The Things We Can’t Do Alone
Chapter eleven
Jamie
The Things We Can’t Do Alone
The first thing I notice is the silence.
I lie still beneath the blankets, staring at the ceiling while yesterday’s therapy introduces itself one aching muscle at a time.
My shoulder feels locked in place and my ribs aren’t much happier. Even my fingers seem stiff.
Wonderful.
I turn my head toward the clock. 5:12 a.m.
Too early to be awake, too late to fall back asleep.
I close my eyes anyway.
Nothing changes.
The soreness has settled deeper overnight, a slow burn that makes every movement feel less like progress and more like punishment.
Yesterday had gone well. At least, that’s what everyone said. A little more motion, a little less guarding, a little more control.
Apparently, my body missed the meeting. I push the blankets aside and sit up slowly. The movement takes longer than it should. Everything does now.
Tasks I used to complete without thinking have turned into careful negotiations between pain, patience, and whatever dignity I still have left before breakfast.
I plant both feet on the floor and wait for the room to settle.
The sling rests on the chair beside the bed. My surgeon cleared me to spend short periods without it at home, but only when the arm stays supported and still. No heroics. Annette’s phrase. I can hear her saying it. Calm. Dry. Completely unimpressed by every argument I’ve ever tried.
A smile almost appears. Almost.
Then I turn and the smile disappears. Pain pulls across my shoulder hard enough to stop me in place.
I grip the edge of the nightstand with my right hand and breathe through it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
The way they taught me. The way Annette kept reminding me. The way I hate needing to remember.
By the time I reach the kitchen, dawn has begun turning the windows from gray to lighter gray. It’s going to be one of those dreary winter days.
Outside is one of the ridiculous pink flamingos visible through the front window, standing proudly beneath a cap of snow. Liam’s contribution to my recovery.
I should move it. I won’t.
Instead, I fill the coffee maker one-handed. Water sloshes onto the counter. I wipe it up.
The filter slips from my fingers. I pick it up. The coffee scoop slips from my fingers and bounces once across the hardwood floor before coming to rest just beyond my reach.
I stare at it. Seriously?
I crouch carefully, supporting my left arm against my body the way therapy has drilled into me.
My ribs tighten immediately.
I reach with my right hand. Not quite. Another inch. Pain shoots across my shoulder, sharp enough to steal my breath. I freeze where I am. Every instinct tells me to push through it. Just grab the stupid scoop. Finish the job.
Instead...
I hear Annette's voice as clearly as if she's standing in the kitchen.
"Pain isn't failure, Jamie. It's information."
I close my eyes. Take one slow breath. Then another.
When I straighten, the scoop is still lying on the floor.
So be it.
I grab a second scoop from the drawer instead. Problem solved. It shouldn't feel like a victory. Somehow...it does.
The coffee begins dripping with its familiar rhythmic gurgle. I lean one hip against the counter and wait. The smell fills the cabin. Normally, this is my favorite part of the morning.
Today my eyes drift toward the mudroom instead, where the hockey bag leans exactly where Colby left it. Black. Scuffed. Ready.
The captain's jersey hangs above it, the white C bright against the midnight navy fabric.
For years, pulling that jersey over my head has been as automatic as breathing.
Now...
I can't even imagine lifting my left arm high enough to put it on. The thought slips in before I can stop it. What if I never wear it again?
The question hangs in the quiet cabin. I don't answer it. I can't.
Instead, I walk to the mudroom. For one long moment I simply stand there looking at the jersey.
Then...I quietly close the door. Not because I don't love hockey.
Because this morning, I can't bear looking at it.
The soft click of the latch echoes through the cabin. I rest my forehead against the door for just a second. Behind me, the coffee finishes brewing.
Ahead of me...I have another therapy session. One more day. One more inch. It doesn't feel like enough.
Today, it has to be.
***
The knock comes exactly at eight-thirty. Not a minute early. Not a minute late.
I already know who it is. Nobody else knocks three times, waits exactly two seconds, then knocks once more.
Colby.
I pull on my winter coat, work carefully around the sling, and open the front door. Cold air slips inside.
"So," Colby says, looking me over. "You still look terrible."
I snort. "Liam's writing your material now?"
"He offered."
"And?"
"I declined."
"Good choice."
He grins. "I have standards."
"I'm relieved."
"Don't be." He steps aside and nods toward the pickup. "I brought coffee."
Now he has my attention. "Real coffee?"
"I'm offended you'd even ask." He holds up two insulated cups. "One black." He hands it over. "One with enough sugar to qualify as dessert."
I take a careful sip. Hot. Strong. Perfect.
"You may continue driving me."
"I'll let you know when your application is approved."
He laughs as we walk toward the truck. It smells faintly of pine, coffee and whatever air freshener Jillie apparently convinced him to buy. A tiny snowman hangs from the rearview mirror. I point at it. "You?"
He glances up. "Nope, Jillie."
He starts the engine. The heater hums to life as we pull away from the cabin.
***
For a while neither of us says much. The road winds between snow-covered pines, the frozen lake glimmering through the trees whenever the forest opens. Morning sunlight turns the fresh snow almost silver.
Normally I'd love this drive. Normally I'd be heading toward the arena.
Toward practice. Toward the guys.
Instead, I'm heading toward therapy. Different destination. Different job.
***
Colby seems to understand the silence doesn't need fixing.
That's one of the things I've always appreciated about him.
He talks when talking helps, he doesn't when it doesn't.
About twenty minutes into the drive, the Frostholm skyline begins appearing beyond the trees.
Traffic begins to thicken. Coffee shops. Office buildings. The familiar landmarks of a city I've driven through thousands of times.
Then...the arena comes into view.
Even from the highway I recognize the banners hanging outside. The giant Blizzard crest, employee vehicles turning into the players' entrance, and equipment staff unloading crates near the loading dock.
A television van is parked beside the media entrance for the morning skate. I don't mean to watch, but I do anyway.
For a few seconds I forget to breathe. Colby doesn't look over immediately. He keeps driving, lets me have the moment. Only after the arena disappears in the side mirror does he speak.
"Hard?"
One word. That's all. I nod. "Yeah."
Silence again. Not uncomfortable.
Just...honest.
Finally, I say, "It feels strange."
"What does?"
"They're getting ready for practice."
He waits.
"And I'm..." I search for the right word. "Going somewhere else."
Colby drums his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.
"You know what I think?"
"I probably don't."
"I think you're still going to practice."
I look over. "This one just looks different."
I consider that. Therapy. Exercises. Movement. Learning how to lift my arm again. Those are not exactly faceoffs and breakaways.
"No sticks. No skates. No ice."
He smiles. "No."
Another mile passes, then he adds quietly, "But you're still working toward the same place."
I stare out the windshield. The city rolls past outside. Life is moving forward. My own just happens to be moving at a different speed.
"I hate feeling useless." The words leave before I think about them.
Colby doesn't answer immediately. When he finally does, his voice is calm. "You know what Jillie asked me yesterday?"
I glance over. "What?"
"She wanted to know if Captain Jamie was still helping people."
I blink. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her yes."
I shake my head. "I'm sitting in a truck."
"You visited a kid in the hospital last week."
I smile a little.
"You checked on Ethan before you asked about yourself."
I look out the window again.
"You've spent your entire career making sure everybody else is okay."
He turns into the rehabilitation center parking lot. "One injury doesn't erase that." The truck rolls to a stop. Neither of us moves right away.
I look at the people coming and going. A man on crutches carefully making his way toward the entrance. A young woman helping her mother out of a car.
Everyone here is trying to get something back. Different injuries. Same goal.
Colby reaches for the keys, then pauses. "You know..."
"What?"
"I've never been worried about whether you'd play hockey again."
I frown. "You haven't?"
"No." He shrugs. "I've watched you long enough."
"And?"
"If anybody's stubborn enough to beat this..." A grin spreads across his face. "...it's probably you."
I laugh. Quietly. "You make stubborn sound like a compliment."
"It depends on who's wearing it." He climbs out of the truck before I can answer.
A moment later he opens my door. I step carefully onto the snow-covered pavement.
The cold bites immediately and I hug my coat a little tighter. Then look toward the entrance. Time to go to work. Not the work I want. The work I need.
I take a slow breath. "Ready?" Colby asks.
I look at the building one more time, then nod. "One day at a time."
I don't even realize that I've said it aloud.
Colby smiles. "Exactly."
Together...we walk toward the doors.Top of Form
Bottom of Form
***
The warmth of the rehabilitation clinic greets me the moment we step inside.
People move quietly through the lobby, checking in, chatting with reception, settling into chairs with coffee cups balanced on knees and jackets draped over the backs of seats.
Nobody is in a hurry. That's going to take some getting used to.
Hospitals race. Rehabilitation waits.
Colby glances toward the reception desk. "I'll pick you up after?"
"I'll text."
"Got it."