Chapter Twelve Vanya
I am a Maple Leafs fan by default. It is a fact that comes with being raised in Toronto. I cheer for the blue and white, so entering an arena to support another team feels like a betrayal.
A security guard with a Mavericks cap smiles at me to reveal vampire teeth and the hint of blood at the corner of his mouth. Everyone in Columbus is determined to remind me it’s Halloween.
“Hey, Sabrina! Is our captain scoring a hat trick tonight?” he asks.
Sabrina, looking svelte in her black outfit with gray lines across the torso to look like a goalie net and a flashing red headlamp on her head—to simulate the goal light when she flicks a switch—answers cheerfully. “You got it, Mr. Mathias!”
Sabrina picked me up, since she has a pass for underground parking. One of the many perks of marrying a hockey superstar, I guess.
“Thanks for showing me around,” I address her.
“My pleasure. It isn’t easy to navigate the lower floors. I can bring you straight to the recovery room where Lionel and the trainers set up.”
“I appreciate your help. I’”
She wasn’t kidding about how confusing the hallways get after a few turns. There’s what appears to be a classroom with a large projector, a laundry room, and a storage section. We navigate past a glass wall revealing a state-of-the-art gym that’s currently empty.
“The guys are in the locker room for the pregame talk. I’ll be at the family viewing suite if you want to join me later. Lionel can bring you over.”
Tonight, I’m consulting with the head trainer and showing movements, stretches, and exercises relevant to Jeremy’s postgame recovery. Lionel and I talked previously over video call while they were traveling. He even sent me game footage to show where the goalie’s movements might be contributing to the problem.
I took note of goalie movements that are not contributing to the problem. It’s a shorter list.
The training staff is energetic and friendly. When Lionel asks for a demo volunteer, all five guys raise their hands eagerly. Blake, who looks to be straight out of undergrad, leaps to the front, determined to be chosen. My demonstration goes well. Blake allows me and his colleagues to move him around like he’s the athlete on recovery.
There are questions that go beyond Jeremy’s treatment, particularly about knees. It’s always the knees.
I don’t mind that they’re picking my brain. That’s what I’m here for. Besides, it’s surprisingly invigorating to talk about athletes at their prime. Unlike most patients, the consequences for athletes are on a larger scale because they have repercussions beyond the patient and their social network.
The wrong move by one of the trainers in this room could end a career or wreck a season. And in a hockey city? A star athlete getting hurt and preventing the team from success could start a small riot. I’m Canadian, so I’ve witnessed the sport’s fanaticism firsthand.
Time flies. By the time Lionel walks me out, the third period has already started.
I think I might stay down here so I can help prepare the postgame recovery. We went longer than expected. My text to Sabrina is followed by a ping.
Sabrina: No problem! I’ll give you a tour of the upper-level next time.
I send a thumbs up as someone taps my elbow. “Wanna watch from ice level? It’s been a bruiser of a game,” Blake says.
We pull up to a group standing at the corner section of the rink.
“Move over so Dr. Kapur can see,” someone says before I find myself in front of the plexiglass where I have a sideline view of Jeremy. He’s crouched and ready to protect their 3-1 lead. The Mavericks are in the throes of killing a penalty.
The Philadelphia powerplay unit is swarming around him. Or, more accurately, attacking around Jeremy’s net. It’s dizzying to see the rush of bodies, the flash of sticks, the splatter of ice hacked by sharp blades.
He makes a save by eliminating the gap between his pads—also known as a five-hole—but an opponent slaps the puck away before Jeremy can stop the play. A defenseman cranks up his stick and sends the puck toward Jeremy’s head at the speed of a car. Fans hold their collective breath.
From where I’m standing, I hear as well as see Jeremy grab the puck with his glove. He does it so easily, it looks like a trick. Now you see it, now you don’t.
The arena explodes in rowdy cheers, and the game goes to a commercial break.
Jeremy takes off his helmet, revealing sweat-soaked hair. He’s stoic, nearly frowning in deep seriousness while skating around the net. His gaze is cast down, as if he’s studying the cracks on the ice. He taps the posts sharply, scolding them into serving his will. God, why is that so freaking sexy?
Van-ya, Van-ya, Van-ya. Slow your fucking ride.
This the first time I’ve seen Jeremy in his element. He’s not a patient, he’s an athlete in his prime. A man in his prime. Confidence and determination pulse out of him in waves. I can’t look away because for once, I’m letting myself look at the shape of his brows and the fullness of his lips, the curve of his jaw and the grace of his movements. For the first time, I admit that Jeremy Lopez is a man and not a patient. A man who happens to be the hottest player on ice.
And then, suddenly, his honey brown eyes lift and meet mine. My stomach flutters so unexpectedly, I fold my arms over my mid-torso.
“Are you cold?” Blake asks, removing his jacket and placing it around my shoulders before I can answer. I stiffen in annoyance but say nothing. It would be crass of me to shrug off a nice gesture.
When my gaze returns to the formidable goaltender, Jeremy is no longer skating around his net. He’s turned into a scowling statue. With the bulky uniform and ice skates, he looks like a giant staring down at us. Heat floods my face. I’m not sure what comes over me at that moment. It’s as if Jeremy’s glare is an unspoken scolding.
With zero warning, my body decides to shrug off the jacket like it was covered in thorns. I return it to Blake with a mumbled “I’m good.”
Before Jeremy secures his helmet, before the referee whistles for the puck drop, before the action resumes and the crowd turns itself into a frenzy, Jeremy sends me the most stunning smile. It would have been easy to miss if I wasn’t staring right back.
Sanity to Vanya: Jeremy Lopez did not flirt smile at you during a hockey game.
What a ridiculous thought. That smile wasn’t meant for me at all. Standing this close to the ice is making me hallucinate.
I should refocus on why I’m here. At the end of this period, I’ll be joining the commotion of postgame recovery. This is an opportunity to enhance my understanding of pain management for prime athletes. Great research material.
The word jolts me to attention. Jeremy is my research subject. My patient.
Whatever this bizarre reaction to him is, there’s no room or reason for it. Yet I cannot deny the way he makes me feel when I watch him from the sidelines: awed and alert. Hungry for his attention. The need is so powerful and unexpected, my imagination fooled me into thinking that I captured his attention, too. I shake my head to clear the silly sentiment.
And yet, the moment the game ends, my body shivers with something like excitement. I’m harboring an uncanny impulse to run and find Jeremy. To confirm, with my own eyes, the human shape of the goaltender who lorded over that rink. What the hell is wrong with me tonight?
By the time I get to the recovery room, I’m a bundle of nerves.
Then, he enters. Jeremy’s head swivels, stopping only when he sees me. Butterflies in my stomach—more like wild geese late for migration—take flight.
I need to get it together. This is a medical setting with clear boundaries dictated by propriety and professionalism. A patient is someone I work on, not someone who takes my breath away.
My brain needs to rein in my body’s unreasonable reactions. Unfortunately, my body doesn’t listen to reason. I feel choked and giddy and breathless.
Jeremy walks toward me like I’m the only one in the room. Heat floods my face before it rushes to my center. The closer he gets, the more aware I am of my body’s feverish state. If this stomach-churning, mind-blanking, body-aching need is any indication, being around Jeremy Lopez cannot be healthy. But the thought of staying away from him makes me sick.
I am a doctor with no cure for myself.