The Weight of the C #2
Caleb speaks for the first time in nearly a minute. "He knows."
Jamie's eyes lift. "He believes it?"
"No."
Caleb's voice stays calm. "But he'll get there."
Jamie nods slowly. "I'll call him when I'm home."
"You'll call him before then," Coach says.
"I probably will."
Liam claps his hands together. "Okay. Enough feelings."
Jamie laughs. "That didn't last long."
"I have important questions."
"I'm afraid."
"You should be."
Liam grins wickedly. "Has Nurse Tough-Love let you escape yet?"
Annette, who has been quietly updating the chart, doesn't even look up. "No."
Liam points dramatically toward the camera. "I like her."
Jamie shakes his head. "I had a feeling you would."
Coach mutters, "Lord help us."
Toby laughs. "You've met your match, Cap."
"I've noticed."
Annette finally glances over. "I'm standing right here."
"I know," Jamie says with a smile.
"I figured honesty was safest."
"It usually is."
Liam whistles loudly. "Oh, he's behaving."
Coach looks at Jamie. "I never thought I'd see the day."
Jamie folds his arms—or at least as much as the sling allows. "I'm adapting."
Annette raises one eyebrow. "Slowly."
Jamie chuckles. "I'm never living that down, am I?"
"NO."
The answer comes simultaneously from Coach...
Annette...and every player on the screen.
For a heartbeat everyone simply laughs. Not because anyone told a particularly good joke.
Because it feels...normal.
Like a locker room. Like family.
Eventually the call winds down. "Get home," Toby says.
"We'll take care of things."
Liam points at the screen. "And don't try to practice from your hospital bed."
"I wasn't,"
"You were."
"I was thinking about it."
"We know."
Caleb gives one final nod. "Heal."
Then the screen goes dark.
The room suddenly feels much quieter. Coach slips the phone into his pocket and watches Jamie for a moment before speaking. "They're going to be fine."
Jamie nods. "I know."
"No." Coach leans forward. "I mean it."
"The room doesn't stop breathing because the captain misses a few games."
Jamie's smile is small. "I know."
Coach studies him for another second, then nods toward Annette.
Stepping outside the room, while Jamie reaches for his water, Coach lowers his voice.
"Do you know why those guys would skate through a wall for him?"
Annette shakes her head. Coach smiles. "Because he'd do it for them first."
He glances back toward Jamie. "That's why they voted him captain."
Annette looks through the doorway. Jamie is sitting exactly where she left him. One hand wrapped around a paper cup. Already smiling at a passing volunteer. Already asking someone else how their day is going.
And for the first time she wonders whether carrying the "C" has become so natural that Jamie no longer remembers how to set it down.
***
The room grows noticeably quieter after the FaceTime call ends. Coach heads downstairs to grab lunch, promising to be back before physical therapy.
The silence lingers for a moment. Jamie sits looking at the now-dark phone in his hand.
Not sad. Just...thinking.
I finish updating his chart before closing the tablet. "My turn."
He looks up. "...I'm sorry?"
"My turn." A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"I don't remember agreeing to that."
"You didn't."
I pull the visitor's chair closer and sit across from him. "You've had almost a week."
"To do what?"
"Ask questions."
"I ask lots of questions."
"You do." I nod. "Just never about yourself."
He chuckles softly. "I think we've covered that before."
"No." I shake my head. "I don't think we really have."
He opens his mouth, closes it again, honestly confused. "I don't..." His voice trails away. "I guess I never..."
"No, you don't."
He leans back carefully against the pillows. "I suppose..."
A quiet laugh escapes him. "...that's probably true."
"Probably?"
He smiles sheepishly. "Definitely."
I fold my hands in my lap. "May I ask why?" He doesn't answer right away.
Outside, a helicopter passes somewhere above the hospital. Its distant thrum fades slowly into the afternoon. Finally, he speaks. "I don't really have time to think about me."
The sentence is so simple, so matter of fact. It almost steals my breath. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying.
Just...a statement of fact.
I tilt my head. "Everybody has time, maybe you don’t TAKE the time."
He shakes his head gently. "No."
His eyes stay on the window. "Not if somebody else needs you."
Something inside me shifts. Because...he believes that. Completely.
Not as a slogan. Not as something admirable. As the way the world is supposed to work.
I find myself speaking more quietly than before. "Maybe..."
He looks back at me. "...that's a problem."
He doesn't argue. Doesn't defend himself. Instead, he thinks about it. Really thinks.
After nearly half a minute, he smiles. "You know..."
"What?"
"Coach has been saying something similar for years."
"And?"
"I always assumed he was exaggerating."
I smile. "Maybe both of us can't be wrong."
He laughs softly. "That's statistically possible, but highly unlikely. You're becoming awfully confident, Annette."
"I'm spending too much time with hockey players."
He grins. "I was afraid of that."
A comfortable silence settles over the room, not because the conversation is finished, but because neither of us feels the need to rush the next thought.
The afternoon sun slips across the floor between us. Life goes on. But something important has changed inside Room 312, not because Jamie admitted a weakness. Because, for the very first time...someone held up a mirror.
And instead of looking away...he looked.
***
The afternoon remains in its usual rhythm that I'd begun recognizing. Medication rounds. Visitors coming and going. Therapy appointments. Someone somewhere is laughing. The orthopedic floor has its own heartbeat.
I finish updating Jamie's chart when a timid knock sounds against the open door.
A timid young woman stands in the hallway. Mid-thirties. Tired eyes.
A little boy wheeling a walker peeks around her leg. Maybe eight years old, dark curls and hospital pajamas far too big for his thin frame.
He clutches an old hockey stick across the handles. The tape around the blade is peeling away.
The mother looks embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
She immediately starts backing away. "We don't want to bother you."
Jamie looks up from his book. "You aren't."
She hesitates. "My son..."
The little boy hides behind her again. "He recognized you from his room down the hall."
Jamie smiles. "Did he?"
The mother nods. "We can come back another time."
"You already came." Jamie closes his book and lays it beside him. "I'd call that perfect timing. And what’s your name?" he turns to the little boy.
She gently nudges her son forward. The boy takes two uncertain steps, then stops and says that his name is Robbie.
His eyes never leave Jamie. "Were you really on TV?"
Jamie nods. "A few times."
"I watched your playoff game."
"I remember that one."
"You scored."
"I got lucky."
The boy studies him for another second. Then his gaze drops to Jamie's sling. "Does it hurt?"
The room grows very quiet. Jamie looks at his shoulder. Then back at the boy. "Sometimes."
The boy nods slowly. "So does mine."
Annette's eyes shift instinctively toward the mother who quietly tells her.
Spinal surgery.
Three days ago.
Walker.
Short distances only.
Fear of standing.
Jamie doesn't ask about the diagnosis. He doesn't need to. He simply smiles. "I guess we're teammates."
The little boy blinks. "We are?"
"We're both learning something difficult."
The boy thinks about that. "My therapist is mean."
Jamie laughs. "No." He shakes his head. "They're stubborn."
"My mom says that too."
"Smart woman."