Chapter 53
Mattias
I don’t open my eyes until I’m sure she’s gone.
My fingers curl against my palm, the ghost of her touch an electric current lingering over my skin.
Her hand was so soft and gentle, and for a brief moment I floated away to a different life, where I was just a man and she was just a woman who cared about me.
I glance at the basket she left and my mouth turns downward. I don’t know what she’s getting at, leaving me gifts. I didn’t want her to come here.
Reality pulls me down like a weight, dragging me back to Earth. She lied to me. She’s planning to profit off the destruction of my career. I don’t know what she could possibly say or show me that would erase that fact. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all water under the bridge at this point.
She shouldn’t have come.
I glance at my phone on the bedside table and see several missed texts from Micke.
I vaguely recall speaking to him earlier this morning when they took me off the sedative, but I was too delirious to talk.
I told him I would call him back when the medication wore off, but I must have passed out.
I shoot him a quick text telling him I’m alright, and no I haven’t slipped into a coma, and that he can call me when he wakes up even if it’s early.
Sighing, I lean my head back against the hospital bed and look at the clock.
It’s nearly evening. I’ve slept all day.
I reach for the remote and turn on the TV.
It doesn’t take me long to find the Monarchs’ game.
A deep, lonely sadness fills me as I tune in to the first period.
It’s a fast game against the New York Dutchmen, tied one to one.
Moreau is playing my string. It’s a glimpse into the Monarchs’ future that might have been, were the team not being liquidated.
I turn off the game. I don’t think I can stomach watching it.
The doctor told me this morning that the swelling in my brain has gone down and I’ll be released in the next few days. Unfortunately, she mandated eight more weeks of bench time to give me ample time to recover. Armstrong did a number on me.
If we don’t make the playoffs, I have eight weeks left in my career.
I might never play on professional ice again.
The thought makes my hands curl, and I have to push the thought out of my mind, because I can hear my heart rate accelerating on the monitor beside my bed.
I need to contact my real estate broker and see about listing my condo, among other loose ends.
I’ll need to be back in Sweden by June if Micke and Astrid are expecting in July.
Poirier, H?kk?nen, and for some reason, Fontenot come to pick me up on the day I’m discharged from the hospital. I don’t realize how many get well cards have been left for me until it’s time to gather them all. The team, Coach Marshall, even the fans—it feels like everybody’s left me something.
“Who’s this from?” Poirier lifts the basket—the one I’ve been avoiding looking at since it was dropped off.
“I don’t know.”
“Uh-huh.”
I close my eyes. It’s not like I can tell him what’s happened, so I settle for my classic, “Fuck off, Poirier.”
“I’ll remember you said that the next time you need someone to come pick your sorry ass up from the hospital.”
There won’t be a next time, I think, but keep it to myself.
As much as I’m ready to move on from shitty hospital food and the incessant beeping of monitors, a certain dread fills me when we check out.
Going out there means facing reality. The reality where I’m just a washed up hockey player with nothing but a head injury and dead career to show for myself.
I wonder if anyone will come visit in Sweden, or if this is the last I’ll be seeing of these guys.
The ride home is quiet. There’s a home game tonight, but none of us mention it. I don’t have it in me to go. The guys help me carry my get well cards and basket inside, even going so far as to stock my fridge with all my favorite foods. I find myself speechless.
“I’m giving you my caviar paste. Think about that,” H?kk?nen says in his deep voice, holding up a squeeze tube of my favorite brand. “I don’t share my caviar paste.”
“The fuck is this?” Poirier snatches the tube, then squeezes a drop on his finger and licks it. He immediately makes a retching noise.
H?kk?nen grabs it back. “Want to know my secret this season? Caviar paste. I don’t eat anything else on gamedays. Works every time.”
“Yeah ‘cause your breath scares everyone away from our net,” Poirier jabs.
Fontenot tries some, too. He shrugs, sheepish. “It’s not that bad. Kinda tastes like crawdads.”
“What’s a crawdad?” Poirier says.
“If I listen to this much longer, my brain’s going to start swelling again,” I interject, closing my eyes. It’s probably from lack of sleep at this point, but my head is throbbing.
“The caviar paste will make you feel better in no time,” H?kk?nen says on his way out the door.
“Call if you need anything, Cap. We’ll make Coach Marshall pause practice,” Fontenot adds.
“Big talk for a rookie,” Poirier remarks. Then they leave me in the quiet of my empty home, with nothing but my thoughts for company.
I’m supposed to limit my screen time, but there’s nothing else to do around here and my inbox is drowning in emails, so I make quick work of sorting it out.
My lip curls as I scroll through. There’s one from Ines, asking me to check in with her when I’m back at the rink.
Another is from our team physical therapist who sent about a dozen calisthenic videos with exercises I can do to keep my strength up while I’m resting at home.
Then, there’s an email from her. My heart stutters, thinking it’s personal until I see the subject line.
You’re Invited: First Look Screening of LA Monarchs Documentary The Comeback Season.
I open the email. It’s scheduled for this weekend.
I glance at the basket she left me, and my thoughts return to her hand on mine. I’m so sorry. She’d sounded genuine, but it doesn’t change what she did. It doesn’t change the fact that this documentary is still happening.
Scowling, I deliberate for a moment before curiosity gets the better of me and I reach for the card stuffed between the bags of salted licorice and cinnamon rolls.
My name is written on the front in her chicken scratch handwriting, and fuck me, I still think it’s kind of cute despite how livid I am with her right now.
I open the envelope and find a simple card with the words Get well soon on the front. I flip it open.
Mattias,
I hope you’re feeling better by the time you read this.
I know you probably never want to hear from me again, and I promise, I’ll respect that going forward.
I hope you’ll attend the documentary premiere, but I know you probably won’t.
So instead, I brought the documentary to you.
Even if you never want to see me again, I hope you’ll afford me this last chance to explain myself. All you have to do is press play.
-Freddie
I toss the card aside and lift the flash drive between my fingers, turning it over. Then I set it on my desk to collect dust.