Chapter 8
CARSON
“Congrats, team.” I high-five our goalie in the dressing room after another win. “We did it.”
“Fuck yeah, we did!” Archie agrees.
I’m sweaty and exhausted, but happy. Two goals and an assist will do that to you.
Things have really been clicking for us this season.
Since Shawzy and Crusher have been playing together full-time on defense, they’ve been red-hot.
Their size and mobility make them a nightmare for opponents on the rush.
They’ve also chipped in some offense, with Crusher up to thirty-one points now.
Our goalie Archie’s been excellent with a .
925 save percentage and nine wins in ten starts.
And since Coach put Turks on the right wing with me and Benny, the three of us are humming. The confidence feels fucking fantastic.
As I’m heading out, I walk with Trev. “Hey,” I say. “What happened with the MRI you went for on your wrist?”
“Nothing showed up.”
“Huh. That’s weird.”
Trev shrugs. “I guess. Maybe there’s nothing wrong.”
“You know there’s something wrong.”
“Maybe I’m inventing physical symptoms to justify why I’m playing so shitty.”
“Jesus Christ.” I stare at him.
He gives me a weak grin. “It’s possible.”
I shake my head. “What now? They have to figure out what the problem is.”
“Yeah, Doc Wilkinson is referring me to the Mayo Clinic.”
“Good.” I nod. “When do you go?”
“I think I’ll wait until the season is over.”
I stop walking and grab his arm. “You can’t wait that long.”
“It’s not life-threatening.”
“I know, but it’s affecting your play.”
His face tightens.
We’ve still been spending some extra time together on the ice, working on a few things to hopefully help him score. But he hasn’t yet, and I know it’s getting him down. “You’re not happy about how you’re playing.”
He regards me with narrow eyes and tight lips. “Look. Even if they figure out what’s wrong, there’s not going to be a quick solution. If I need some kind of surgery, I’ll be out for months probably. I can’t do that.”
I rub my jaw. “I get it. But you could be doing more damage to it when you’re playing.”
“The cortisone injections are helping.”
“But you can only have those three or four times a year. How many have you had this year? As in, this season.”
He hesitates. “Four.”
I shake my head. “You can permanently weaken the cartilage in your joints if you have too many of those. And if it’s just masking the pain, you eventually have to do something more than a cortisone shot.”
“Are you a doctor now?”
His tone has my eyebrows shooting up. “I’ve been around a while. I’m not giving you medical advice. I’m just trying to help.”
I also know what it’s like, though. Lots of players willingly accept the risk of a more serious injury if it allows them to play in the short term. We’re stupid like that. “It’s better to be out for months than forever.”
“It’s my body and my decision,” he snaps. “I feel shitty enough; I don’t need more pressure.” He turns and strides away to his car.
Shit.
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and watch him walk away. Like I told him, I just want to help. What’s his problem?