Chapter Twenty-Nine Jeremy
The final two minutes of the game is pure chaos.
I’ve got guys crashing practically on top of me. Gloves flying, sticks chipping at the ice, elbows inches from my mask. Sergei’s battling with one of Ottawa’s bruisers, a massive forward determined to block my view of the puck. My defenseman is a calm menace as he systematically shoves the opponent away from me, but I know Sergei. He’s one stick jab away from unloading a punch.
Although my view is limited, I see someone crank his stick to launch the puck a hundred miles per hour. It gets caught in the tangle of bodies in front of me. Fuck, where is it? There! The puck rolls out of the mess of legs and sticks.
My body ignores the ache in my hip when I make an abrupt pivot. I stretch my stick for a poke check. Just the tip of my blade connects, redirecting the puck, but it doesn’t clear. Instead, it ricochets off someone’s skate, catches a weird bounce, and starts a horrifying trickle toward the goal line. Everything tunnels to the black rubber dot that’s seconds from eliminating our lead.
Not today. Not on my watch.
Instincts kick in. I dive, launching my body halfway into the net, arms out, shoulder muscles screaming, and slap my glove down. The puck’s under me now, tucked out of sight. Meanwhile, because the whistle hasn’t blown to end the play, Ottawa players’ sticks are stabbing me, trying to shove the puck loose or break my ribs, whichever comes first.
In the chaos, I make a sneaky swimming motion, shifting me and the puck further away from the net. They’ll have to invent a whole new camera angle to confirm that it crossed the blue line.
The whistle blows, finally. I push up, ignoring the rush of pain in my shoulder. My hip complains like it’s been on the ice twice as long as I have. The Ottawa bruiser leans in, all sneer and bravado.
“You won’t be so lucky next time, Lopez. You’ll be scraping that puck out of the back of the net.”
I don’t even blink. “If you’re seeing pucks in my net, you should get your eyes checked.”
Sergei puts himself between me and the opponent. “Step away from my goalie, or it’s your ass I’ll be scraping off the ice.”
The guy scowls at my defenseman’s threat, and Sergei is two seconds from dropping his gloves for a fight. A ref blows his whistle with curt impatience, indicating it’s time for a face-off. Sergei nods at me, just a flicker of acknowledgment that he’s got my back.
The goalie is the last line of defense, but I’m nothing without my teammates. If I have to throw myself across this crease a thousand more times tonight, I’ll do it.
Nothing’s getting through.
***
I hear her approach the examination room, giving the nurse instructions to let Kyle know which room we’re in. The Mavericks finished back-to-back games and Vanya works nonstop, so we haven’t been together since Christmas. That changes tonight.
“Hi, Jeremy.” Her voice is clipped and the iPad is pressed against her chest. Hair pushed away from her face and chin up, Vanya is a picture of competence and authority.
“Hello, Dr. Kapur. How’s your day been?” These are simple words, but I say it with an inflection of, hey beautiful, did you miss me ?
“I’m fine.”
“Did you have a relaxing Christmas?” I ask obnoxiously when the nurse sticks her head in to say that Kyle is on his way.
Vanya clears her throat and ignores my question. “How’s your pain level today?”
To slide back into our roles of doctor and patient, I drop the teasing. “It’s sore as expected. I’ll need the TENS machine and my back could use that needling technique. It worked well last time.”
She steps forward and places her hand on my shoulder blades to find stubborn knots. There’s nothing sexual about her touch, but somehow my brain translates her closeness as something more. It’s that herbal aroma—so lovely, so Vanya.
I can’t help associating that perfect mixture of lavender and eucalyptus with making love.
However, I promised discretion. That’s why I don’t nuzzle my face into her neck. It takes enormous effort. Ask my cock, which is more than ready for some nuzzling.
“Here?” she asks, making circles along the edge of my shoulder.
“That feels good.” My voice comes out husky. I turn slightly to get a view of her full lips. “God, I missed you.” Before I’m called a liar about staying professional, I’ll remind everyone that patients miss their doctors all the time. It was a completely normal thing to say.
Vanya doesn’t think so. She jumps back as if pushed by an invisible force.
“Kyle will be here any minute. We got the results from Dr. Leroi.”
“And?”
“Let’s wait for Kyle. He’s been on your case the longest.”
“I’m here!” Kyle calls from the hallway. He enters and gives me a pat on the back. “Good to see you, Jeremy. Great game last night.”
“Thanks.”
Kyle and Vanya stand in front of me, their bodies blocking the door. Maybe it’s the stiffness of their stances that make the hair on my neck stand. The walls are suddenly too close and the air inexplicably colder than two minutes ago.
Vanya flips her iPad so I can see the screen. There’s a gallery of images. She clicks one and turns to Kyle.
“Jeremy,” Kyle starts, his voice low and cautious like he’s trying to lessen the blow with his tone alone. He points to the image. “The new imaging… it showed more damage than we suspected. We’re not looking at minor tears here.”
I fold my arms, bracing myself despite what feels like a cornered position. “What are you seeing?”
“Microtears in the hip labrum,” Vanya answers for him. “It’s the reason the usual exercises and treatment are no longer working the way they used to. Which means—”
“We change the exercises,” I interrupt. “Bump up the anti-inflammatories if needed. It’s stable enough.”
Vanya clenches her jaw, so she sounds curt. “No, Jeremy, this is beyond just keeping things stable. We’re talking about structural compromise. If that labrum goes, you’re looking at a complete tear. With EDS, that’s not something you can rehab through.”
Her eyes are intense, drilling into me. Does she think that if she stares hard enough, I’ll just, what, lie down and get massages all day? I release a breath, rolling my shoulders to brush off the defensiveness crawling up my spine.
“I’ve played through pain before. I know my body better than anyone.” I don’t want to overreact to their diagnosis, but I haven’t gotten this far in my career without having to advocate for myself through the years. I’ve been given doom and gloom before. Each time, Kyle and I find a way to push through. Vanya just needs to adjust to how professional athletes function. Everyone plays with some kind of injury.
“I can get through this,” I explain to her in measured tones. “Obsessing about what might happen will do more damage than whatever it is you’re worried about.”
Kyle shifts, looking uneasy, like he’s stuck between agreeing with me or backing Vanya. Who is still glaring, by the way.
“Jeremy, she’s not wrong.” Kyle breaks the staring contest. “Discovering the labral tears is more than just identifying pain stressors. It’s also an indication that your condition is straining your body in ways we hadn’t anticipated. If this fully tears, you’ll require surgery, a long recovery, and with EDS, it’s not a predictable healing process.”
“I’ve been through worse. I can’t let a few lines on a screen dictate how I play.”
“It’s not a few lines on a screen, Jeremy. Please, please take this seriously,” Vanya begs. If her red cheeks and lowered gaze are any indication, she’s embarrassed by the outburst.
I’m overtaken by the desire to pull her in my arms and reassure Vanya. We can address the new microtears through exercise and treatment. I’ll work harder than ever and—in my heart I know this—she’ll do everything to help me.
“I know you guys are looking out for me.” I reach over and graze her hand. She inhales and sends an uneasy glance at Kyle. I reach over and pat him on the back to cover my slip. “I need to focus on the season. We’re on the path to the playoffs. We can revisit this in the summer.”
Vanya’s eyes blaze with frustration. “Jeremy, this isn’t just a ‘down the road’ situation. We’re warning you because if you keep ignoring the problem, you’re risking your entire career. I suspect your body is compensating for the tears in other ways, which is why your knees have worsened. Ignoring the problem could affect your long-term mobility.” Vanya is gripping the iPad so hard her knuckles are white.
“I’ve got it under control, Vanya.” I’m in the middle of my most successful season yet. These microtears are causing pain, but they aren’t diminishing my performance. There’s a time and place for preventive care and then there’s the hockey season, when you leave everything on the ice. “I can’t afford to second-guess every move I make. That’s the last thing I need.”
Kyle clears his throat, glancing sideways at Vanya, then back at me. “Just think about it, Jeremy. We can work with your coach to lessen your nights on the ice.”
“That’s out of the question, Kyle.”
“There are regenerative treatments we could try to increase blood flow in the area and accelerate healing in damaged tissues,” Vanya offers. “But that would require recovery time.”
“What? Like a day?”
“A week after each treatment.”
Shaking my head, I state dismissively, “That is also out of the question.”
She huffs at her iPad, stabbing the screen with an angry finger. Probably the way she would like to stab me in the eye right now.
But what Vanya sees as stubbornness is just the way hockey players are. Injuries are part of life. I’m nothing special in that regard. Unless I have to be carried off the ice on a stretcher, I’m staying in front of my net.
Kyle lifts his hands in surrender. “If you start feeling worse—”
I wave him off. “I’ll stay on top of it. In the meantime, am I going to get treatment today or what?”
Vanya looks the way she did at our first meeting. Insulted but unwilling to reveal her emotions. “He’s due for the TENS machine and needling on the shoulder,” Vanya states placidly. “Are you free to do it, Kyle? I need to catch up on some files.”
“Yeah, I’ve got him. It’s been a while, big guy.”
By the time Kyle washes his hands and arranges the equipment, Vanya is long gone.