Where would Breezy take the rookies?Going out in Philadelphia rarely disappointed.It was big enough to have something of a nightlife even on a Monday, but American enough that most hockey players would fly under the radar.Unless they picked a sports bar.Had Hayes reminded them not to pick a sports bar?One of the rookies (Howie, Phil’s money was on Howie) would do something stupid or hit on someone’s girlfriend.And if someone recognized them, the whole team would have to do some stupid PR stunt affirming how much they respected women, and the whole thing would come off as incredibly inauthentic.
Phil picked up his phone again to text Breezy, but before he had typed more than two words, he realized he was acting insane.
He wasn’t with the team.His opinions on the best places to grab a drink in a city 3,000 miles away were not required or requested.
Pressing the button harder than he needed to, Phil shut off the TV and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.It skidded across the surface and fell on the floor.Great.Now he would have to maneuver himself upright to pick it up again.
Not now though.The sun had long since set, and he had a doctor’s appointment bright and early tomorrow.He sniffed his pits and grimaced.The house had two showers, but they were both upstairs, and Phil didn’t dare navigate the staircase on crutches.The narrow and free-floating steps left too many opportunities for a crutch to get caught in a gap somewhere or for Phil to slip and fall.Last time he fucked up his knee, Camille had to help him down in the morning and up in the evening.With her gone, he was shit out of luck.
He could text her.
She would probably answer.She might even abandon her modeling gig in Europe to come help him out; she liked the high life far more than he ever did, but she was loyal to a fault.
She didn’t deserve to deal with his grumpy ass and his bum knee any more now than she had when they were still married.
Phil could rinse off with a wet towel.His laundry service left his clothes downstairs at his behest.He would get by for a few more days without bothering anyone.
Phil maneuvered himself sideways until he could lie down on his back, bad knee elevated on a cushion, and pulled a blanket over his body.Professional hockey might have destroyed his ACL and his marriage, but years of living out of buses and charter planes had taught him to sleep wherever, however.
In the morning, Phil didn’t bother folding the blanket, leaving it a crumpled heap on the floor on his unsteady way to the bathroom to get ready for the day.He skipped breakfast.The team doctors had told him to rest up while the initial swelling on his knee decreased, which meant he needed a lot less energy than usual.His regular carb-heavy diet would be a bad idea, and he hadn’t adjusted his grocery delivery order yet.
He should have.
It wasn’t like he would show up at the hospital and the MRI machine would beep twice and then say, “Surprise!Your ACL will be fine in five to seven business days!”Phil knew what a ligament tear felt like.He even knew what the run-up to a ligament tear felt like—the ever-more-frequent aches, the overreliance on the other knee forcing that one to strain, too, the sweet release of a Toradol shot keeping him upright and skating for longer than any sane person ought to be.
The injury was as predictable as it was frustrating.
Coach Trout, the Sea Lions’ defensive coach, had been there three years ago when Phil had gotten injured the first time.He knew what motions were difficult for Phil.And yet, every practice, there Phil was again, doing drills based off of quick starts and stops and then pivoting through backcheck strategies.
Even when the trainer who worked with Phil suggested he take it easier during practice, Trout grunted noncommittally and continued the exact same pace as before.He wasn’t the first coach to ignore Phil’s wellbeing.At least he hadn’t accused Phil of laziness outright, which the previous head coach had done the first time Phil’s knee crapped out.
In a way, Phil preferred the blatant racism to Trout’s behavior.Even after almost five years, he couldn’t get a read on Trout.Did the man hate Black people?Did he hate Phil specifically for reasons unrelated to his race?Or did he hate everyone indiscriminately?The options were manifold, and so long as Phil didn’t understand the reasons for Trout’s behavior, he couldn’t adapt his own to mitigate it.He’d been very concerned about Trout taking over when their previous head coach didn’t get a contract renewal after last season.Morris getting the job had been a relief.He didn’t yell, and he’d had the decency to look concerned when Phil got injured.Sure, Phil had no idea why he let Tom and Jax run away with their lineup ideas, but at least he’d put a stop to it when Jax fucked up the Philly game.
Probably wishful thinking on Phil’s part, but he clung to the idea that one member of the coaching staff gave a shit about him.
As he took a rideshare to the hospital and went through the rigamarole of being injected with contrast dye before being sat in an MRI machine, Phil allowed the idea to distract him.Coach Morris with his pleasant, kind eyes, checking in on Phil, asking about his recovery.Treating Phil like a human being he worked with, someone who was going through a tough time and wasn’t a faulty asset.The daydream pleased him up until the machine’s whirring got too loud for him to keep focus.
He itched to move away from the noise and the lights and the diagnosis waiting at the end, but Phil hadn’t made it over a decade in professional sports by allowing himself to give in to a lack of discipline.
Instead, he took a deep breath and went through the team’s current line combinations and the stats for each line in his head.Considering it now, in the cold light of day, Phil had to admit that Tom and Jax had potential together despite last night’s fiasco.But were they better than having two separate lines capable of scoring?He wondered if Morris had gone through all the stats before letting them play together.
Of course Morris had.He was head coach.
He’d make the decision that was best for the team.
Right?
Waiting around afterward for Dr.Jimenez to show up and give him a prognosis was no better.Phil fucked around on his phone for a while, but he followed too many hockey media accounts on Instagram and Twitter.Seeing clips of other guys doing what he couldn’t made him want to get up and exercise, which, of course, he couldn’t currently do.
When the doctor finally came in, Phil had resorted to counting ceiling tiles.The room had forty-eight, and one of them had a suspicious-looking crack.
Dr.Jimenez smiled at him warmly.They’d met a few times in the past, once when Phil had gotten his wrist x-rayed to be on the safe side and once when he’d accompanied a loopy, concussed Breezy to the hospital.While the team had its own medical staff for run-of-the-mill strains and sprains, Dr.Jimenez was their go-to expert at the closest hospital.She’d seen plenty of hockey players with plenty of injuries, and it showed in her brisk bedside manner.
“So,” Phil said, trying to summon something approaching charm.“Am I already scheduled for surgery?”
“Do youwantsurgery?”
Was that a trick question?Of course Phil didn’t want surgery.He wanted his knee to be better.
