Page 2 of The Has-Been

“No.”

The single word is blunt. Absolute. I downright refuse to change my major.

Can you blame her for asking, though?

Sitting through practices and games. Hand­ling preventive care—wrapping ankles, guiding stretches meant to avoid injury—which feels iro­nic, considering no amount of stretching could have prevented the one that ended my career.

All of that…that’s what I have to look forward to now. Not the NHL. Not a million-dollar contract. Just rolls of tape and ice packs. And the constant reminder that it’ll never be me out there again.

After a few minutes of silence, Sarah closes her laptop and folds her hands over the desk.

“Alright, then. It looks like you’ve taken on quite the workload.” Her brows draw together. “Are you certain you can handle it?”

“I’ll be fine.” I insist, each word harsher than the next. I don’t intend to be rude, but I’m tired of everyone telling me what I can’t do.

It’s fucking exhausting. I know my own limits.

But do you? A voice whispers. I ignore it, like I’ve learned to do.

“Very well,” Sarah declares. “If you can keep up with the schedule, you’ll be on track to graduate only a semester behind your senior classmates.” She pauses, inclining her head. “I’d say that’s quite the accomplishment…considering.”

An audible scoff escapes me.

I silently retort, “Yeah, considering…”

Considering I missed an entire year of school, locked in my childhood bedroom back in Indiana. My mom, my therapist, and the daily phone calls from friends were my only companions as I tried to work through my shit after the⁠—

The incident. As my mother likes to call it.

I shove the thought away, remembering what my therapist said about manifesting negative emotions.

“The last matter is your clinical time,” she murmurs softly.

If her tone is any indication, then I know whatever comes next is going to ruin my decent mood.

Well—decent by my standards, that is.

“Let me guess,” I say, far too sarcastically toward the counselor who’s been nothing but friendly and supportive. “There is only one team with an opening. One I might be familiar with?”

She nods, her face softening.

Of. Fucking. Course.

I exhale deeply. Dragging my fingers over my brows, I force a response, “I’ll make it wo­rk.” The words are more like a grumble than a sentence, but I’ll take it—progress is progress.

“Are you sure? I know with your history...” Her voice wanes as her eyes trail the scar on my leg.

I inhale as I force the best smile I can manage nowadays. I know Sarah has worked hard to figure out a way for me to make up for lost time, and I genuinely appreciate her support.

“It won’t be a problem,” I grit, nearly convincing myself.

When I finally lift my gaze to the eyes I’ve avoided this entire meeting, I find a proud look on Sarah’s face.

“Very well,” she declares, jotting down a note. “I’ll ensure everything is in order. The other student athletic trainer is handling the off-season. I don’t see why you would need to start until the beginning of the season. Hopefully, that’ll give you some time to settle back in and focus on your coursework.”

I try not to allow my relief to show as I think it over.

It’s September.