Page 38 of Line Change

“Take it down,” Nara calls.

Sindre circles back toward me. “That was down.”

“That was bullshit.” I collect another puck with my stick. “You know she can see you, right?”

“I feel good.”

“Congratulations. Do what she said.”

He gives me a dirty look, then skates the next pass at the pace Nara asked for.

By the time he comes back around, he’s speeding up again.

The impatience is familiar from my second year.

Another player went down across the back of my legs near the end of the season, and my knee bent in a direction it had no business going. After surgery, the doctor told me recovery would decide whether I got my speed back. He wouldn’t tell me I’d play in the NHL again.

The team left on a road trip while I was still sleeping in a brace. I watched every game from my couch with my leg propped up, wondering who would have my stall the next season. Guys called and told me the room missed me, then changed the subject when I asked about training camp. Nobody knew. I hated them for not promising anyway.

Rehab scared the shit out of me. I treated every exercise like a test I could pass early, then added more work when the trainers weren’t looking. My knee swelled at night, and I kept my mouth shut the next morning because I thought honesty would slow me down.

The season ended before I could talk anybody into putting me back in a game. Summer gave my knee the time I hadn’t been willing to give it myself. When training camp opened, it held. I got lucky.

Sindre comes in too fast for the next pass. His breathing is louder now, and his next stop sends more snow off one skate than the other. I pull the puck behind my blade and make him stop.

“What?” he asks.

“I got hurt my second year. Bad. There was a while when I didn’t know if I’d have a career after it.”

His irritation eases, but he still reaches for the puck. “I know.”

Right. Professional hockey players have career pages, and rookies know how to use the internet.

“Then you know I got better.” I keep my skate on the puck. “I listened to the trainers and took the time. Look at me now.”

Sindre looks me over. “Suspended?”

“Shut your ass up, kid.”

He laughs and tries to hook the puck out from under my skate. I send it back toward the bucket instead.

“Nara said one more.” He tries to skate around me.

“That was before you tried to turn rehab into a conditioning drill.”

“The team needs defensemen.”

He looks toward the empty rink when he says it. After my surgery, I spent too much time thinking about the player who would take my minutes if I couldn’t get back fast enough. Sindre won’t stop worrying because I tell him to.

“They keep losing.” He drags his blade through the loose snow.

“I noticed.”

Sindre turns back to me. “I could help.”

“Then don’t fuck up your chance to help later because you got impatient today. The team needs you healthy, so let her get you there.”

Nara calls from the boards, “He’s done.”