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This is one game where there’s no room for error. We’re fighting for every inch of ice we get, and the other team is matching our intensity. I’m confident we’ll beat these guys tonight, but in the end, both teams will have played epic hockey.
Every sprint is at top speed, and every check into the boards fires up our determination. The elusive goal seems barely out of reach, but we’re playing smart, with no leeway to spare. At all.
By the time second period rolls around, my muscles are starting to burn. But I can push through that. I have always been able to, and tonight is no exception. The game’s pace accelerates, and the sound of the puck hitting our sticks and the ice spraying as we cut sharp turns are pretty much all I hear through my intense concentration.
By the third period, everyone’s fatigue is real, but again, we push. We always do. We’re operating on years of training andinstinct, and a nearly uncontrollable desire to come out on top, driven by what are probably unhealthy levels of adrenaline.
That’s just the way it is.
The decision to shoot or pass happens in a microscopic amount of time and when the ice opens up in front of Tyler, years of calculating angles, distances, and probabilities guide him. I’ve been where he is before and know how everything else fades into the background. He focuses, and with all the power he has, sends the puck flying toward the goal.
I track it, like everyone in the stadium is, and by God it crosses the line as if it was meant to, like it was always predestined and skating our asses off for three periods finally earned us the privilege. The goal horn blares and I let myself hear the crowd go wild. Fist bumps, hugs, and shouts are directed toward my buddy, and in seconds, he’s already heading to his position in preparation for a new face-off, followed by the rest of us.
With a goal under our belt, and minutes left in the game, we’re ready to do anything to keep our advantage.
But something goes wrong. Someone—I’m not sure whether from my team or the other—slams into me and I go down in a bad twist that feels different from the usual hit. The realization that I have a problem before I even stop sliding is clear by the lightning bolt of pain that seizes my left knee. My stick goes flying across the ice, and after rolling over, I push myself up, only to be unable to get off my knees.
Fuck me.
I roll to my side, holding my leg, and the game continues to scream around me until the trainer comes and drags me off the ice.
59
RAKE
Petal bringsme ice for my knee as I sit in front of the TV, watching but not watching, and feeling sorry for myself.
“Here you go. You want more Tylenol?” she asks.
She’s been a champ, especially since I am not a good patient.
“No. I’d rather feel the pain so I don’t forget how I fucked up.”
She puts her hands on her hips in that no-nonsense way she has. “C’mon. You got hit. You have an MCL injury. You’re supposed to be better in a few weeks. I don’t get why you’re being such a grump.”
I stare at the TV but I’m not seeing it because I’m flicking the channels too fast. It feels good to take my frustration out on the remote, but if I don’t put it down, it will end up broken.
Turns out I don’t have to. Petal snatches it out of my hands and puts it in her back pocket.
“Can I have that back, please?” I snap.
She shakes her head. “Not if you’re going to keep acting like a jerk.”
The fear, anger, and disbelief of getting hurt on the ice went away a few days ago, only to be replaced by a fury at potentially losing everything that’s important to me. I’m done for the rest of the season, which, admittedly, was nearly over, but being sidelined is not something any pro athlete is good at dealing with.
Taking away my game takes away my identity, and what the fuck does that leave me with?
My daily routine is out the window. I miss the guys, their camaraderie and friendship, their pats on the back and constructive criticism, and I miss being in my skates and speeding across the ice. Instead, my time is occupied with a flurry of doctor appointments and physical therapy.
Of course, Petal’s supportive. Actually, she’s more than supportive, she’s been a saint, putting up with all my bullshit.
The doctors may have promised I’ll be up again in a few weeks, but any athlete knows that’s a best-case guesstimate. When that festers in my thoughts, all the doubts creep in, about my ability to recover, my place on the team, and the future of my career. I’m already twenty-nine, on the old side for a hockey player. Never thought I’d be put out to pasture before I’m fucking thirty years old.
I’m trying to stay positive and focus on progress rather than setbacks, but at the moment, I suck at that stuff.
I hate for Petal to see me like this, down in the dumps, bitching about everything like a little baby. It’s humiliating. And demoralizing.
All hockey players know that an injury can occur at any time. I’ve seen horrible things happen to them. Truth be told, I really don’t have it that bad. Just a knee injury. I’ve seen dozens of concussions, players sliced by someone’s skate blade, teeth knocked out—you name it.
