The Man Behind the Captain
Chapter five
Jamie
For the first time since the collision, I wake up before the pain does. Not by much.
The ache settles across my shoulder a heartbeat later, followed by the familiar complaint from my ribs every time I breathe too deeply.
Still... I'll take aching over agony. Progress.
Morning sunlight spills across the foot of the bed, turning the polished floor almost gold. I lie there for another minute, listening to the hospital wake up around me. Funny, hospitals have their own rhythm.
A week ago, I would've hated sitting still long enough to notice it.
Now...I know exactly which floorboard outside my room squeaks. I push the blankets aside and sit up slowly. Better today Not easy. But better. Small victories.
Annette would probably appreciate that phrase. The thought catches me off guard.
When did I start narrating my recovery in Annette's voice?
I shake my head. The chair in the corner holds yesterday's clothes, neatly folded after she'd helped me wrestle my T-shirt over the sling. I can manage that today now that I know the injured arm goes in first. At least...I think I can.
Getting dressed takes longer than I'd like to admit, but this time I’ll make it without asking for help.
The shirt still requires a few creative contortions and language that would've earned me a penalty in Sunday school, but eventually the fabric settles where it's supposed to.
Victory. Tiny. Still counts.
I glance around the room. The bed looks like it lost a fight. The breakfast tray from earlier still sits untouched near the window. A blanket has slipped onto the floor. I frown. Nobody should have to clean up after me like that
Using my good hand, I tug the blanket back onto the bed and smooth it into something that vaguely resembles order. Not perfect, but good enough.
The breakfast tray is next. It's only a few steps. I lift it carefully. My ribs immediately object. "I heard you the first time," I mutter.
One slow step. Another. I reach the counter without dropping anything.
See? Perfectly manageable. The room tilts just enough to remind me I'm not quite as recovered as I'd convinced myself. The tray wobbles. Before gravity can make the decision for me, another pair of hands steadies it. "I was wondering how long you'd last."
I look up. Annette. Travel mug in one hand. The other keeps my breakfast from decorating the floor.
"I almost made it."
"I noticed."
Together we lower the tray onto the bedside table. She doesn't take it away. She doesn't sigh dramatically. She simply waits until I'm sitting again before speaking.
"You know..." Her voice carries the faintest hint of amusement. "...recovering isn't a competition."
I lean back against the pillows. "You've clearly never met a hockey player."
For one perfect second...she tries not to laugh.
She loses.
The sound escapes before she can stop it. Quiet. Warm. Completely unguarded.
I grin. "There it is."
She raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"I was beginning to think smiling violated hospital policy."
"It depends on the patient."
"So, I'm one of the difficult ones?"
"Oh, unquestionably."
"I'll put that on my résumé." She shakes her head, still smiling as she picks up my chart. "I don't think it'll fit."
Something about the exchange feels easy. Not because my shoulder hurts less. Not because I'm suddenly thrilled to be in a hospital room. Because somewhere over the last few days...we've stopped talking like captain and medical provider. We're just...talking.
She checks my incision without saying much. The bandage looks clean. No redness. No swelling.
"Looks good," she says.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"Pain?"
I consider lying, then remember exactly how well that worked yesterday. "Five."
She glances up. "The truth?" I sigh dramatically. "Six."
She laughs again. There it is. That laugh. I don't know why, but hearing it somehow makes the room feel less like a hospital, less like the place where my season ended. More like a place I'll soon leave. For the first time since I arrived that future doesn't feel quite so far away.
For a moment, Annette only watches me, then she writes something on the chart. “What did you just write?”
“Medical notes.”
“About my charming personality?” “About your pain medication schedule.”
“Disappointing.” This time she smiles without trying to hide it.
A knock interrupts us before I can decide whether I should be too pleased about that.
A nurse leans in. “Captain Walker, I’m heading to my certification exam after shift. If I fail because I’m sleep-deprived, I’m blaming you.”
“Don’t fail, Keisha.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You studied?”
“For three months.”
“Then stop giving yourself an excuse before you take the test.”
She points at me. “I came in here for encouragement.”
“That was encouragement.”
“That was a lecture from a hospital bed.”
“Efficient, right?” Keisha laughs. Annette looks between us, amusement softening her face. I add, “You’re going to pass.” Keisha’s smile changes. Less teasing now. More grateful. “Thanks, Cap.”
After she leaves, Annette crosses her arms loosely. “Three days?”
“What?”
“You’ve known her three days, right?”
“Two.” Her mouth opens. Then closes. I enjoy that more than I should. “How many people on this floor have you collected?”
“I don’t collect people.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I talk to people.”
“You remember their sick spouses, grandsons, certification exams, and dietary preferences.”
“Dietary preferences are important.”
She tilts her head. “Yours?”
“Mushrooms are a crime.”
“I’ll alert the kitchen.”
“Thank you.”
She tries to look stern. It doesn’t work.
***
Annette stands beside the bed, silent again, Mouth open and no words forming. This time I don’t ask what she’s thinking, I just smirk a tiny bit. Can’t help it. Perfect timing, I think.
I’m starting to understand that Annette Whittier doesn’t always speak the moment a thought arrives.
She lets it settle first. Like some moments deserve a place to land.
Finally, she says, “They all like you.”
“I’m injured. They’re being polite.”
“No.” She glances toward the doorway. “They like you because you notice them.”
I don’t have a clever answer for that, so, I pick up my fork instead. The eggs are lukewarm. The toast is dry. And the coffee tastes like someone described coffee to warm water.
Still...
No mushrooms. Small victory.
Annette returns to the computer, but every so often I catch her looking back at me.
Not like I’m a chart. Not like I’m a headline. Like she’s trying to understand the man beneath everything others sees first.
And for reasons I’m not ready to examine...
I don’t mind.
***
Late morning brings another round of physical therapy.
The hallway outside the orthopedic unit has become strangely familiar over the last few days.
The handrails.
The polished floors.
The oversized photographs of mountain lakes that someone probably believed were calming.
I'm beginning to suspect every hospital in America buys artwork from the same catalog.
The therapist waits near the parallel bars.
"Morning, Captain."
"Morning."
"We're adding another lap today."
I glance toward Annette. "Did she put you up to this?"
The therapist laughs. "No."
Annette folds her arms. "I would've added two."
Traitors.
Both of them.
The first lap goes surprisingly well.
Not easy. Nothing about moving feels easy anymore.
But every step comes with a little more confidence than yesterday.
Halfway through the second lap I catch my reflection in one of the darkened windows overlooking the parking lot.
Hospital socks. Sweatpants. Arm in a sling. I barely recognize the man staring back.
Funny. A week ago, I would've measured progress in goals, Assists, minutes played.
Now...
It's measured in footsteps.
"Looking good." The therapist nods encouragingly. "One more."
I don't hesitate. By the end of the third lap my ribs are reminding me they still have opinions. I stop beside the parallel bars.
One more. I can do one more. I open my mouth. Then glance toward Annette. She hasn't said a word. She doesn't need to. Her expression says exactly what I'm already thinking.
Enough.
The therapist notices.
"So?"
I let out a slow breath. “I think we're done."
Annette's eyebrows lift ever so slightly. The therapist smiles. "Good decision."
I shrug. "I'm teachable."
"Barely," Annette says.
"I heard that."
"You were supposed to."
Annette gives one small nod. Somehow, that tiny nod feels like winning.
We begin the slow walk back toward my room. For the first time since arriving, the silence doesn't feel necessary, it feels comfortable. I glance sideways. "Can I ask you something?"
She looks over. "Depends."
"On?"
"Whether you're about to negotiate."
"No negotiations."
"Hmm."
"I promise."
She studies me for another step. "I'll allow one question."
"Only one?"
"I'm protecting myself."
I laugh quietly. "Fair."
The question has been bouncing around my head since yesterday. Maybe longer. I finally ask it.
"Why rehabilitation?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Instead...she keeps walking. The hallway stretches ahead of us. Sunlight spills through the windows overlooking the courtyard.
Finally, she says..."When I was in nursing school..."
Her voice softens. "...everyone wanted emergency medicine."
"I can understand that. You save lives."
She nods. "Exactly."
A pause. "I loved emergency nursing."
Another few steps. "But I realized something."
I wait.
She glances toward an older gentleman practicing with a walker at the far end of the hall.
"The emergency department saves people." She smiles at the man as he completes another careful step. "Rehabilitation gives them their lives back."
The words settle somewhere deep inside me, not because they're dramatic, but because they're true.
She continues quietly. "I like seeing someone walk again."
Another step. "Drive again."
Another. "Pick up their grandchild again."
She laughs softly. "Those victories don't make the news. But they're still victories."
I don't interrupt. I don't joke. I don't even look away. I simply...listen.
Really listen.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Why hockey?"
Now it's my turn to think. Most reporters ask that question expecting a rehearsed answer. Love of the game. Dream come true. Skates at age three. All true.
But none complete.
I look through the therapy gym toward a little boy learning to walk again with braces on his legs. His mother claps quietly after every step.
"My dad flooded our backyard for a rink every winter."
Annette smiles. "So, you fell in love with hockey."
I shake my head. "No."
She looks surprised.
"I fell in love with..." I watch the little boy take another determined step."...belonging somewhere."
Neither of us speaks again until we reach my room. Some conversations don't need another sentence. They just need...a little silence.
I’m back in therapy later that afternoon. The therapist has me do one final exercise. I want one more repetition, but the therapist says, "That's enough for today."
Old Jamie would have argued. New Jamie starts to. Stops. Looks over at Annette. Half smiles.
"See?"
She raises an eyebrow. "See what?"
"I'm learning."
She smiles. "Slowly."