6. KAI #2
Wyatt ties the balloon to my bed rail on the way past and pats my foot through the blanket. Easton squeezes my shoulder while Jordan pats my arm. Theo places a food pack on my tray table.
“Chicken soup,” he whispers.
“Thanks.”
Cole lifts a hand on his way out, and Dmitri gives me another nod before following him.
Camden hangs back long enough to straighten the container Theo left precariously close to the edge of the table.
"Good luck with him," he says.
Then he walks out after the others.
Once they’ve left, Brennan pulls the chair close. He sits with his back straight, hands on his knees.
"They give you my name?"
“I know you, Coach.”
"Good. Saves time." He studies me with no softness in it. After days of everyone treating me like glass, it's a relief. "They tell you the truth, or the comfortable version?"
"Working on getting the truth." I look at the balloon bobbing on its string. "How's the team?"
"Sick with worry and pretending they're fine." He shifts, joints protesting. "Your medical team wants to talk to you this afternoon. I've spoken with them already."
"Okay. Why are you telling me?"
"Listen to them before you react. You have a history of hearing bad news and immediately trying to solve it with stubbornness."
"When?"
"March twenty twenty-three. You played through a separated shoulder because you didn't want to miss a road trip."
I have zero memory of this. "Did it work?"
"I benched you for two weeks."
Sounds accurate, honestly.
He stands. "Whatever Dr. Harold tells you, hear the whole thing. Then we'll figure out the rest."
He leaves as the doctor walks in.
She's mid-forties, composed, reviewing a tablet as she sits. She speaks the way good coaches speak: direct with no filler, respecting the person enough to skip the cushioning.
"Your short-term memory is fully functional," she says. "You're forming new memories without difficulty. That's the positive news."
"And what’s the negative news?"
"You've lost approximately four years of autobiographical memory. That’s retrograde amnesia. Given the location and severity of the injury, that's consistent with what we expected."
"Will it come back?"
"Some of it might. Memory after an injury like this is unpredictable. For some people a smell or a voice or a face pulls a whole stretch of time back. For others the gap stays a gap. I won't tell you which one you are because I don't know. And anyone who says they do is selling something."
"How long till we know?"
"There’s no clean answer. It might be weeks or months. Usually what's coming back has mostly come back inside a year. What hasn't by then, often doesn't." She holds my eyes. "Plan your recovery around the man in this bed, not the one you're hoping to get back."
The room is very quiet except for the machines beeping
"What about hockey?"
She sets the tablet on her lap. "Your motor function is intact. There's no neurological barrier to returning to play eventually. But your brain needs significant recovery time. A second impact before you've healed would be far more dangerous than the first."
"How long?"
"Three to six months before clearance for contact practice. Longer before game readiness."
I snort.
Three months is August. Training camp. Six months is November, a quarter of the season gone.
"And the memory recovery has nothing to do with the physical recovery?"
"Correct. You may be back on the ice long before any personal memories return. Or memories may surface during rehab. There's no pattern we can predict."
"Okay."
She watches me. "You're steadier than most."
I'm not steady. I'm just not going to come apart where you can see it.
My eyes meet hers. "You said it comes back for some people..."
"Yes."
"Then I'm going to be one of the ones it comes back for."
"Kai, I need you to hear the part where it might not."
"I heard every word. You gave me the odds. I'm not arguing them, I'm telling you what I'll do with them."
She holds my gaze a long moment, then shrugs.
"Rest. Fighting it won't make you heal faster."
I disagree with her, but I don’t say anything as she starts walking out. She pauses at the door.
"The will to recover matters. It's just not the same as controlling the outcome. Don't confuse the two. It will break your heart."
Then she's gone.
But I know what to do, because I’ve forgotten people like Ava, Wyatt, and Jordan. Parts of my memory with my team are missing. I don’t even remember anything about my captain days.
I lie back watching the hockey-stick balloon drifts on its string.
I think about the cup I won and can't remember lifting. The teammates who know stories about me that I can’t confirm or deny. The coach who remembers a fight I started over a shoulder I apparently destroyed.
Four years of my life is sitting behind a wall in my brain. The doctors can’t tell me if I’ll ever break through that wall.
Fine.
I've been the underdog before. Been the guy nobody expected to make the roster, earn the C, score the overtime winner.
I apparently did all of it once.
I've spent my whole life clawing back things people wrote off. A knee they said wouldn't hold. Becoming one of the best players even when people said I wouldn’t be any good. I got all of it by refusing other people’s version of me.
I'll do it again. Every part.
And if the memories show up along the way, good. If they don't, I'll build new ones worth keeping.
I press the call button.
"Can you find out when I can start physical therapy?"
A pause. "Dr. Harold recommended rest for at least..."
"I heard what she recommended. I'm asking when I can start."
The nurse leaves to check.
I settle back against the pillows. My head hurts, my body is wrecked. Four years of my life are missing and might stay that way.
But for the first time since I woke up in this bed, I'm not waiting for answers to come to me.
I'm going after them.