Page 31 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

Hospitals have their own kind of silence. Not true silence. Machines humming somewhere down the hallway. Rubber soles squeaking across polished floors. A muffled voice at the nurses' station that fades before I can make out the words.

Just enough sound to remind you the world never really stops.

My shoulder throbs with the slow, steady ache that has become my new alarm clock.

The ribs join in a heartbeat later.

Apparently, they're offended that I forgot about them for almost six hours.

I lie there staring at the faint strip of morning beginning to creep around the edges of the blinds.

This is usually the time I'm already awake.

Coffee. Workout. Practice days start early.

Game days start even earlier.

Routine.

I've spent years believing routines solve almost everything.

Turns out broken bones don't care much about routines.

I slowly turn my head.

The call button rests on the mattress beside my right hand.

Close enough to touch without stretching.

Someone must have placed it there before the night nurse left. Convenient. Thoughtful.

I look at it for a long moment, then look away. I don't need anything. Not really.

The thought barely finishes before my body reminds me that's a lie. My bladder has apparently decided it's finished waiting.

Wonderful.

The bathroom is only a few steps away. Not far.

I've walked farther than that carrying two hockey bags.

I've walked farther than that after blocking slap shots that left bruises the size of dinner plates.

This should be easy. My thumb drifts toward the call button.

Stops.

If I press it...someone will come. Someone who's already taking care of too many patients. Someone who'll stop whatever they're doing because I don't feel like standing up.

No, I can manage this.

"I'll figure it out."

The words barely leave my mouth, mostly because I need to hear them myself.

Slowly, I push the blankets aside.

My left shoulder protests immediately, and the sling catches awkwardly against the blanket.