The question is, who am I if not a pro hockey player?
3
CYCLE: PUCK MOVEMENT ALONG THE BOARDS TO WEAR DOWN DEFENDERS
The hallway outside the doctor’s office feels too bright. Overly clean and quiet. Like the whole place is trying to pretend it didn’t just steal my identity. Moser’s parting words echo in my head. “I want you to have a long, full life—one where you recognize the people you love, where you stay yourself.”
But who am I without a pair of skates laced up and a stick in my hand?
Simply unable to fathom sliding into the car waiting to take me back to Teterboro, I slip on a skull cap, wrap a scarf around my neck and pull up the collar of my coat to protect me from the brutal cold. Stepping outside, I drop my head and make my way around the building until I come across an unoccupied bench. The air feels colder and sharper here—perfect for my mood which is raw and ugly.
My ass hits the seat before I even realize my legs have given out beneath me. I welcome the frozen air for giving me an excuse for the shallow breaths I’m taking as I process everything that just happened and the career ending words echoing on repeat.
High risk.
Neurological complications.
Permanent cognitive changes.
God.
Dragging a hand down my face, I want nothing more than to find the closest ice rink and just complete set after set of ice conditioning drills until I fall flat on my face. No, what I really want is to rewind time to before my skull hit the ice. Before I was carted off because I was seeing three—or was it five?—of my teammates. I want to scream at every doctor who alluded to what Moser told me so bluntly.
I can’t play hockey any longer when it’s been my identity since I was a kid. My purpose. Bracing my elbows on my knees, I know I should call someone. My parents. My agent. A teammate. Someone who might be able to talk me off the edge of despair.
There’s even a part of me that wants to hearherreassure me I’ll be fine knowing I have no right to that since I’ve never once reached out over the years to see howshe’sdoing.
I don’t pull out my phone.
Instead, I bury my face in my gloved hands.
I try to project someone who is stoic even if I’m actually falling apart. I’m unable to comprehend that the world I worked so damn hard to build has crumbled due to one bad hit.
For now, I just sit here wondering what I’m going to face when I get back to Oklahoma.
I just know it’s not going to be good news.
Two days later, the silence in a conference room at the Kings’ training facility rivals the intensity of what I felt outside of Greenwich Hospital. No one—not my coaches, the team physician, nor my agent—is saying a word.
This moment will be crystalized in my memory forever as being one of the worst days of my life. It still won’t go down astheworst though, I think with a touch of bitterness. That honor goes to finding out about Amy and the photo.
Even after all these years, Amy’s betrayal still hurts—like a bruise that never quite healed correctly. Ironic, really, when I think about the fact that compound bruises to another organ of my body is why I’m about to lose my career. Still, I can’t help but let my mind believe that if things were different, having her by my side would have softened the blow.
Before our relationship imploded, she wasn’t just my lover. She was my best friend. She understood me—Brennan. It didn’t matter to her that she was dating a hockey player on campus. She used to tease me, “You’re not just a jock, Brennan—you’re a jock with a brain and feelings. Terrifying combination.”
Now, I can’t help but wonder what she’ll think when the news hits the media. Will she care? Or feel righteous? After all, Ipicked control over my career instead of her. The thought makes my stomach churn.
Why in the ashes of my career I choose to remember flashes of the love we shared, I don’t know. But I recall being squeezed together in an extra-long dorm bed, sheets tangled around our bodies doing nothing to stop the frisson of heat between us. Even when we were just friends, it always felt like that—like we were just one lingering look away from changing our destiny.
“One day, my math queen, you’ll carry my babies,” I murmur against her lips as she prepares for her early morning differential equations class.
Amy laughs before punctuating her words with quick kisses so I wouldn’t have the chance to pull her back into bed. “Get to practice before someone accuses me of stealing their hockey king.”
I flopped back on the bed groaning.
That first year, everyone knew my anger over Amy, but only Mark knew my true devastation. It fueled me into playing the best season of my life. Locking the wayward memory away, I take in every person whose world is altering right alongside my own.
Across from me is the Oklahoma Kings’ team owner, head coach, team’s legal representation, our team doc, and—of course—public relations. Sitting across from me, as if I’m a problem to solve instead of a person who just lost everything. Like if they angle the chairs just right, I’ll feel less cornered. My agent, Mark, is on my left. He hasn’t stopped tapping his pen since we walked in.
