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I was born to play hockey.It’s my purpose, my focus, and the reason I kept pushing for a spot on a professional team long after most men my age would have given up.I’m not a quitter.I’m a master at finding a reason to believe and this time isn’t going to be any different.
Despite the pain in my shoulder—a gnawing ache that grows increasingly intolerable with every second I’m conscious—by the time Melissa returns with a pale man whose name tag reads Dr.Ferdinand, I’ve half-convinced myself I’ll be back in the game in four weeks instead of six.
My faith is buoyed by the doc’s description of how neatly the surgeon sewed up the cut at my neck and the likelihood that I won’t even end up with much of a scar.
But then he starts talking about a Grade II or III shoulder separation, inflammation, and a tear in my rotator cuff.By the time he adds, “We’ll need more scans in a few days, once the swelling has gone down, to rule out the need for surgical intervention.Best-case scenario, you’re going to be off the ice for six weeks.If surgery is needed, you’re looking at twelve weeks with added time in rehab to regain your, strength,” I’m feeling sick again.
Really, really sick…
I barely have time to groan that I’m going to vomit before I’m retching into a black trash can Melissa has seemingly pulled from thin air to stick under my face.I gasp and heave, the discomfort of being sick completely overshadowed by the agony that the violent contractions send stabbing through my shoulder and neck.
By the time I’m done, I’m whimpering like a puppy who lost its mom and tears are flowing down my cheeks.
“He needs something for the pain and anti-nausea meds,” Melissa says, whisking the trash can away and returning with a tissue she uses to wipe my mouth.“I was like this when I had my tonsils out in high school.The pain meds made me sick to my stomach, but the nurse got me something to make it better.Can we get something like that for him?Fast?”
“I’ll call the pain management team,” the doctor says.“And an orderly to clean up the mess.Good work with the trash can.You’re as fast on your feet as your boyfriend.”He shoots a sympathetic smile my way.“Hang in there.We’ll make sure you’re comfortable enough to get some rest tonight and talk more tomorrow.”
He disappears and I swallow, wincing again as pain from my fresh suture combines with the fire burning in my shoulder.But then Melissa lays a cool rag on my forehead and proceeds to dab at the rest of my face with a second rag.
I squint at her through the fog of pain.“I think you missed your calling.You would have made one hell of a nurse.”
“No way,” she says, gently wiping the tears from my cheeks.“I’m about to lose my lunch any second.I’m just holding on until the pain people get here to take over.I get sick every time Chase gets sick.My will is strong, but my stomach is… Oh God…”
She cuts off and dashes for the bathroom on the other side of the bed.The sound of her heaving fills the room, getting louder and more violent until Gram finally stirs on the cot.
“What’s happening?”she asks, groggily swinging her legs off the mattress.“Is everyone okay?”
“No,” I say, fighting another wave of nausea.“Not okay.Nothing is okay.”
And it isn’t.
But a tiny part of me is still weirdly…happy.
Happy that Melissa is here caring if I live or die, mopping up my face, and sympathy vomiting in the bathroom.Maybe she isn’t as immune to the connection between us as I’ve thought.Maybe she might even consent to date me while I’m stuck in Bad Dog, healing up.
I’m going to need something to keep my mind off the fact that I might not make it back to the game this season.
Or…ever.
No, I refuse to even consider that.I’m not going to let the possibility enter my head again.My piece of shit father swore I’d never make it in the NHL, that I didn’t have what it takes to make my dreams come true any more than he did when he got kicked out of the minors for juicing, and he doesn’t get to win.
I’mgoing to win.I’m going to get back in the starting lineup and bask in the certainty that wherever my deadbeat dad is right now, he’s confronted with how wrong he was about me every time he watches his favorite sport on television.
And maybe I’ll win the girl while I’m at it.
Why the fuck not?
Surely, in four weeks—I’m going to heal in four weeks, not six—Mel will realize how much she likes having me around.Then, I’ll be headed back to Minneapolis with a functional shoulder and a new girlfriend.
I’m going to manifest that shit…as soon as I stop wanting to vomit and cut off my left arm at the same time.
The pain management team eventually arrives and soon I’m drifting on a dreamy pink cloud as Gram helps me brush my teeth.I spit into a lima bean-shaped container afterward and vaguely remember asking why it’s shaped like a lima bean and making jokes about Gram’s disgusting white bean chili.
Melissa promises she’ll change my mind about white chili with her turkey and white bean recipe.I tell her I can’t wait to “eat the shit out of her chili” in a way that makes Gram roll her eyes and excuse herself to call her boyfriend with an update on my condition.
After that, things get fuzzy, but when I wake up to pale winter sunlight streaming through the window, the first thing I do is glance at the chair in the corner.
But Melissa is gone and when Gram comes back into the room with coffee a few minutes later, she’s alone and only carrying one cup.
