Page 18 of Here We Go Again

Grip strength, wrist rotation, sensory retraining. It’s hard to feel like such small movements are making any difference when what I want to be doing is skating. Stick handling. Shooting.

“You have to stick to the plan,” Nico says when I press him, not for the first time, to let me hit the ice.

“Come on,” I argue. “I already feel so much better than I did the last time I tried. I’m not going to have the same problems.”

The biggest challenge to skating is that the cold makes my hand hurt like hell. Last time I skated, I only lasted ten minutes before my grip strength was shot and three of my fingers had gone numb.

Nico is worried that trying again before I’m ready is only going to mess with my headspace and unnecessarily psych me out.

“You might,” Nico says now, dropping a dynamometer onto my lap to measure my grip strength. “Come on. Show me what you’ve got.”

I squeeze the instrument with my left hand, flinching as a jolt of pain races up to my elbow.

“I saw that,” Nico says.

“It barely hurt,” I say, gripping a little harder.

“Not bad,” Nico says as he notes the reading on his clipboard. “Better than last week.”

“See?” I say. “You should let me skate.”

“You can skate all you want,” Nico says. “Just not with a hockey stick in your hand.”

“What’s the point without a hockey stick?”

Nico chuckles. “If you don’t slack over the weekend, we can try next week. But you have to be honest with me about the neuropathic pain. No putting on a brave face just to get back out there.” He points to a set of dumbbells sitting on the bench beside me. “Now do your wrist curls.”

I do as he asks, even if I grumble while doing it, and Nico drops a hand onto my shoulder.

“You’re gonna get there, man. I promise.”

I think I will get there, but I can’t fully shake my sense of trepidation. What if I don’t? What if this freak-accident injury derails the rest of my career?

It’s a risk we all take every time we’re on the ice. I get that. But I can’t truly fathom the disappointment of never playing again. Or worse—playing with half the skill and precision I used to.

After my wrist curls, I move on to my typical summer conditioning routine. I have to modify a few exercises on account of my injury, and I don’t love working out alone, but I’m here, so I might as well knock everything out while I can.

After I finish, I hit the showers, then stop by the therapy room to say goodbye to Nico.

“You looked good today,” he says, looking up from where he’s seated at his desk. “Back at it tomorrow?”

I nod. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll be here.” Tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.

On the way to my car, my phone rings with a call from my mom. I wince when I see her name. Even after her many attempts to reach out on Sunday, I never called her back.

It’s been three days since then, and I hate that she had to reach out again.

“Hey, Mom,” I say after picking up the call. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back.”

“Thanks for apologizing,” she says. “I figured you were busy. How’s your rehab going?”

“I just left. It’s good, I guess. Slower than I would like.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” she says as I climb into my SUV. “Your paycheck won’t change even if you aren’t playing, so give yourself the time you need to heal.”

I get what she’s saying, and she’s right. But money has always been secondary to me. I just want to play. To be out there with my team. A hockey player is the only thing I know how to be.

“You sound like my trainer,” I say.