I’d take a hundred drills to the boards before I admit it out loud, but there’s something about her that gets under my skin. She’s too calm and collected. And she thinks she has me all figured me out, probably filed away somewhere undertestosterone and tantrums.
Shedefinitelythinks I’m a walking cliché.
And fuck it, maybe I am. I’m a pissed-off goalie, older than most of the guys on my line, holding onto the last few years of my career with both fists.
I lie on the narrow bed in a thin gown that barely qualifies as clothing, my right knee propped and marked in thick black ink, mocking me as though I might forget which one’s fucked.
The ceiling tiles blur together when I stare too long. Square after square of nothing I can control. There’s a specific kind of quiet that only exists in hospitals. It’s not the peaceful or calm kind, because there’s too much waiting. For an answer, for hope. For one more goddamn chance.
A meniscus tear.
Clean, according to the scans. Or as clean as anything gets when you’re thirty-nine, and your body’s finally decided to remind you it’s not indestructible.
Best case, I’m skating again in about six weeks. Game-ready in eight to twelve. The worst case is something no one has said out loud, but I know what it looks like.
Longer rehab. Lingering instability. The kind of decline you don’t notice until it’s already happening.
I flex my fingers, then stop when the cannula in my arm tugs, which pisses me off even more.
I’ve played through broken ribs, torn shoulders. Concussions I probably shouldn’t remember as clearly as I do. Pain I can handle. Pain is familiar. Uncertainty is not.
There’s a knock at the door, and it creaks open without waiting for permission. A flash of chatter follows, then four familiar idiots file in.
“Look at our little hospital bitch!” Chase Walton grins from ear to ear at the sight of me.
His voice is way too loud for a place with thin walls and pain meds. All energy and smugness, as usual—our cocky defenseman who somehow got Zoe Carlson, the Colorado Storm’s PR exec and girl of his dreams, to fake date him until it turned real. Still don’t know how he pulled that one off.
Jake Brooks is next, carrying a strong coffee and probably the only shred of respect for hospital protocol amongst the four of them. He’s our star right winger—future Hall of Famer, family guy, annoyingly humble. Fiancé to Charlie. Dad to nine-year-old Noah and six-year-old Meadow from Charlie’s previous marriage, and their son together, one-year-old Theo.
Little guy apparently cried when I went down on the ice, howling from the stands in Charlie’s arms. Fucking kid. Gonna break me worse than this knee if he keeps that up.
“Jesus Christ, Hutchy, they put you in a dress?” Logan Miller is already laughing as he trails behind. His arms are full of contraband snacks and what looks like a store-bought protein shake. “We brought supplies.”
“I’m nil by mouth.”
Chase’s eyes widen. “You can’teat?”
“No.”
“Just a little sneaky bite, then?” Logan waggles a muffin at me.
“Do you want me to choke on my own vomit and die?”
They pause and grin at each other, as though they’re genuinely considering it.
“Fuck all of you.”
The chorus of giggles and hysterics begins.
“Never!”
“We love you too much, Hutchy!”
“I mean, it’d be a cool story to—”
“Just save the muffin for later!”
Eli Parnell steps up last, quieter than the other three. Our composed, unshakeable alternate captain—until two days ago, when he found out Logan’s been sneaking around with his little sister, Lulu. They’re sickeningly in love, but I can’t blame him for losing it.
