The Distance Between Us
Chapter twenty-six
Jamie
By the following Tuesday, I have convinced myself I imagined it.
Everyone has off days. Annette certainly deserves one.
She spends her life helping people through some of the hardest moments they'll ever face. If she seemed distracted or quieter than usual after my last appointment, it probably had nothing to do with me.
That explanation makes perfect sense, right up until I walk into the therapy gym.
She looks up from her computer and smiles. It's warm. Kind. Professional. But somehow, it isn't the same smile I’m used to.
"Good morning, Jamie."
"Morning."
She closes the file she'd been reviewing and walks toward me with the easy confidence that has always made the therapy room feel less intimidating. "How did the shoulder feel after skating?"
"Pretty good."
"Any soreness afterward?"
"The normal kind."
She nods and makes a note on the chart.
"Excellent."
The conversation ends there. It has never ended there before. Normally she asks whether Coach behaved himself or whether Liam has managed to survive another week without being suspended for excessive sarcasm.
Sometimes she asks about Briar Cove. Sometimes we argue over whether motel coffee should be illegal. Today...she simply gestures toward the treatment table.
"Let's begin."
The session moves efficiently. Too efficiently. Every exercise receives the same careful attention it always has. Every measurement is recorded. Every correction is clear and encouraging.
Nothing is wrong. Nothing is missing. Except...something is.
I finish a set of resistance exercises and look at her. "I tried those stretches before bed like you suggested."
"Did they help?"
"I think so."
"Good."
Another note goes onto the chart. I wait for the next question that never comes. Silence settles between us. Emptiness. For the first time since beginning rehabilitation, I find myself wishing she'd tease me about something.
Call me stubborn. Ask if I've been negotiating with my shoulder again. Anything.
Instead, she checks the timer. "Ready for the next exercise?"
"Sure."
Halfway through the appointment, Coach stops by the therapy gym. He leans against the doorway and watches me finish a balance drill.
"Looking good, Captain."
"I'm getting there." Coach nods toward Annette. "You've worked miracles."
Annette smiles politely.
"Jamie deserves the credit. He's done the work."
Coach grins. "I'll let him enjoy hearing that for at least five minutes." Normally she would laugh. Instead, she simply returns to the chart.
Coach notices. So do I. When he leaves, he gives me the smallest glance. One captain to another. It lasts less than a second. Long enough to ask a silent question.
Everything okay?
I honestly don't know.
When the session ends, Annette hands me my updated exercise sheet. "I've added one new strengthening drill."
I glance down. "Looks manageable."
"It should be."
She gathers the resistance bands and returns them to the shelf.
I wait. For what, I'm not entirely sure. Coffee? A walk? Five minutes talking about nothing?
Instead, she closes the cabinet door. "I have another patient in a few minutes. I'll see you Thursday."
"I'll be here."
The words sound strangely formal. Like something we'd have said during my first week instead of after months of shared mornings. I leave the clinic carrying the exercise sheet in one hand and a feeling I can't quite name in the other.
The drive back to Briar Cove is unusually quiet. I’d switched off the radio halfway home.
The silence gives me too much room to think.
Did I say something? Miss something? Push too hard?
She'd always told me she'd let me know if I overdid the exercises.
She always had.
This feels different. More personal. I just don't know why.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I've convinced myself I'm overthinking everything.
Then my phone buzzes.
Liam Emergency.
I call him before walking inside.
"What happened?"
"I have an important question."
I wait.
"Do you think Coach would notice if we replaced all the motivational posters with framed pictures of kittens?"
I close my eyes. "Liam."
"What?"
"I was genuinely concerned."
"You should be." He sounds offended. "This is a serious artistic discussion."
Despite myself, I laugh.
"I needed that."
"I know."
His tone changes just enough for me to notice. "You sound weird."
"I do?"
"You haven't made fun of me once."
"I've been distracted."
There is a pause. Then Liam says something I wasn't expecting. "Is this about Annette?"
I stop walking. "What makes you ask that?"
"Because every Tuesday and Thursday for the last two months you've come back smiling."
Another pause. "Today you didn't."
I lean against the porch railing. "Do I smile that much?"
"You really don't know?"
"I guess not."
"You've been insufferably cheerful."
"I have not."
"You started complimenting people."
"I've always complimented people."
"You complimented Coach."
"He looked nice."
Liam snorts. "Exactly."
I can't help laughing. Then the laughter fades.
"I think something's changed."
"What kind of change?"
I tell him about the past two therapy sessions. How nothing specific has gone wrong. How Annette is still kind. Still patient. Still encouraging. Just...farther away.
When I finish, Liam is quiet for several seconds.
"Cap?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't know much."
"I'll alert the newspapers."
"I know hockey."
"So do I."
"And I know people."
I wait. "When somebody who always skates toward you suddenly starts skating away..." He lets the sentence hang. "...don't ignore it."
The words settle heavily. "Any idea why?"
"No."
He sighs. "But if it's bothering Captain Walker..." His voice softens. "...it's probably worth finding out."
I end the call a few minutes later. The porch is quiet again, and across the lake, the last light of afternoon glitters across the water. I think about the past few months.
The coffee.
The walks.
The laughter.
The way Annette always looked directly at me when we talked, as though the rest of the world could wait.
Now she's still there. Still smiling. Still helping me heal. But somehow, she feels farther away than she did the day we met.
For the first time since beginning rehabilitation...
I'm not worried about my shoulder. I'm worried about losing something I don't yet know how to name.
***
The cabin is unusually quiet that evening.
I set my keys on the kitchen counter, feed the starter for tomorrow's coffee, and walk to the desk in the corner of the living room.
The notebook is exactly where I left it. For months it has become part of the end of every day.
Three questions. Three simple reminders.
I open to a blank page. The pen rests in my hand for a long moment.
Today's Win
Normally the answer comes easily.
Finished another therapy session.
Skated a little longer.
Encouraged Ethan.
Made Liam laugh.
Today...
I stare at the page.
Finally, I write:
Stayed patient.
It doesn't feel like much of a victory.
Maybe it is.
I move to the second question.
Someone I Encouraged
That answer comes more quickly.
Ethan.
He looked stronger on the ice today.
More confident.
I smile to myself.
He's going to become a fine hockey player.
Then I reach the last line.
Something I'm Grateful For
The pen hovers above the paper.
Normally I'd write something without much thought.
My shoulder. The team. Coach. Another day closer to playing again.
Tonight...Only one answer comes to mind, one I’ve written many times.
Annette
I stop. The word sits alone on the page. For a long moment I simply look at it.
Then, slowly, I draw one careful line through it. Not because it isn't true, but because somehow it feels too personal, too revealing.
Instead, I write: Progress.
I close the notebook before I can change my mind again. As I stand, my phone vibrates on the table.
For one ridiculous second, I hope it's Annette. It isn't.
A reminder from the rehabilitation clinic.
Appointment: Thursday – 9:00 a.m.
I read the notification twice before slipping the phone back into my pocket. Seven more sessions. For the first time in months, I find myself wondering whether she's looking forward to Thursday...
or simply counting how many Tuesdays and Thursdays remain.