Chapter 59
RAKE
Petal brings me ice for my knee as I sit in front of the TV, watching but not watching, and feeling sorry for myself.
“Here you go. You want more Tylenol?” she asks.
She’s been a champ, especially since I am not a good patient.
“No. I’d rather feel the pain so I don’t forget how I fucked up.”
She puts her hands on her hips in that no-nonsense way she has. “C’mon. You got hit. You have an MCL injury. You’re supposed to be better in a few weeks. I don’t get why you’re being such a grump.”
I stare at the TV but I’m not seeing it because I’m flicking the channels too fast. It feels good to take my frustration out on the remote, but if I don’t put it down, it will end up broken.
Turns out I don’t have to. Petal snatches it out of my hands and puts it in her back pocket.
“Can I have that back, please?” I snap.
She shakes her head. “Not if you’re going to keep acting like a jerk.”
The fear, anger, and disbelief of getting hurt on the ice went away a few days ago, only to be replaced by a fury at potentially losing everything that’s important to me.
I’m done for the rest of the season, which, admittedly, was nearly over, but being sidelined is not something any pro athlete is good at dealing with.
Taking away my game takes away my identity, and what the fuck does that leave me with?
My daily routine is out the window. I miss the guys, their camaraderie and friendship, their pats on the back and constructive criticism, and I miss being in my skates and speeding across the ice. Instead, my time is occupied with a flurry of doctor appointments and physical therapy.
Of course, Petal’s supportive. Actually, she’s more than supportive, she’s been a saint, putting up with all my bullshit.
The doctors may have promised I’ll be up again in a few weeks, but any athlete knows that’s a best-case guesstimate.
When that festers in my thoughts, all the doubts creep in, about my ability to recover, my place on the team, and the future of my career.
I’m already twenty-nine, on the old side for a hockey player.
Never thought I’d be put out to pasture before I’m fucking thirty years old.
I’m trying to stay positive and focus on progress rather than setbacks, but at the moment, I suck at that stuff.
I hate for Petal to see me like this, down in the dumps, bitching about everything like a little baby. It’s humiliating. And demoralizing.
All hockey players know that an injury can occur at any time. I’ve seen horrible things happen to them. Truth be told, I really don’t have it that bad. Just a knee injury. I’ve seen dozens of concussions, players sliced by someone’s skate blade, teeth knocked out—you name it.
In comparison, I have nothing to complain about. And yet, ‘just’ a knee injury can end a career.
I’m pissed.
“Hey,” Petal says, settling in on the sofa next to me, “why don’t we go back to Tahoe for a few days to that killer house. It would be good for you to get a change of scenery.”
I know she’s trying to help. But I’m just not in a place where I can gracefully accept anything. I’m too busy wallowing.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Did you hear on the news? There are rumors circulating my career might be over. Fuckers. They can’t wait to see a guy down on his luck.”
She turns to me. “I never thought you’d be the man to act like such a wuss when things don’t go your way.”
“What?” I snap.
She raises her eyebrows. “You heard me.”
Jesus. I am so not in the mood.
“Look. Let’s get dressed and go to the game tonight. It will be good for the team to see you and get your support. It will put an end to the rumors too.”
I look at the cane in the corner of the living room. I can’t get around without it. I’d have to use it in front of everyone.
That would blow. I can see it now, everyone looking at me with pity, like I’m all washed up.
She jumps to her feet and grabs my shoes and a jacket. “Get up.”
I look out the window of my apartment, a view I never thought I’d get sick of looking at. Fog swirls over the bay, and a couple massive container ships pass under the bridge.
Holy fuck, am I in a funk.
“Look, we’ll get stadium nachos covered with that weird orange sludge. You know, the stuff they say is cheese, but everyone knows is really not cheese? Where they throw in one tiny jalapeno slice to make you think you’re getting your vegetables for the day?”
Why does she have to be so cute?
“Look, all you’ve eaten today are the cookies your mom sent. The ones she wraps individually before putting them in the box. By the way, who does that?”
“What’s weird about individually wrapping each cookie? Doesn’t everyone do it that way?” I finally look at her and see she’s put on one of the team jerseys I got her. I’ll be damned.
Tapping her foot, she raises her eyebrows and looks down at me where I’m still slumping into the sofa.
“No. Most people, at least people who are not part of the Hanson family, put all the cookies in a box or bag or whatever, and mail them that way. No offense, but I do think your mom’s method is a little abnormal. ”
I’m trying not to laugh and in fact, don’t even want to smile. But I can’t help myself, nor do I really want to. I’m with this ball-busting woman for a reason. She lets me get away with zero shit, as she should.
I don’t deserve her, I really don’t.
“Jesus Christ,” I say. “Okay, I’ll go. Just please stop begging me.”
“Nobody’s begging you to do anything, and if you keep acting like you’re doing me some kind of favor, I won’t help you put your shoes on.”
I love this woman.
I put my shoe on the foot of my good leg and she puts my shoe on the other. She helps me to my feet and steadies me while I pull on a jacket, and then hands me my cane, which I initially refused to use until the doctors insisted it was better than crutches because it would make me work harder.
They know their shit.
Petal helps me into the backseat of the Range Rover, where I can keep my knee mostly straight, and drives us to the stadium.
The parking lot is already full, and some people are even tailgating, sucking down beers and chowing on grilled hotdogs.
It’s funny, this is a part of the game ritual I never see.
I’m usually in the locker room hours before a game, long before the fans start to arrive.
Petal pulls into the team parking facility and security takes us in an elevator to the family suite.
“Haven’t been up here in ages,” I say, acknowledging the nods and pats on the back I’m getting while wobbling down the hall.
We enter the suite and while it’s pretty full, one of the wives nudges her kids who’ve claimed the seats in front, and they scamper. We take their places, and I look down over the ice from a different perspective than usual.
“Does it feel weird?” Petal asks, tugging on my hand.
“Yeah,” I say, taking it all in.
I’m looking at the fans and players from this bird’s eye view, when heads start turning in my direction and people start pointing.
“Look!” Petal says. “You’re on the jumbotron.”
The crowd starts to cheer as they spot me in the suite. I’m so taken aback by the greeting that Petal has to nudge me to wave.
Now the team has figured out I’m up here too, and they’re waving with thumbs up and shaking fists.
Jesus. To think only an hour ago I was at home sulking, wallowing in self-pity like my life was over. This shit is humbling, and my eyes fill with tears.
I wave one last time and I wonder when I got so lucky.
And then I realize I have been, all along.