Page 4 of The Goalie in Room 1

“We playing or not?” I asked.

His sigh was loud even through the phone. “You know my parents…”

“Don’t. If I won’t take you up on the offer, I’m not going to impose on the Rustavs.” He needed to get it through his head: I wouldn’t be pitied. Or a charity case. “I’m dropping into a game, so if you wanna play, then let’s play. Otherwise, little brother, good night.”

“Alright. Have it your way. Let’s play.”

I strolled into the specialist’s office the next week, ignoring how little my gait looked like it once had. Or felt like it once had. Months of rehab had gotten me mobile. Barely.

“Morning,” I said, greeting the receptionist with a smile as I checked in.

“Good morning, if you want to…” He glanced toward the window in the hallway behind the lobby door. “Are you ready for him?”

The doctor nodded, and I sighed. This would be just like all the others. You could always tell.

“Why don’t you come on back?” he said, opening the door separating us.

I trailed after him with only our footsteps breaking the silence. In the exam room, he patted the table as he passed by it to sit at the computer on a desk against the wall. A nurse came in as I hopped onto the table. She did her thing, documenting my vitals.

All of it was done without a word spoken between or by the three of us.

When the door latched behind the nurse, who’d smiled before leaving, I knew.

“Cash…”

Sighing at the tone he used, I said, “Don’t beat around the bush. I don’t have the time to be bullshitted.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll cut to the chase. Your knee isn’t where anyone would like it to be. Not me, not the Breakers, and especially not you. You and the team want you on the ice. I want that for you too, but there isn’t anything I can do that will make that happen for you.”

“What about…?”

“Whatever treatment you’re going to suggest, I assure you, I’ve considered it. As has the Breakers’ medical team and every other specialist, surgeon, and physical therapist you’ve seen. It’s in the records you provided during the consultation.”

“You’re sure?” I asked, unable to meet his gaze.

“Cash, I’m positive. I’m a hockey fan. More than that, I’m a Breakers fan. A lifelong fan since Headland Cove is my hometown. I hold season tickets and travel to as many away games as I can. If I could put the best goalie the Cove has placed in the net in a decade back on the ice, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t.”

I nodded, my nostrils flaring as tears burned my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Cash. I really am.”

Another nod, this one coming as I dropped carefully to the floor. I reached my hand out. I couldn’t even remember his name. I’d seen so many since the Breakers’ medical exit evaluation told me I’d never play professional hockey again.

“I do suggest continued physical therapy to help with gait and mobility,” he said, taking my hand in a firm grip. “The team’s insurance is required to cover it.”

I looked him square in the eye. Something told me that sentence meant more than the words he spoke. His wavering eyes confirmed my goalie intuition. He was trying to say something he didn’t want to say. I kept hold of his hand as I worked to uncover the hidden meaning in his words.

“What’re you getting at?” I asked, my voice turning hard.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and then he cleared his throat. “The team is refusing to pay for this visit, and they are contesting the claim submitted for the previous one.”

“What the fuck do you mean they’re refusing to pay? They are required to pay all of my medical bills for my injury.”

“Your original hockey-related injury is still eligible for authorized treatment, but the Breakers are not obligated to fund an endless search for a surgeon willing to attempt a procedure solely to return you to professional hockey. The team has determined a comeback is unlikely⁠—”

“Unlikely,” I said, butting in. “But not impossible.”

He sighed. “To them it is not possible.”