Page 89 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

I plant both feet on the floor and wait for the room to settle.

The sling rests on the chair beside the bed. My surgeon cleared me to spend short periods without it at home, but only when the arm stays supported and still. No heroics. Annette’s phrase. I can hear her saying it. Calm. Dry. Completely unimpressed by every argument I’ve ever tried.

A smile almost appears. Almost.

Then I turn and the smile disappears. Pain pulls across my shoulder hard enough to stop me in place.

I grip the edge of the nightstand with my right hand and breathe through it.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The way they taught me. The way Annette kept reminding me. The way I hate needing to remember.

By the time I reach the kitchen, dawn has begun turning the windows from gray to lighter gray. It’s going to be one of those dreary winter days.

Outside is one of the ridiculous pink flamingos visible through the front window, standing proudly beneath a cap of snow. Liam’s contribution to my recovery.

I should move it. I won’t.

Instead, I fill the coffee maker one-handed. Water sloshes onto the counter. I wipe it up.

The filter slips from my fingers. I pick it up. The coffee scoop slips from my fingers and bounces once across the hardwood floor before coming to rest just beyond my reach.

I stare at it. Seriously?

I crouch carefully, supporting my left arm against my body the way therapy has drilled into me.

My ribs tighten immediately.

I reach with my right hand. Not quite. Another inch. Pain shoots across my shoulder, sharp enough to steal my breath. I freeze where I am. Every instinct tells me to push through it. Just grab the stupid scoop. Finish the job.

Instead...

I hear Annette's voice as clearly as if she's standing in the kitchen.

"Pain isn't failure, Jamie. It's information."

I close my eyes. Take one slow breath. Then another.

When I straighten, the scoop is still lying on the floor.

So be it.

I grab a second scoop from the drawer instead. Problem solved. It shouldn't feel like a victory. Somehow...it does.

The coffee begins dripping with its familiar rhythmic gurgle. I lean one hip against the counter and wait. The smell fills the cabin. Normally, this is my favorite part of the morning.

Today my eyes drift toward the mudroom instead, where the hockey bag leans exactly where Colby left it. Black. Scuffed. Ready.

The captain's jersey hangs above it, the white C bright against the midnight navy fabric.

For years, pulling that jersey over my head has been as automatic as breathing.

Now...

I can't even imagine lifting my left arm high enough to put it on. The thought slips in before I can stop it. What if I never wear it again?