Chapter 11
Jamie
F
uck.
I groan loudly as Jared bends my knee in a way it shouldn’t be bent. I don’t care how many degrees someone has on their wall or how many times they say it’s ‘part of the process.’
If I wanted to be slowly tortured by elastic bands and someone leaning over me, counting reps with a smile, I would’ve signed up for it willingly. Instead, I’m here lying on my back, knee exposed, my pride in pieces.
Physical therapy should really come with a waiver that says, ‘may cause rage, existential dread, and the sudden urge to throw things.’
I knew this wasn’t going to be a pleasant process, but the pain is unimaginable. I have a pretty big pain tolerance, and this is whooping my fucking ass.
This is supposed to help you, Jamie. Keep going.
Jared hands me a foam roller the size of a small missile.
“Quads today,” he says cheerfully. “You’re tight.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
“We’re going to mobilize the joint a bit, then work on strength.”
He presses his thumbs into the muscle above my kneecap, and I swear I see white.
“Jesus fuck,” I gasp, hands gripping the edges of the table. “You trying to kill me?”
“That’s scar tissue,” he says calmly, like he’s talking about a mildly inconvenient coffee stain. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“No, you’re talking.”
I clamp my mouth shut and stare at the ceiling, counting tiles to keep my mind on something other than the searing pain. There’s a crack shaped like Florida. I’ve memorized it. That’s how often I’m here. Jared works methodically, unapologetic. Every press sends heat shooting through my leg, sharp and deep and personal.
“This wouldn’t be necessary,” I grit out, “if my knee wasn’t a piece of shit.”
“It’s not a piece of shit,” he replies. “It’s traumatized. And this wouldn’t be as bad if you’d come in sooner.”
I bark out a humorless laugh. “Join the club.”
He pauses, glancing up at me. “You doing okay mentally?”
I scoff. “Fine.”
He doesn’t push. That’s one thing I’ll give him. He knows when to back off. The truth is that my thoughts have been all over the place lately. Not being able to play, being away from my team, seeing Ellie again. It’s all taking a toll on me. It’s hard not to be negative when a shit ton of negative things are happening to you.
We move to the bars next. Assisted squats. My least favorite.
“Slow on the way down,” he instructs.
“I’m going slow.”
“You’re cheating,” he accuses.
“I am not cheating.”
“You’re shifting your weight.”
“Because it hurts.”
“That’s the point.”
I lower myself another inch and my knee screams as I feel a deep grinding sensation that makes my stomach flip. My hands shake as I grip the bars, sweat rolling down my spine.
“Fuck this,” I snap, standing up so fast it makes my head spin.
“Jamie,” Jared warns. “Sit back down.”
“No. I’m not doing this today.”
He steps in front of me, voice steady. “You don’t get to quit when it gets hard.”
Something in me snaps.
“My entire fucking career is over because of this knee,” I bark, jabbing a finger downward. “I think I’m allowed to tap out of a goddamn squat.”
The room goes quiet. Jared doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t argue. He just nods slowly. I’m sure he’s used to people freaking out on him. I know I lost my cool for a second, but I fucking hate this shit. I’m twenty-seven years old. I have a whole life to live, and one stupid accident is going to ruin it for me.
“Sit,” he says. “We’ll reset.”
I do, my chest heaving, jaw tight, shame creeping in behind the anger. I stare at the floor, blinking hard. After a minute, he speaks again.
“You know why this feels worse than games or injuries, right?”
I don’t answer.
“Because you can’t brute-force it,” he continues. “You can’t push through and win. You have to slow down. Let your body lead.”
I laugh bitterly. “That’s not how I’m wired.”
“I know.” He meets my eyes. “But it might be how you survive this.”
That sits heavy in my chest.
We finish the session quieter after that. My leg throbs, but the anger dulls into something heavier. Something like grief.
As I’m pulling my brace back on, Jared says, “You’re not failing.”
Feels like I am.
“You’re adjusting,” he adds.
Doesn’t feel like that either.
Later, in my car, I sit with the engine off, my forehead resting against the steering wheel. I used to measure my days in goals, assists, wins. Now it’s reps completed, degrees of motion gained, and pain tolerated.
I fucking hate it.
But worse than that, I’m terrified that this is it. That one day soon, someone’s going to tell me that my knee did everything it could. That hockey did everything it was going to do for me. And then what?
I start the car, my jaw clenching as I think of everything I’ve lost.
I’ll be back here in two days. I’ll do the squats. I’ll grit my teeth and count the tiles and let Jared dig his thumbs into my scars because if I stop showing up then it’s really over. And I’m not ready for that yet.
The drive home is quiet. I don’t blast music like I usually do. I just listen to the sound of the turn signal clicking and my thoughts doing laps I can’t keep up with.
When I get home, Ellie’s car is already in the driveway.
My chest tightens. I knew she’d be here, but for some reason it still shocks me that it’s her.
Inside, the house smells like her vanilla perfume. She’s had the same scent since high school, and I love it. It’s familiar and sweet and… it’s Ellie. I shut the front door a little harder than necessary, toeing off my shoes and leaning against the wall for a second while my knee throbs in protest.
“Jamie?” she calls from the direction of the kitchen.
“It’s me,” I call back.
“You okay?” she asks tentatively, as if she’s mad at herself for wondering about my well-being.
“Fine,” I call back automatically.
I’m a damn liar, but she doesn’t need to know that. I round the corner and find her standing at the counter in one of those oversized sweaters that swallow her whole. Her hair is up in a messy bun. She’s wearing no makeup. She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful.
That realization hits harder than it should.
Ellie studies my face, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Physical therapy was shit.”
She gives me a pensive look. “That bad?”
I shrug, heading for the fridge. “Depends how much you enjoy being humbled by rubber bands.”
I grab a water, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. Ellie leans back against the counter, arms crossing loosely.
“Is it helping?” she asks.
“Feels like it’s making it worse, but Jared says it’s helping.”
“Is that your therapist?”
“Yup. He’s an asshole, but he knows what he’s doing.”
There’s a beat of silence that feels awkward.
I don’t know how to act around her. It’s like I want to be close to her, but I don’t know how to be. It seems like she might understand where I’m at too. I think she wants to be near me too, she’s just too proud to show it. She would be smart to ignore me and run away. I broke her heart; I don’t deserve anything from her. But I don’t know if I can go back to pretending she never existed.
“Ellie. I’m sorry if it feels like I’m hovering,” I admit. “Or saying the wrong thing.”
She considers me for a moment, then sighs. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
I swallow. “It’s not exactly a dream scenario.”
“No,” she agrees. “It’s not.”
She turns back to what she’s doing, clearly done with our conversation. I should leave it there. I know I should, but me being me, I don’t.
“Hey Ellie?” I ask timidly, feeling like an ass for even asking what I’m about to ask. If my teammates could see me now, they’d call me a pussy.
She turns back at me, her eyes glistening. “Yes?”
“Will you ever forgive me?”
I see the sharp intake of breath as she mulls over how to answer my shit question.
“I don’t know,” she replies softly, turning around and organizing silverware in a drawer. That’s it. That’s all I’m going to get from her. That’s all I deserve. I nod even though she’s no longer looking at me.
I head upstairs, my knee aching, and my heart doing something stupid in my chest. Physical therapy might be tearing me apart piece by piece, but Ellie… Ellie is doing something worse.
She’s reminding me of who I was before everything broke.
And I’m not sure I can afford to remember that guy.