“Ethan, don't move!” One of the trainers is already on the ice, sliding toward me.
I can hear the collective gasp that happens when everyone realizes the hit was worse than it looked. I hear the referee's whistle and feel hands on me, assessing damage.
“Where does it hurt?” The trainer's voice is calm.
“Everywhere,” I grit out. “Knee. Shoulder.”
“Can you stand?”
I try. My good leg holds, but the moment I put weight on my left knee, it gives out completely. The trainer catches me, and suddenly, there are more hands supporting my other side.
“We're taking you off,” the trainer says. “Don't argue.”
I wouldn't even if I could. The pain is too intense, too consuming. I can tell from the way my shoulder is screaming that something is torn or broken or both.
They help me to the bench, then down the tunnel. The crowd is chanting my nickname, the Wall. But it feels distant. I’m in too much pain, both physically and emotionally.
Because I'm not on the ice. I'm not helping my team win the Stanley Cup. I'm being carried off like damaged goods. Of all the games in my career to get injured, it just had to be this one.
The medical room is small and unbearably quiet compared to the arena. They lay me on the examination table, and the team doctor immediately starts his assessment.
“Scale of one to ten, what's the pain?”
“Eight.” It's probably a nine, but I won't admit that.
He prods my knee gently, and I have to bite back a string of curses. “We need X-rays. Possibly an MRI. But based on the mechanism of injury and your symptoms, I'm suspecting an MCL tear at a minimum. Maybe ACL. Won't know for sure until we image it.”
Fuck. “How long until I can play again?”
He exchanges a look with the trainer. “Let's get the imaging first. But if it's what I think it is, we're looking at surgery. Months of recovery.”
Months.
Everything in me goes cold. Everything but the burning pain. I don’t want to feel any of it. Not the pain, or the disappointment I feel. “Can you give me something for the pain?”
“We'll get you to the hospital first. They'll have better imaging equipment and can manage your pain more effectivelythere.” He pats my good shoulder. “Try to stay still. We'll get a stretcher.”
They leave me alone for a moment, then I notice the TV mounted in the corner, still showing the game.
Third period. Five minutes left. We're up 4-3.
I should be out there, blocking shots, clearing the zone, doing my job as a defenseman. Instead, I'm stuck in this medical room, watching my team win the Stanley Cup without me.
Minutes crawl by. Every second feels like an eternity. My knee is throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
On screen, Denver pulls their goalie for an extra attacker. The Renegades hold strong. Cole makes an incredible defensive play. Logan makes three impossible saves in the final minute, and Nova scores in the last few seconds.
The buzzer sounds.
We won.
The Stanley Cup is ours.
On the TV, I watch my teammates pile onto each other, onto Nova, everyone screaming and celebrating. The Cup is being brought out. Cole lifts it first as captain, and even through my pain, pride surges through me.
We did it.
Except I'm here alone while everyone else celebrates the moment we've worked toward all season.
