Page 36 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

Silence.

The words hang between us.

This...

This is somehow harder than surgery.

Not because of the shirt, but because accepting help feels suspiciously like surrender.

I close my eyes behind the fabric. Take one careful breath. Then another.

Finally...

"Yeah."

One word. Barely louder than a whisper. She steps beside me. No hesitation. No triumph. No sympathy. Just calm professionalism.

Pulling the shirt all the way off, she directs me. “I'm going to slide the injured arm through first."

"Okay."

"If anything hurts..."

"I'll tell you."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Gentle hands guide the sleeve over my left forearm. Slowly. Patiently. She never rushes. Never pulls. Never treats me like I'm fragile. Only injured. There's a difference.

Within seconds the sleeve settles comfortably over my shoulder.

She eases the shirt down across my back. Straightens the collar. Then quietly steps away.

"There."

I look down. The shirt is on. No dramatic victory.

Just...a shirt.

Funny, it feels like climbing a mountain. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She bends to take the discarded hospital gown.

Neither of us says anything. The silence isn't awkward. It's simply…respect.

For the first time since the collision, I'm wearing my own clothes.

And somehow...

I feel a little more like myself.

***

The room grows quiet again after the morning rush. Breakfast trays disappear. The physical therapist has another patient down the hall. Even the overhead announcements seem to take a break.

Annette settles into the chair beside the window with my chart balanced across her lap. Most patients spend this part of the morning sleeping, I spend it answering emails. Not the dozens from reporters.