Chapter 3
CYCLE: PUCK MOVEMENT ALONG THE BOARDS TO WEAR DOWN DEFENDERS
The hallway outside the doctor’s office feels too bright.
Overly clean and quiet. Like the whole place is trying to pretend it didn’t just steal my identity.
Moser’s parting words echo in my head. “I want you to have a long, full life—one where you recognize the people you love, where you stay yourself.”
But who am I without a pair of skates laced up and a stick in my hand?
Simply unable to fathom sliding into the car waiting to take me back to Teterboro, I slip on a skull cap, wrap a scarf around my neck and pull up the collar of my coat to protect me from the brutal cold.
Stepping outside, I drop my head and make my way around the building until I come across an unoccupied bench.
The air feels colder and sharper here—perfect for my mood which is raw and ugly.
My ass hits the seat before I even realize my legs have given out beneath me. I welcome the frozen air for giving me an excuse for the shallow breaths I’m taking as I process everything that just happened and the career ending words echoing on repeat.
High risk.
Neurological complications.
Permanent cognitive changes.
God.
Dragging a hand down my face, I want nothing more than to find the closest ice rink and just complete set after set of ice conditioning drills until I fall flat on my face.
No, what I really want is to rewind time to before my skull hit the ice.
Before I was carted off because I was seeing three—or was it five?
—of my teammates. I want to scream at every doctor who alluded to what Moser told me so bluntly.
I can’t play hockey any longer when it’s been my identity since I was a kid. My purpose. Bracing my elbows on my knees, I know I should call someone. My parents. My agent. A teammate. Someone who might be able to talk me off the edge of despair.
There’s even a part of me that wants to hear her reassure me I’ll be fine knowing I have no right to that since I’ve never once reached out over the years to see how she’s doing.
I don’t pull out my phone.
Instead, I bury my face in my gloved hands.
I try to project someone who is stoic even if I’m actually falling apart. I’m unable to comprehend that the world I worked so damn hard to build has crumbled due to one bad hit.
For now, I just sit here wondering what I’m going to face when I get back to Oklahoma.
I just know it’s not going to be good news.
Two days later, the silence in a conference room at the Kings’ training facility rivals the intensity of what I felt outside of Greenwich Hospital. No one—not my coaches, the team physician, nor my agent—is saying a word.
This moment will be crystalized in my memory forever as being one of the worst days of my life. It still won’t go down as the worst though, I think with a touch of bitterness. That honor goes to finding out about Amy and the photo.
Even after all these years, Amy’s betrayal still hurts—like a bruise that never quite healed correctly.
Ironic, really, when I think about the fact that compound bruises to another organ of my body is why I’m about to lose my career.
Still, I can’t help but let my mind believe that if things were different, having her by my side would have softened the blow.
Before our relationship imploded, she wasn’t just my lover.
She was my best friend. She understood me—Brennan.
It didn’t matter to her that she was dating a hockey player on campus.
She used to tease me, “You’re not just a jock, Brennan—you’re a jock with a brain and feelings. Terrifying combination.”
Now, I can’t help but wonder what she’ll think when the news hits the media. Will she care? Or feel righteous? After all, I picked control over my career instead of her. The thought makes my stomach churn.
Why in the ashes of my career I choose to remember flashes of the love we shared, I don’t know.
But I recall being squeezed together in an extra-long dorm bed, sheets tangled around our bodies doing nothing to stop the frisson of heat between us.
Even when we were just friends, it always felt like that—like we were just one lingering look away from changing our destiny.
“One day, my math queen, you’ll carry my babies,” I murmur against her lips as she prepares for her early morning differential equations class.
Amy laughs before punctuating her words with quick kisses so I wouldn’t have the chance to pull her back into bed. “Get to practice before someone accuses me of stealing their hockey king.”
I flopped back on the bed groaning.
That first year, everyone knew my anger over Amy, but only Mark knew my true devastation. It fueled me into playing the best season of my life. Locking the wayward memory away, I take in every person whose world is altering right alongside my own.
Across from me is the Oklahoma Kings’ team owner, head coach, team’s legal representation, our team doc, and—of course—public relations.
Sitting across from me, as if I’m a problem to solve instead of a person who just lost everything.
Like if they angle the chairs just right, I’ll feel less cornered.
My agent, Mark, is on my left. He hasn’t stopped tapping his pen since we walked in.
In front of all of us, is a folder with my name embossed on the front beneath the Kings emblem.
“We appreciate you coming in, Brennan,” the owner starts.
Coach clears his throat. “You’ve been an asset since day one. An even greater leader on this team, Brennan.”
Past tense, apparently. I don’t answer, merely acknowledge his words with a chin lift.
He clears his throat. “This is…difficult, to say the least.”
“Difficult for who?” I drawl.
The doctor leans forward. “We’ve received the most recent recommendations from Greenwich Hospital. Combined with the other experts you sought out—”
“Stop. You don’t get a chance to warm up.” My voice is as sharp as the blades I’ll never get to wear again. “Just say what you brought me here to say so I can get the hell out of here.” And mourn this along with Amy for the rest of my life.
Silence suppresses the air in the room.
The coach finally speaks. “You know we’ll always respect your contributions to the team…”
My laugh interrupts his speech. It’s short and ugly. “Then why the emergency meeting? I just landed yesterday.”
The owner folds his fingers together. “There are optics that need to be finessed before the entire league takes a hit.” He winces at his indirect pun.
Mark jumps in before I lose what’s left of my sanity. “Let’s stick to the facts and the contract terms.”
The doctor nods his agreement before launching in with my career death sentence.
“You were not cleared to play based on my own baseline testing. Reaction time—slow. Short-term recall—insufficient. You sought out opinions from some of the best neurologists in the country—assuming, possibly—the tests I conducted could have been flawed as a result of their immediacy after the initial injury. I not only agreed with that, I supported it. I didn’t and still don’t want to see the Kings lose one of their best players. ”
There it is.
The coach’s head drops into his hands. When I turn in his direction, the ice in my chest where my heart’s supposed to be melts at the pain radiating from him. His voice is muffled when he mutters, “You know the rules, Brennan. You can’t be cleared to play without medical authorization.”
Hearing it from my team hits harder than any doctor saying it. I slam my hands against the table to release some of my pent up fury at a situation I have no control over. “So, it’s official. You’re executing the medical incapacitation clause in my contract.”
The owner’s expression doesn’t change. “We’re protecting you, Brennan.”
“And yourselves, because it was fine to allow me to play so long as no one knew about it. But after that last hit where I couldn’t stand?”
Everyone in the room winces collectively. Yeah, what happened to me on live television kicked the Kings in the ass. I snort, “God forbid now I take a hit and forget my own name on live television.”
Mark intervenes, likely worried my implosion will impact the other players he represents. “Brennan—”
“No. I get to have my say before I sign the documents ending the only thing that’s stuck around in my life.”
Mark’s eyes bore into mine. Something I can’t read flashes through his which I can’t decipher. Still, he turns back to the other people in the room, silent.
The doctor exchanges an uncomfortable look with the team’s public relations liaison. “This isn’t about optics.”
“Bullshit,” I declare flatly. “Everything I’ve ever done to be in this league is about optics.”
Like not standing behind the girl you claimed to love? Amy’s face flashes through my mind again. Shoving thoughts of her aside, I flip the folder open. “I’ve said what I had to. Walk me through it so I can get the hell out of here.”
Legal speaks up. “Under the standard Kings medical termination clause, you’ll receive guaranteed salary, medical—”
Mark interjects. “Remaining term. Injury protection. Benefits.”
He nods. “Correct. Full payout in accordance with league guidelines.”
A visible shudder ripples through me. Mark places a steadying hand on my shoulder. “This is the part of the contract that will protect you. The money will set you up for the rest of your life.”
The rest of my life looks pretty damn bleak without hockey being the center my life orbits around. Every single day, I was a King—no, more than that. I captained the ship. Now, I’m about to fade into statistical obscurity.
I look at the termination paperwork in the folder. The information is in there. Laid out clinically. Enough money to last a lifetime if I’m smart. But there’s no clause for dignity. No line item for recognition.
Even as Legal slides a pen toward me, the owner reminds me, “You don’t have to sign today.”
I snatch it up and place the tip on the paper.
“Yes, I do.” They all look at me, stunned at how quickly I capitulate.
“Because if I don’t, I suspect there will be a leak about me not being ‘medically compliant.’ So, not only will I lose out on the package outlined here, I’ll still never be able to skate again anyway. ”
Since there’s no contradiction, I know I’m right. My hand trembles. I hope no one sees it and attributes it to my brain instead of the emotional impact of this moment. With a broad stroke, I sign my name on all the flagged pages—initialing where indicated.
I surge to my feet when the paperwork is handled. I send the pen careening across the table in case they want to save it for posterity. “Congratulations. I’m out.”
The coach extends his hand across the table. I just look down at it, making no move to take it. Withdrawing it, he awkwardly says, “You’ll always be part of this organization, Brennan.”
“Will I?”
“You know you will.”
“Huh. That’s funny, because other than Mark and Doc, how many of you have checked in since I was placed on the disabled list?” The room is stunned by my remarks. In that silence, I scoff. “Don’t start pretending the Kings care now.”
With that parting shot, I leave the room.
The problem is I don’t have any idea of who I’m supposed to become now that I no longer have hockey as part of my identity.