The rehab center looms ahead, a modern glass and steel structure that’s become my second home these past three weeks. I park in my usual spot, right under the sad-looking pine tree that drops needles all over my SUV. My shoulder twinges as I reach for my gym bag, a phantom reminder of why I’m here.
Inside, the smell hits me first—that unmistakable blend of antiseptic, sweat, and the faint rubber scent of exercise equipment. It should be depressing, but there’s something almost comforting about its familiarity now. Like the world’s most expensive, least fun gym membership.
“Kingston!” Mike, the front desk guy, greets me with the same enthusiasm he has every session. “The miracle man returns!”
I sign in on the tablet. “Just a work in progress.”
“Dr. Chen’s waiting for you in room three.” He lowers his voice. “Seemed excited about something.”
My stomach does a weird flip at that. Dr. Chen doesn’t do excited. She’s the most even-keeled person I’ve ever met—which is exactly what you want in someone manipulating your injured body parts three times a week.
I make my way down the hallway, past rooms that are empty because this place was accommodating enough to stay open for me and one other client.
Dr. Chen is reviewing my chart when I enter room three, her sleek black bob swinging forward as she looks up.
“Brooks,” she says, and there it is—a hint of something different in her typically neutral tone. “Ready for some good news?”
“Always.” I drop my bag and shrug off my jacket. “Hit me.”
She motions for me to sit on the exam table. “Let’s do a quick assessment first.”
I comply, going through the now-familiar routine. Raise your arm. Rotate your shoulder. Push against my hand. Each movement is logged with her usual precision, but there’s an undercurrent of anticipation that wasn’t there before.
“Any pain?” She manipulates my arm in ways that would have been excruciating two months ago.
“Some stiffness,” I admit. “Dull ache after extended use. Nothing sharp anymore.”
She nods, making a note on her tablet. “And how was the charity skate today? Any issues?”
“Felt good, actually. Better than I expected.” I don’t mention that I was so focused on not embarrassing myself in front of Sydney, I barely noticed my shoulder.
“That tracks with what I’m seeing.” She sets down the tablet and looks me square in the face. “Brooks, I’m clearing you to return to play.”
The words hang in the air, words I’ve been waiting to hear for almost two months. I should be ecstatic. I should be pumping my fist and calling my agent. Instead, I sit there, frozen, as conflicting emotions crash through me.
“Obviously, there are conditions,” Dr. Chen continues, either not noticing or politely ignoring my lack of reaction. “No checking for at least the first two weeks back. Limited ice time to start. And you’ll need to continue your PT regimen religiously.”
“But I can play?” I manage. “Actually play?”
“With the restrictions I mentioned, yes. Your recovery has been remarkable, Brooks. Better than we initially projected.” She gives me a rare smile. “You’ve put in the work, and it shows.”
I nod, trying to process what this means. Return to play. Back to the NHL. Back to my real life.
Except it doesn’t feel like my real life anymore. Not after these weeks with Sydney, with Meema, with the strange bubble of existence we’ve created together.
“That’s... great,” I say unenthusiastically. “Thank you.”
Dr. Chen tilts her head, studying me with the same precision she uses on my shoulder. “Most athletes I work with do cartwheels when they get this news.”
“I’m happy,” I insist. “Just... processing.”
“This is what you’ve been working toward,” she reminds me. “What all those brutal sessions were for.”
“I know.” And I do know. This should be the moment everything clicks back into place.
So why does it feel like I’m being sentenced rather than freed?
Dr. Chen outlines my return-to-play protocol in meticulous detail. I nod and agree in all the right places, but my mind is miles away, in a restaurant where Sydney Holt is hearing god only knows what from her brother.
