Page 54 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

A quiet laugh escapes him. "...that's probably true."

"Probably?"

He smiles sheepishly. "Definitely."

I fold my hands in my lap. "May I ask why?" He doesn't answer right away.

Outside, a helicopter passes somewhere above the hospital. Its distant thrum fades slowly into the afternoon. Finally, he speaks. "I don't really have time to think about me."

The sentence is so simple, so matter of fact. It almost steals my breath. Not dramatic. Not self-pitying.

Just...a statement of fact.

I tilt my head. "Everybody has time, maybe you don’t TAKE the time."

He shakes his head gently. "No."

His eyes stay on the window. "Not if somebody else needs you."

Something inside me shifts. Because...he believes that. Completely.

Not as a slogan. Not as something admirable. As the way the world is supposed to work.

I find myself speaking more quietly than before. "Maybe..."

He looks back at me. "...that's a problem."

He doesn't argue. Doesn't defend himself. Instead, he thinks about it. Really thinks.

After nearly half a minute, he smiles. "You know..."

"What?"

"Coach has been saying something similar for years."

"And?"

"I always assumed he was exaggerating."

I smile. "Maybe both of us can't be wrong."

He laughs softly. "That's statistically possible, but highly unlikely. You're becoming awfully confident, Annette."

"I'm spending too much time with hockey players."

He grins. "I was afraid of that."

A comfortable silence settles over the room, not because the conversation is finished, but because neither of us feels the need to rush the next thought.

The afternoon sun slips across the floor between us. Life goes on. But something important has changed inside Room 312, not because Jamie admitted a weakness. Because, for the very first time...someone held up a mirror.

And instead of looking away...he looked.

***

The afternoon remains in its usual rhythm that I'd begun recognizing. Medication rounds. Visitors coming and going. Therapy appointments. Someone somewhere is laughing. The orthopedic floor has its own heartbeat.

I finish updating Jamie's chart when a timid knock sounds against the open door.