Chapter Thirty-Seven Jeremy
The locker room hums with the chaotic rhythm of pregame rituals and the steady drone of voices. Connor is predictably the loudest, the final bites of his customary peanut butter and pickle sandwich dangling from his hand.
I smile because, inexplicably, Vanya loves that combination, too. I wonder if she’ll be watching us on TV.
“You know what they say about goalies who smile too much before a game, Jeremy?” Connor says, his mouth half full.
“Yeah,” I shoot back without looking up, adjusting my pads. “They’ve already seen the garbage forwards like you are gonna throw at them.”
A few of the guys around us chuckle. Lance, our star forward and trash talker supreme, points his stick at Connor. “He’s not garbage, he’s compost.”
Connor good-naturedly laughs along with everyone, even if he’s often the butt of our jokes.
“Jeremy, you’re lucky your job doesn’t require skating. Everyone knows goalies don’t move enough to count as athletes.”
Connor bugging me is also a pregame ritual. I toss a roll of tape at him.
“And your feet barely touch the ice when you’re riding the bench. Guess we’re both specialists.”
Connor snickers. The banter keeps us loose, but underneath it, my focus starts to narrow.
My gear feels heavier tonight. The compression of the pads, normally comforting, sits awkwardly against my hip. The dull ache has been difficult to ignore lately. Treatments that used to work like magic—stretching, ice baths, anti-inflammatories—aren’t cutting it anymore. I’ve upped my doses of the pills, but they barely take the edge off. We’re also in the middle of an extended road schedule on the West Coast so I haven’t been in the clinic for a week. Things will settle down when I get back, I’m sure of it.
I flex my leg experimentally, the movement tight and restricted. It’s like there’s sandpaper grinding in my joint. Lionel eyes me from across the room. He’s sharp—too sharp. I know he’s noticed the stiffness in my gait.
“You good?” he asks, casually strolling my way.
“Always,” I reply, forcing a grin.
His gaze lingers longer than I like. “Jeremy, if something’s up—”
“I’m fine,” I cut him off, slapping his shoulder as I stand. He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it slide. For now.
Stepping on the ice in Vancouver is like walking into the middle of a storm. The air is charged, the stands packed with screaming fans in a sea of white and blue. Canadians are infamous for their hostility against opposing teams. I feel those bad vibes radiating from all around us.
I settle in front of my net, taking in the chaos with a measured calm. Everything behind the blue crease is my domain. From here, I see it all. The play unfolding, the seams in their strategy, the moments when a shot will come before the shooter even knows it. From the first puck drop, the boards rattle under the force of our constant hits. This is going to be a bruiser of a game.
During a commercial break, Macintyre, one of the Vancouver goons, circles my crease. His sneer makes his face look like a pit bull’s.
“Hope you’re ready for a long night, Lopez. Gonna light you up.”
“Is that what you told your girlfriend last night? She didn’t believe you, either,” I reply, deadpan and unbothered. Let him talk. He’s all bark, no bite.
The game continues at a blistering pace. Vancouver comes out swinging, their forecheck relentless. From my crease, I track every movement, my eyes darting from puck carrier to winger, anticipating the play. Midway through the period, Macintyre comes charging down the wing. I crouch, ready for the shot, but Connor closes in too aggressively. Macintyre loses an edge and collides into me, his full weight slamming into my chest as the net topples.
The collision knocks the wind out of me, but before I can shove Macintyre off, Connor is on top of him, fists flying. The crowd roars as the refs dive in, pulling Connor off and dragging him to the penalty box.
“Two minutes for being an idiot,” I mutter under my breath, because instigating a fight did us no favors.
I push away from the ice and readjust my pads. My hip protests, the pain sharper now, but I grit my teeth and shove it aside. As the first period winds down, my body feels like it’s moving through molasses. Vancouver’s relentless physicality has taken its toll, every hit and blocked shot amplifying the aches in my lower body.
With a mere minute left in the period, a defenseman winds up for a shot from the blue line. I square up, tracking the puck as it rockets toward me, but the play collapses in front of the net. A Vancouver forward hurtles into my crease, his stick catching my leg awkwardly as I slide across.
The pain is immediate, sharp, and searing. I try to ignore it, kicking the puck away and covering up as the whistle blows. My vision blurs for a moment. I force myself to breathe through the pain. It’s bad, but I can make it to intermission, which is in fifteen seconds.
The next play is a disaster. We lose possession on a face-off. Players surge into our zone. I move forward to cut the angle. A slapshot comes from the point, and I move to block, but a deflection sends it careening toward the corner of the net. I dive, extending my leg to make the save, but the motion twists my hip at an unnatural angle.
Something gives—a pop or a rip—and the pain is excruciating. An electric shock shoots down my leg and up my spine.
I collapse onto my back. The world spins then narrows so all I can think about it sharp pain. My leg feels like it’s on fire, the hot sting of ache radiating everywhere. I force myself to push past the hurt. My breaths are shallow and fast, each one dragging me closer to the edge of panic. The agony isn’t fading, not even a little.
But I’ve been here before, haven’t I?
A memory from a junior tournament floats to the surface. I had blocked a breakaway with a sprawling kick save that overextended my ankle. It hurt like hell, but after a few weeks of rehab I was back on the ice.
Then college—my rookie season—when a shot from the point hit me square in the mask and knocked me flat. Doctors said I was concussed, but it turned out to be a bruised ego more than anything else.
Even last season, when I hyperextended my knee in a scramble at the crease, the trainers swore I’d be out for weeks. Two games later, I was back.
Strains pass. Adjustments are made. Bodies heal. Right?
I grit my teeth, trying to draw strength from those moments, but this feels different. I stare up at the rafters, the banners swaying slightly. I focus on the biting chill of ice against the back of my neck. The game clock ticks down the final seconds of the period, but the sound is muffled by my thoughts.
My body has always moved differently. Stretched farther, sprung faster, reached longer. The one thing I could count on, despite the strict pain management it takes to control my connective tissue disorder, is how EDS has been a weapon in my game. Now, lying here, I feel betrayed by it. The ice beneath me feels colder than it ever has, and for the first time, I can’t simply force myself to get up.
The trainers are around me now, their hands on my pads, their voices low as they assess the damage. I want to tell them I’m fine, that this is nothing, that I’ve been here before—but the words stick in my throat. Lionel’s voice cuts through the fog, calm but firm.
“Jeremy, stay still. The stretcher is coming.”
“Help me up.” I try to move, but the pain is blinding. My chest heaves with shallow breaths. My gloved hands claw uselessly at the ice.
“We’re getting the stretcher,” someone says firmly.
“No.” I grit my teeth, trying again to push myself up. The second I sit up, my hip flexors scream in protest. There’s a raw, pathetic whimper that surprises everyone. It’s me. I’m the pathetic whimper.
The stretcher arrives, and I’ve never felt more helpless. My teammates gather around, their faces tight with worry, but I can’t focus on anything except the anguish and the fear tearing into my chest. As they wheel me off the ice, I can’t shut off the questions looping in my mind.
What if this time is different?
What if this doesn’t pass?
What if treatments fail?
Vanya’s face comes into focus in my mind’s eye. Her words of warning return: If you keep ignoring the problem, you’re risking your entire career.
The memory hits harder than any slapshot.