We made it to the medical room—me hobbling between Étienne and Chuck—and the head team physician arrived with efficient urgency. They unlaced and removed my skate, and I had to bite down on my mouth guard to keep from screaming as they peeled off my sock.
My foot was already swelling, the skin discolored. Even I could tell it looked wrong.
“We need X-rays.” Dr. Bergan gently palpated my foot while I bit back a curse. “But based on the mechanism of injury and presentation, I’m thinking metatarsal fractures. Plural.”
Plural. Multiple broken bones.
“How long will I be out, doc?”
“Six weeks minimum, maybe more, depending on severity. Physical therapy. Then a slow, gradual return to skating.”
The disappointment was worse than the pain, somehow.This was supposed to be my year. The year I made a run for the Norris Trophy.
And now I’d be watching from my couch while someone else took my ice time, my role, my spot on the depth chart.
“Marco.” Étienne’s voice pulled me back. He was still there, still holding my hand, his other hand now resting on my shoulder. “You’re going to be okay.”
“It’s broken.”
“I know. But you’re going to be okay.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe this wasn’t catastrophic, career-altering, or the beginning of the end.
But I’d seen how this went. I’d seen guys come back from injuries like this changed—slower, less confident. One bad break in the wrong place had derailed careers.
The portable X-ray machine was wheeled into the medical room. Dr. Bergan positioned it carefully, took multiple angles. Each adjustment sent fresh waves of pain through my foot, but I gritted my teeth and bore it.
When the doctor finally pulled up the images on his laptop, I didn’t need his medical degree to see the problem. Three clean breaks across the long foot bones.
“Three fractures across the metatarsals,” Dr. Bergan confirmed. “The good news is there’s no displacement—the bones are still aligned. That means you most likely won’t need surgery.” He paused. “But I want to send you to the hospital and have orthopedics take a look, just to be certain. They’ll do a more thorough evaluation and make the final call.” I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“You should be back on the bench,” I told Étienne, forcing the words out. “Game’s still going.”
“I don’t give a shit about the game.”
“Étienne, the trade rumors?—”
“I’m not leaving.”
“The league is going to fine you for this.”
“I don’t care.”
My chest cracked open at the fierce certainty in his voice. At the fact that he’d choose me over the game, over following orders, over avoiding consequences.
“The ambulance is waiting, and the replacement ambulance is on its way,” Chuck said. “As soon as that arrives, we’ll get you transported to the hospital, get you settled. Étienne, you really should?—”
“I’m going with him.”
“The ambulance won’t?—”
“Then I’ll meet him there. I’m not letting him go alone.”
Dr. Bergan and Chuck exchanged glances, some silent communication passing between them. Finally, Chuck sighed. “Fine. But you’ll need to change first. Can’t go to the hospital in your gear.”
Étienne was gone maybe five minutes. Longest five minutes of my life, lying there with my foot throbbing on ice—like my career—and nothing to distract me from either.
When he came back, dressed in a hastily pulled on, crooked cashmere sweater that highlighted the gold in his hazel eyes, he looked wrecked.
