, Danielle.”
A large crash fills the kitchen when Beau drops his tray of rolls all over the floor.
“Warren, what the hell—” Drew starts, but Beau’s next words cut him off.
“Danielle? As in Danielle-from-Denver? That Danielle?”
“The one and only. Maya saw me and came over to say hi, and to introduce her new roommate, not realizing we already knew each other.” Booker’s story makes Beau’s face go as red as the forgotten tomato still rolling around on the floor.
“New roommate?” Beau can’t seem to form any sentence that doesn’t involve repeating what Booker just said.
Deciding to have pity on him, I try changing the subject for a minute, giving him time to gather his thoughts. “Book, I didn’t know you knew Coach’s daughter like that.”
This time, Booker’s face flushes ever so slightly, although it’s hardly noticeable with his complexion unless you know to look for it.
“I don’t—not really. We’ve talked a few times here and there.” He scratches the back of his neck, the only tell I’ve found that the stoic senior is actually nervous.
“Can we just eat and pretend this conversation never happened?” Beau asks, having finished picking up all the bread from the floor.
“Yes,” Booker answers at the same time Drew and I say, “Hell, no.” However, both of them refuse to answer any more questions about those two girls for the rest of the night.
Later that night, Stella comes to my apartment when she gets off work.
She hops on my bed with a smile, a sight I’ll never get tired of seeing.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I greet, leaning over to kiss her pretty lips. “How was work?”
“I spent the whole shift working on my PT school applications,” Stella replies, huffing out a breath of frustration.
She’s been working on filling out grad school applications for the last couple of weeks.
Most of the schools’ applications are due by the end of this semester, even though she’s only a junior, because they will host interviews next fall, and send out acceptance letters by next spring, giving applicants plenty of time to know whether or not they’ve been accepted into the program and decide where they would like to attend.
Many people don’t realize that applying for a graduate program is a year-long endeavor, and Stella has been extremely stressed about the entire application process.
I reach over and hold her body close to mine as I listen to her talk.
I like that she comes to my place after work like this, where she’s been staying much more frequently.
“I know you’re going to do great, sweetheart.
You’re going to have the best application ever and get accepted to every school you apply to. ”
She grins and rolls her eyes at my optimism, but I meant every word I said. Any program would be crazy to turn her away.
Over the weeks, my memories have mostly returned fully.
I still have a few little blank spaces every now and then, where little details refuse to return.
However, Stella was one of the biggest proponents of healing I had.
She pushed me to go to my therapy and to follow all of the doctor’s instructions after I finally came home.
Stella Anderson is a healer, through and through.
“Enough about me,” she says. “How was your first practice back?” The excitement in her voice is contagious, and a grin breaks out across my face at the memory of the locker room celebrating a stupid scrimmage game win because of me.
“It was good. So good. I don’t think I’ve ever played better, to be honest. I was nervous at first, but also so ready to get back to it, and something just took over.” She beams at me with pride, squeezing me in a tight hug around the middle.
“I’m proud of you, Colt.” Her attention sends warmth flooding through my chest. “So, you feel good about playing soon?”
I hesitate, tempted to put on a brave face and pretend everything’s one-hundred percent normal.
Deciding against it, knowing I promised I’d always be completely honest about what’s going on in my head from now on, I respond, “I don’t know if ‘good’ is the right word.
I was nervous about getting back on the ice today, but I also knew that all of my teammates would be careful not to be too aggressive with me yet.
Not that I need coddling, necessarily, but I appreciated the fact that I could get back on the ice in a safe place.
“I don’t have that luxury in a game. The other team isn’t going to hold back, and I don’t know how I’m going to react to that in the moment.
I don’t… I don’t want to have a panic attack right before the game, or worse, chicken out completely.
” My admission hangs in the air, sitting heavy on my mind.
“Firstly, I want you to remember that you don’t have to play if you don’t feel ready.
You can wait and practice, and come back officially next season.
And secondly—and I don’t want this to sound like I’m diminishing your fears, because I would never do something like that—but you’re Colton fucking Crosby!
You are fast. You are an insane player. You’re going to have offers from recruiters out the ass, and probably would’ve already signed with an NHL team by now if you hadn’t gotten hurt.
You are strong, Colt.” She squeezes my hand again, turning as much as she can to face me.
I glance down at her and see the earnestness in her bright green gaze.
A smile breaks out across my face. “Way to hype me up, sweetheart. And, to think, you’re the one who told me I needed to work on humility.” Her laugh fills my room, caressing my withered soul and bringing it back to life little by little.
“But on a real note, I do want to play. I don’t want to let down my team. It’s Booker’s last year, and he deserves for me to try.”
“And I know you’ll give it your all, hotshot,” she replies.
I lean down again, this time to cup her jaw, meeting her in the middle for a kiss that is soft, sensual, and sweet. A kiss that, I hope, conveys every ounce of adoration I have for her.