Going Home Isn’t Easy
Chapter seven
Jamie
Going Home Isn’t Easy
I wake before dawn with one thought.
Today. For the first time in nearly a week, the word doesn’t feel like something I have to survive.
It feels like a door.
I lie still for a minute, listening to the familiar sounds of the orthopedic floor waking up around me. The soft voices. The distant beep of monitors. Someone laughs near the nurses’ station, and I already know it’s Keisha because she laughs like she’s trying not to get caught.
I should feel relieved.
I do.
Mostly.
The hospital has done what hospitals are supposed to do. Put the broken pieces back where they belong. Make sure the lung is behaving. Teach me how to stand, breathe, walk and sleep without making everything worse.
Now it’s time to leave. Time to go home. Time to get my life back.
At least, that’s the lie I’ve been telling myself since four-thirty this morning.
Annette steps in carrying a thick stack of papers, a tablet and the kind of expression that tells me she has come armed with instructions.
“Good morning.”
I glance at the papers. “That looks dangerous.”
“It’s discharge paperwork.”
“Same thing.”
Her mouth curves a little. “You’re cheerful this morning.”
“I’m leaving.”
“I noticed.”
“That should improve my mood.”
“We’ll see if it survives the instructions.”
I sit up slowly, because I have learned the hard way that fast movements are for people with ribs that aren’t currently holding a grudge.
Annette waits like she always does, No rushing.
No hovering. No grabbing my arm before I need her to.
She gives me exactly enough dignity to make accepting help feel less like losing.
That may be the most annoying thing about her. She’s good at this. Too good.
I point at the packet with my good hand. “So…you’re saying I shouldn’t play this weekend?”
Annette doesn’t even blink. “Only if you can do it without shoulders.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Bad idea. My ribs immediately file a formal complaint. I wince and press my good hand lightly against my side.
Annette looks entirely too satisfied. “Laughing still hurts?”
“Yes.”
“Good reminder.”
“You’re using my sense of humor against me.”
“I use whatever tools are available.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re stealing my phrases now?”
“I’m injured. You should allow me small pleasures.”
“That excuse expires when you leave the building.”
“Good to know.”
She picks up another sheet. “These are your first home exercises.”
I stare at the packet. “Already?”
She taps the exercises page. “These are not optional.”
“I figured.”
“Do them exactly as written.”
Leaving.
I’ve wanted it since the first morning. Since the first time I woke up in this bed and realized I couldn’t sit up without help. Since the first time I had to let someone else bring me water, adjust my sling, hold the back of a T-shirt so I could get dressed like an adult.
I should be counting the seconds. Instead, the paper feels heavier than it should.
Annette notices because she notices everything. Her voice softens. “Going home is good news, Jamie.”
I look up. She used my first name. Not Mr. Walker. Not Captain. Jamie.
For some reason, the room gets quieter. “I know.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You look like someone just handed you a penalty.”
I glance down at the discharge packet. “Hospital rules are annoying.”
“Yes.”
“But clear.”
She waits.
I run my thumb along the edge of the paper. “At home, it’s just…”
The sentence stalls. I hate that. I hate not knowing how to finish it.
As usual, Annette doesn’t rush in to help. She lets the quiet sit between us.
My chest feels tight, and for once it has nothing to do with ribs or lungs.
“At home,” I finally say, “I’m supposed to know what to do.”
Her face doesn’t change.
That’s one of the things I’ve started respecting most about her. She doesn’t flinch when truth walks into the room.
“You still will,” she says.
“Will I?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“You’ll do the next right thing.”
I give her a dry look. “That sounds suspiciously like medical advice disguised as life advice.”
“It can be both.”
I look back at the papers.
“Do the exercises.”
“Yes.”
“Take the meds.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” A pause…“That one isn’t printed, but strongly implied.”
That earns another laugh from me. Softer this time. Careful.
She smiles, then slides the final form toward me. “Orthopedics will be in soon to review the formal restrictions. After that, transport comes. Coach said everything is arranged.”
“Coach has been saying that since yesterday.”
“He means it.”
“I know.” And I do. Coach will have the ride handled. The flight handled. The timing handled. The bag, the medication pickup, the wheelchair. I’m absolutely going to hate all of it.
For once, I don’t have to arrange anything. That should feel like relief, but it doesn’t.
Annette clicks her pen closed. “You don’t have to manage every detail today.”
I look at her. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“No.” Her smile is small. “I say that like it’s necessary.”
I don’t answer. Mostly because she’s right. And because I’m starting to learn that when Annette is right, arguing only wastes energy I apparently need for clock exercises and not being an idiot.
She stands and gathers the extra paperwork. “I’ll give you a few minutes before the surgeon comes in.”
“Annette?” She pauses at the door.
“Thank you.”
Her expression softens. “For the paperwork?”
“For repeating it until I listen.”
She smiles. “Don’t thank me yet.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to repeat it again before you leave.”
I lean my head back against the pillow. “I was afraid of that.”
She steps into the hallway.
“Good.”
The door remains half open behind her.
I look down at the packet in my lap. All of it is printed in neat black letters, proof that I’m leaving the hospital, proof that I’m not going back to my life.
Not yet.
Maybe not for a long time.
For the first time all morning, the word today doesn’t feel like a door.
It feels like the first step into a much longer hallway.
***
I wait for Coach downstairs. I’m officially discharged.
Annette hands me the exercise packet.
We stand there.
Cold morning air.
Ambulance bay.
People coming and going.
She tells me quietly. “You've done the hard part."
I smile and shake my head. "I don't think so."
She studies me.
Then says...
"No."
Pause. "I think the hard part starts when everyone else goes back to living their lives."
***
I finally nod, very softly.
"Maybe."
She smiles.
"I'll take maybe."
***
Coach has, as promised, arranged everything.
By the time we leave the hospital, the paperwork has been signed, the medications picked up, and a rental SUV is waiting at the curb with the heater already running against the late winter cold.
He reaches for my overnight bag.
"I've got it."
"I know."
"I can carry my own bag."
"I know."
I eye him suspiciously. "You've been spending too much time around Annette."
He smiles as he slides the bag into the back. "I've learned from professionals."
I sigh dramatically.
"I'm surrounded."
"You've been surrounded for years."
He closes the hatch with a solid thunk before opening the passenger door.
"Get in."
No argument this time. I'm learning. Slowly.
"Ready?"
I nod, then look back. Just once.
Annette is still standing exactly where I left her.
I think: “I'll miss seeing her tomorrow.”
Not romance.
Just...
truth.
That tiny thought surprises me as I get into the SUV.
Just before Coach pulls away, Annette comes to my open window.
"I may see you again."
I look up. "You will?"
“I'm heading to Frostholm next week.”
I look at her. “Frostholm?”
“My next rotation. Sports rehabilitation.”
“At the center?”
“Maybe.” She lifts one shoulder. “I know where I'm assigned. I don't know who I'll be working with yet.”
Something in my chest loosens that has nothing to do with broken ribs.
The drive to the airport passes mostly in silence.
Not awkward silence. Comfortable silence. The kind that only exists between people who have spent years riding buses, planes, and snowy highways together.
Coach finally glances over.
"Pain?"
"Manageable."
He nods once. "Good."
Nothing more needs saying.
When we pull through the private entrance to the airport, I expect another SUV.
Maybe an executive sedan.
Instead, the Frostholm Blizzards team jet waits quietly on the tarmac in front of us.
Its blue-and-silver logo gleams against the white fuselage.
I stop walking. Coach notices.
"What?"
"I forgot."
"What?"
"That this isn't normal."
He smiles.
"No, it isn't."
Ground crew members greet us with familiar nods.
Nobody makes a fuss. No photographs. No reporters. Just another injured player going home.
It’s exactly the way it should be.
The cabin door closes behind us with a gentle hiss.
The engines haven't started yet as Coach settles into the seat across the aisle and I carefully lower myself into mine.
The leather feels strangely luxurious after a week in a hospital bed.
I look out the window. Snow drifts lazily across the edge of the runway.
Everything feels...still.
For several minutes we simply sit. Then the engines begin their slow, familiar rumble and the aircraft eases away from the terminal.
Only after we're airborne does Coach finally speak.
"Cabin?"
I don't look away from the window. He already knows the answer.
Still…he asks.
I smile faintly. "The cabin."
He nods once. "I figured."
Silence returns. Clouds drift beneath the wings. And somewhere below us, highways disappear beneath fresh snow.
Coach folds his hands. "You know..."
I glance over.
"The guys are fine."
"I know."
"They really are."
"I know."
He studies me for a moment, then smiles. "I'm saying it because I know you're still thinking about them."
I don't deny it. Because he isn't wrong.
"They've got each other."
"They do."
"And they've got Ethan."
I nod.
"He'll be okay."
Coach leans his head back against the seat. "He will."
Neither of us says another word for the rest of the flight.
We don't need to. Sometimes friendship sounds exactly like silence.
I close my eyes, expecting exhaustion to claim me. Instead, a pair of green eyes slips into my thoughts. Annette.
The way she'd stood beside me without asking for anything in return. The way she'd challenged me, irritated me... and somehow made me laugh when I hadn't wanted to.
Somewhere over the Rockies, I catch myself wondering what she’s doing.
The thought earns a quiet smile. I haven't even made it home and already I miss arguing with her.
***
When we arrive home, the cold air greets us the moment the crew opens the cabin door.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
Home.
Colby waits beside a dark pickup truck near the small terminal, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
He grins the moment he sees me. "Well..." He looks me up and down. "...you still look terrible."
I laugh. "Liam's been coaching you."
"He left me notes."
Coach shakes his head. "I believe that."
Colby takes my overnight bag before I can protest.
"You've all become impossible."
"We've had excellent teachers."
I say good-bye to Coach. No hug, no effusive words, because he knows and I know how grateful I am for all that he has done for me this past week.
Within minutes we're heading north. The city slowly disappears behind us.
Traffic thins. Buildings become scattered farmhouses. Then forests.
Snow-covered pines stretch for miles beneath a pale winter sky.
Neither of us talks much.
There isn't any need.
The farther we drive, the easier it becomes to breathe.
Almost an hour passes when a weathered wooden sign appears beside the highway.
WELCOME TO brIAR COVE
Population 6,812
Home.
Not Frostholm.
Not the arena.
Home.
Colby notices me staring through the windshield. “You've been quiet."
"I know."
"Tired?"
I watch the familiar lake appear between the trees. The frozen surface sparkles beneath the afternoon sun. "It feels strange."
"What does?"
I don't answer immediately. The truck turns onto the narrow lakeside road. Cabins begin appearing one by one between the pines. Smoke curls lazily from stone chimneys. Children pull sleds across front yards. Someone waves from a porch, and Colby waves back.
"So?"
I finally speak. "Going home..."
The words catch somewhere deep in my chest. "...when everyone else is still playing."
The truck grows quiet. Colby doesn't rush to fill it. He understands. Probably because he'd feel exactly the same way.
A few more turns, then my cabin appears through the trees.
Stone chimney.
Wide front porch.
Snow piled neatly along the driveway where somebody had already cleared a path.
Colby parks, but neither of us moves for a second. Then he climbs out and quietly unloads the bag.
"I'll check on you tomorrow."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
He smiles.
"But I will."
I nod.
"Thanks."
He claps my good shoulder gently.
"Welcome home, Cap."
The truck disappears down the snowy road. Its engine grows quieter...then fades completely.
For the first time in nearly a week everything is still. I unlock the front door, and the familiar scent of cedar and coffee greets me immediately. A pan of fresh pastries sits on the counter; no doubt Colby’s wife Sadie brought them from her bakery. What a kind thing, so typical of her.
Nothing has changed. My favorite mug still rests beside the coffee maker.
A folded practice schedule lies exactly where I dropped it before leaving for the road trip.
My skates lean against the mudroom wall, obviously brought here by Mark or one of the guys.
Waiting, as though I'll lace them up tomorrow morning.
I close the door quietly behind me and the cabin settles into silence.
Not peaceful.
Just...
Empty, and unfamiliar.
***
Setting my overnight bag beside the stairs, I don't move.
I simply stand there. Looking. Remembering. Outside, snow begins falling again. Softly.
Tomorrow morning...
the Frostholm Blizzards will take the ice.
The music will play.
The arena will fill.
The puck will drop.
And for the first time in my professional career...
their captain wouldn't be there.
I rest my good hand lightly against the kitchen counter.
Home had never felt so familiar.
Or so lonely.