4. Ryder
Ryder
The doctor is young, probably a resident, with tired eyes and the kind of gentle competence that makes me want to trust her even though trusting doctors means admitting I’m hurt.
“So,” she says, studying the X-rays on her tablet. “Let’s talk about your shoulder.”
Carter shifts in his chair. He refused to leave, and honestly, I’m grateful. Having someone here who knows the stakes makes it easier somehow.
“How bad?” I ask.
“You have a grade two AC separation, that’s the joint where your collarbone meets your shoulder blade. You’ve also got significant inflammation in the rotator cuff, and based on your range of motion tests, I suspect a partial tear.”
“Can I play?”
“Play what?”
“Hockey. I have games. Important games. Scouts watching.”
She looks at me like I’ve asked if I can fly to the moon. “Not for at least six weeks. Possibly longer depending on how you respond to treatment.”
“Six weeks?” My voice cracks. “I can’t…we have championships in eight weeks. Draft evaluations start in?—”
“Mr. Beaumont, if you keep playing on this shoulder, you won’t be playing at all. You’ll tear the rotator cuff completely, need surgery, and be looking at six months to a year of recovery. Maybe longer. Maybe never the same.”
The room spins slightly.
“What if I’m careful? What if I just?—”
“There is no ‘just’ with this kind of injury. Your shoulder is compromised. Every hit, every check, every fall risks catastrophic damage.” She softens her tone. “I understand this is your sport, your career. But you have to give it time to heal or you won’t have a career at all.”
Carter speaks up. “What’s the treatment?”
“Rest, ice, anti-inflammatories. Physical therapy starting in about two weeks once the initial inflammation goes down. No contact sports. No overhead movements. Basically, treat your shoulder like it’s made of glass until it’s not.”
“And the concussion?” Carter asks.
“Mild. Rest, avoid screens, no physical activity for at least a week. Someone should monitor you for the next twenty-four hours in case symptoms worsen.”
She prescribes stronger pain medication, gives me a list of physical therapy exercises, and makes me promise to follow up with an orthopaedic specialist.
I promise, but I don’t mean it.
Carter drives me back to my apartment in silence. Maya fell asleep in the back seat, her head against the window, and I’m struck by how young she looks when she’s not carrying whatever weight she usually carries.
“She’s been through a lot,” Carter says quietly, noticing my gaze.
“What happened to her?”
“Not my story to tell. But…” He pauses. “She gets what you’re going through. The pressure. The feeling like you’re drowning but have to keep smiling for everyone watching.”
“She tried to kill herself,” I say. Not a question.
Carter’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Like I said, not my story. But yeah. Eighteen months ago. Nearly succeeded.” His voice breaks slightly. “I found her.”
Jesus.
I knew Carter had a sister, but her being here he kept that quiet. I didn’t even put her name and Carter’s sister together.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just… if she tries to help you, let her. She needs to help someone. Needs to feel like she can save someone since she couldn’t save herself.”
We pull up to my apartment building. Carter helps me inside while Maya waits in the car, still sleeping.
“You’re staying with me tonight, go pack a bag.” Carter says. It’s not a question. “Doctor said twenty-four-hour monitoring. Plus you can barely move your arm. You need help.”
“I’ll be fine?—”
“Ryder, for the love of god, stop saying you’re fine. You’re not fine. I’m not fine. Maya’s not fine. None of us are fine, and pretending otherwise is how we all end up destroyed.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”
“That’s what teammates do. We show up for each other, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”