Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kennedy
Will’s sleeping. He looks peaceful like this. His leg is propped up and splinted, he’s got multiple hospital blankets tucked around him like a little kid who just got tucked into bed by mom. His eyebrows aren’t pinched together in pain.
His surgery went perfectly, and according to Dr. Martinez there shouldn’t be any nerve or vascular damage which is always the biggest concern with these types of injuries. They did have to perform a multi-ligament reconstruction, which although sounds horrible, I guess went well.
It's early, around six, and I don’t envy the day he’s going to have.
I know the entire team is going to want to stop by and see him.
His dad is already talking about calling Maurice and what this means for his pro career.
I know deep down that this was a career ending injury.
He’ll never play hockey again. At least not at any competitive level.
So for now, I’m happy that he’s sleeping.
He deserves it after the day he had yesterday.
Paul walks in with a drink carrier full of coffee, none of us really slept last night.
I went home around three in the morning after he was out of surgery and out of recovery.
He was pretty sedated at that time so I felt okay about heading out to try and sleep for an hour or two.
I also took his personal item bags with me and sorted through everything in them.
A nurse very adamantly told me, “Will wants you to know his chain is in his bags.” It was.
It's currently in my purse, I’ll give it back to him when he wakes up.
Paul hands me a coffee which I gladly accept. I take a sip and hold it in my hands. These damn hospitals make them even colder than usual.
Will stirs, groaning in pain as he tries to reposition himself. Lucy runs over to the side of the bed, whispering something I can’t quite make out before she takes a seat in the chair I moved last night.
His eyes are still closed, but he sticks his hand over the railing and shakes his hand a few times.
Lucy grabs it and Will shakes her off, snatching his hand back into the bed with speed that surprises me.
A few seconds later he repeats the whole ordeal, including snatching his hand back from Lucy in quite an aggressive fashion.
I can tell Lucy’s a little offended. I know I would be if he did that to me not once, but twice. When he holds his hand over the railing a third time, clenching and unclenching a fist in Lucy’s general direction she ignores him, batting his hand away.
He’s kind of being a little petulant right now if you ask me.
He grunts, holding his opposite hand out over the other railing, clenching and unclenching his fist for a fourth time.
I shove myself between the wall and the other side of his bed, clutching his hand in mine, preparing myself for him to snatch his away.
But he doesn’t. He threads his fingers through mine, bringing our interlocked hands to his face where he kisses my wrist.
His eyes are still closed, but he’s smiling to himself, and my face is burning. I feel really awkward right now.
“Don’t be offended, mom. You should’ve heard him last night. Be glad he’s not waxing poetic about her beauty for all to hear,” Miranda snorts.
Will clenches my hand. “Shut up,” he says, voice low and groggy. That does the trick, breaking the tension in the room, and soon there’s conversation and laughter flowing.
A variety of medical people come in and out of the room taking his vitals, giving him pain meds, and helping him use the bathroom. His words are still slow and his eyes are half closed, but he’s significantly more lucid today. The meds seem to be a lot less powerful than before.
Liam and Adrian are the first to visit this morning before classes, bringing him three bagel sandwiches from Serendipity which he proceeds to demolish.
They don’t stay long and don’t ask the obvious question, dancing around the implications of his injury. Will isn’t showing it, but I know he wishes someone would just ask him outright what his plans are for next year. So when his roommates leave and it's just me and his family, I do.
“What does this mean for next year, Will? How will this affect your draft?”
The tension in the room instantly rises with Paul going stiff and Miranda and Lucy flashing me looks like I’m the most insensitive person in the world. Will though, he smiles at me, looking relieved.
“I love you so much,” he says while closing his eyes and shaking his head before he exhales and looks right at Paul.
“Dad. I’m going to physical therapy school next year.
I’m not going to the league. I doubt I’ll get called up now, with this injury, but even if I somehow do get called up, I’m going to refuse the draft. I won't sign it.”
The silence that follows is oppressive.
“You’re not thinking straight right now.”
“No, dad. I am. I love hockey. You know that I do. But I kissed my dreams of playing in the league goodbye at seventeen. My knee was never going to hold out more than a season, two at most playing pro level. You know this, don’t act like you haven’t thought about it too.”
Paul’s facing the window, looking down at the parking lot with his hands on his hips. From behind he looks a lot like Will does when he’s holding in how badly his knee hurts: back ramrod straight, shoulders high with tension.
Will continues, “And I’ve thought about this a lot. I want to be able to skate with my kids, teach them how to play hockey…dance with Kennedy at our wedding. One rookie season isn’t worth all of that.”
Paul’s nodding his head up and down. I can see his jaw clenching and unclenching while his eyelids are rapidly blinking like he’s trying to hold back tears. “You’re right. Yeah, I agree with you, nothing’s worth that.”