Moving Forward
Chapter fourteen
Annette
The first thing I notice is that Jamie doesn't look at his shoulder.
He walks into the therapy gym carrying his water bottle and notebook, nods good morning to the receptionist, asks the volunteer at the front desk how her grandson's science fair went, and smiles at one of the physical therapists helping a teenager through balance exercises.
Only after all of that does he walk toward me.
Three months ago, every step into rehabilitation carried a question. Will this hurt?
Now he simply shows up ready to work. It's one of my favorite changes.
"Morning."
He smiles.
"Morning."
"How's the shoulder?"
He tips his head thoughtfully.
"It exists."
I laugh. "Excellent assessment."
"I strive for medical accuracy."
"You've been practicing." "I spend time with medical people."
I open his chart while he settles onto the treatment table.
His movements are smoother now.
Not perfect. He’s still careful when he reaches with his left arm. Still protective without realizing it. But the hesitation that once accompanied every motion is beginning to disappear.
Confidence is slowly returning. Exactly the way it should.
"Any problems after Monday?"
He thinks for a moment. "A little stiffness yesterday morning."
"How long?"
"Ten minutes."
"Pain?"
"Two out of ten."
I glance up from the chart.
"That's an improvement."
"It is?"
"It used to take almost an hour."
He blinks. "I didn't notice."
"That's because you've stopped measuring recovery by the bad days."
I smile.
"You're starting to measure it by your life."
He considers that. "I guess I am."
"That's a good sign."
"It is?"
"It means you're healing."
Not just the shoulder. I don't say the second part aloud. We're not there yet.
"Let's see what you've got."
Jamie stands near the wall marker we've used every session for weeks.
The first time he reached for it, his fingertips barely cleared shoulder height.
Today he rolls his shoulders once, settles his posture, and lifts his arm with quiet concentration.
No rushing. No grimacing. No determination to prove something. Just steady movement, higher until his fingertips brush the next blue line.
Then...just a little farther.
"Hold."
He does. I step closer with the goniometer, checking the angle twice before writing the number in his chart. I look back at him, he asks, "Well?"
I pretend to study the chart a little longer. "Hmm."
He narrows his eyes. "You're enjoying this."
"A little."
"Annette."
I finally look up. "You gained another eight degrees."
His eyebrows rise. "Really?"
I lean against the counter. "Do you know what I see?"
"What?"
"A man who hasn't stopped moving since he walked through these doors."
He smiles. "I thought that was the objective."
"It is. "But sometimes..."
I pause, choosing the words carefully.
"...it's okay to stand still long enough to notice how far you've already come."
The room grows quiet. Not awkward. Thoughtful.
Jamie glances toward the wall where colored tape marks every milestone we've celebrated together.
He hadn't looked at them in weeks. Now he does. "I guess..." He smiles to himself. "...that's farther than I thought."
"It is."
He lets out a slow breath. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For making me stop long enough to see it."
Something warms quietly inside my chest. Not because of the words. Because he means them.
Before I can answer, Elise walks past the treatment area, glances at Jamie's chart, and whistles softly. "Another eight degrees?"
Jamie nods. "Apparently."
She grins. "I knew you'd get there."
Jamie smiles. "I wasn't always so sure." Elise points toward me. "She was."
I look over in surprise. "I don't think I ever said that."
"You didn't have to."
Elise continues down the hallway before either of us can respond.
Silence settles again. Jamie looks at me. "Were you?"
I don't hesitate. "Yes."
"You never told me."
"I didn't need to."
***
Lunch stretches longer than either of us intends. Neither of us seems particularly interested in leaving. The cafeteria grows busier around us. Someone drops a tray near the beverage station, earning sympathetic hoots and applause when nothing breaks.
Two nurses hurry through carrying sandwiches they clearly don't have time to eat.
***
Outside, snow continues falling in slow, lazy flakes. I stir the last spoonful of soup around my bowl before finally setting my spoon down. Across the table, Jamie watches the snow for a moment, then looks back at me.
"Can I ask you something?"
I smile over the rim of my mug. "You've become dangerous with that question."
"I'll take that as permission."
"You usually do."
He grins. "Fair."
For a moment he seems to search for the right words. "When you picture yourself... ten years from now... what do you see, and why?"
The question catches me completely off guard.
"I've never been asked that."
"Really?"
I shake my head. "Usually, people ask where I want to work. What specialty I want. What hospital I'll end up in." I smile to myself. "They don't usually ask why."
"I am."
His answer is so simple, so sincere, it makes something inside me soften.
"When I was little," I begin, laughing quietly at the memory, "I used to line my dolls up across my bedroom floor."
Jamie's smile widens. "You were already treating patients?"
"Oh yes. My poor stuffed bear had surgery at least once a week."
"What was wrong with him?"
"Usually whatever I happened to be reading about."
"I hope he recovered."
"He was remarkably resilient."
We both laugh, and I wrap my hands around the warmth of my mug before continuing.
"My dad used to tell me something. He'd say, 'Helping someone survive is wonderful.'" I can still hear his voice saying the words. "'Helping them believe they can live again... that's extraordinary.'"
Jamie nods slowly.
"Smart man."
"The smartest."
I glance back toward the snow-covered street outside. "I think that's when the dream really began. Not because I wanted to work in a hospital, but because I wanted to give people back the pieces of themselves they thought were gone."
The words linger between us. For a long moment Jamie says nothing. Then his voice breaks the silence.
"You know... you're doing that."
I look back at him. "Am I?"
"You've spent weeks convincing me I'm still me, even when I wasn't sure." He smiles, almost shyly. "Like I've told you before, you never treated me like Captain Walker. You treated me like... Jamie."
Something tightens in my chest.
"I don't always know if I'm making a difference."
The confession slips out before I can stop it.
"You are."
I lift my eyes to his as he gives a small shake of his head.
"No. I KNOW you are."
The certainty in his voice steals every argument I might have made.
Silence settles around us again—not awkward, simply comfortable. Outside, a little girl in a bright yellow coat throws herself into a snowbank while her mother pretends to be horrified.
A laugh escapes me.
"I used to do that."
"You still could."
I arch an eyebrow. "I probably shouldn't."
"Professional image?"
"I was thinking common sense."
"I've heard rumors about common sense."
"They're greatly exaggerated."
His grin is infectious.
"So..." He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. "What's the dream now?"
"The dream?"
"You said ten years."
I hesitate, suddenly feeling more vulnerable than I expected.
"I'd like to build a rehabilitation program that follows athletes after they're discharged."
He doesn't interrupt, so I continue.
"They leave the hospital with exercise sheets, appointments, restrictions... but so many of them simply feel alone. They don't need another lecture. They need someone who keeps walking beside them."
I shrug, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "It probably sounds idealistic."
"It sounds necessary."
I study his face carefully. "You really think so?"
"I know what the last few months have felt like." His eyes drop briefly to his healing shoulder. "If somebody hadn't kept walking beside me..." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "...I think I'd still be standing in my kitchen arguing with a coffee scoop."
I laugh out loud.
"I'd forgotten about the coffee scoop."
"I haven't."
"It became famous."
"It deserved to."
The laughter fades into something quieter.
"Jamie, I've never told anyone about the program, the dream. Not even my parents."
His eyebrows lift. "Seriously?"
"I was waiting until it felt..." I search for the right word. "...possible."
"It is."
He doesn't hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat.
Our eyes meet across the table. "You really believe that."
"I do."
"Why?"
His smile is warm enough to chase away every doubt I've carried for years.
"Because..." he says softly, "...if anybody can help people believe in tomorrow, it's you."
Everything inside me goes still.
"Thank you."
The words barely rise above a whisper. They're not polite or automatic. They're grateful, spoken from somewhere much deeper than I intended to reveal.
Neither of us notices the empty bowls or the conversations drifting through the café. Snow continues falling beyond the window, but for a little while the rest of the world quietly slips away.
We simply sit together, two people who have started believing in each other's future.
***
We leave the cafeteria carrying empty trays, not in any hurry to return to the rest of the day. The corridor is quieter now. Afternoon sunlight spills through the tall windows, stretching long rectangles of light across the polished floor.
We ride the elevator down to the main lobby.
Neither of us speaks, knowing that the silence doesn't ask to be filled.
As the doors slide open, we step into the bustle of visitors, volunteers, and staff moving in every direction.
"I've been thinking about something, Annette."
She glances over.
"That can be dangerous, what is it?"
I watch my boots leave prints in the fresh snow.
"When I was a kid..."
I pause.
"I couldn't wait to play hockey."
She waits.
No interruption.
No encouragement.
Just...
space.
"Then hockey became everything."
"My schedule."
"My friends."
"My summers."
"My winters."
"My job."
"My purpose."
I let out a breath that clouds the cold air.
"I don't know when it happened, but somewhere along the way...I stopped knowing who I was without it."
The words settle between us. Neither of us moves. Neither of us rushes to rescue the other.
Finally, she asks quietly, "Who were you before hockey?"
I search for the answer. I honestly do.
Images flicker through my mind and I shake my head.
"I honestly don't remember."
The admission hangs in the cold air. It's the most vulnerable thing I've said to anyone in years.
Annette doesn't try to fill the silence. She simply walks beside me.
After several steps she speaks.
"Maybe..."
I look over.
"...that's part of what we're recovering. Not your shoulder. Not your ribs. You.”
The words land somewhere deep inside me. Because for the first time,
recovery sounds like it might mean more than getting back on the ice.
We stop beside her car. She unlocks it but doesn't open the door.
"I'll see you Monday."
I smile. "I'll be here."
"I know you will."
She hesitates. Then points one finger at me. "Stretching."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And no helping anyone carry refrigerators."
"I'll do my best."
She raises one eyebrow. "Jamie." I grin. "I'll do exactly what you told me."
"Better answer."
She opens the door, then pauses. "Oh...and Captain?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm proud of you."
Before I can think of a quick comeback, she's already climbing into her car.
A moment later she's gone.
***
My cabin is quiet when I get home.
Moose ambles over from his bed, stretches dramatically, then decides greeting me requires exactly three enthusiastic tail wags before returning to his nap.
"Good to see you too."
I shrug off my coat and set the notebook on the kitchen table.
The pages have become familiar now, less like homework, and more like a conversation with myself.
I write today's date.
Then...
Today's Win Another eight degrees.
I smile.
Not bad.
Next line.
Someone I Encouraged
My pen hovers.
Almost automatically I write:
Annette.
I stare at the words.
Then laugh softly to myself.
"That's not quite right."
One careful line crosses them out.
Instead, I write: Each other.
That feels better.
Truer.
Finally...
Something I'm Grateful For
This one takes longer.
I tap the pen against the page.
Look toward the frozen lake outside the window. Think about soup. Snow. Dreams. A woman who somehow sees the person standing behind the captain.
Slowly, I write.
Someone who reminds me I'm more than a hockey player.
I don't write her name.
I don't need to.
My phone buzzes against the table.
Annette:
Don't forget your stretching exercises tonight, Captain.
I smile before I realize I'm smiling.
I type.
Me:
I'll try.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Then...
Annette:
That wasn't the answer I was hoping for. ??
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
I shake my head.
Me:
Yes, ma'am.
A thumbs-up arrives a second later.
Simple.
Nothing more.
I set the phone beside the notebook. Then, almost without thinking, I open the notebook one last time. At the bottom of the page, beneath everything else, I add one final line.
Looking forward to Monday.
I read the words twice.
Then close it.
And for the first time in a long time, Monday doesn't feel so far away.