If I’m being honest with myself though, I think a big part of me knows that I’m never going to play professional hockey again. At least, my knee injury is most likely never going to heal enough for me to playlike I used to. I’m probably better off here coaching than straining my knee by playing back-to-back games and practicing twenty-four seven.
I’m still doing physical therapy three times a week and having it checked weekly to make sure its healing properly. However, even with all that, I just have this aching feeling that my Storm days are over.
Practice is brutal.
These kids have talent, they’re just lazy and spoiled. They coast through drills like mommy and daddy are waiting on the sidelines with juice boxes and participation trophies.
“Hey, Coach?” one of the defensemen pipes up. “Are we gonna stay on conditioning all practice?”
“Yup,” I say curtly.
“That’s like… all we’ve done for an hour,” the guy that I now know as Jacob Rostolvic says as he comes to a stop in front of me, sweat pouring down his face.
“Good. Maybe you’ll finally grow some lungs.”
A groan ripples through the team.
“You think you’ll make it to the NHL whining like little babies? You want to compete? Earn it.”
They groan again, but they skate harder.
Eventually I grow tired of watching them skate back and forth and decide to end practice for the day.
When they finally file out of the locker room their legs are Jello and their egos are bruised. Good. They need it.
I drop into the chair behind my desk and roll up my compression pants to check my knee. Even under the brace, it’s swollen. It’ll be worse tomorrow.
I breathe through it, waiting for the pain to dull, but it never does.
By the time I make it back to the house, the sun’s dipping low and I’m starving. I don’t expect Ellie to be in the kitchen, sitting at the island with her nose in paperwork. She looks so focused, and when a piece of her blonde hair falls into her face, she quickly tucks it behind her ear.
She looks up the second she senses me, eyes narrowing like I’m a problem she doesn’t have the energy for.
“What?” she snaps, not even attempting politeness.
I grab a water from the fridge. “Nothing. You look busy.”
“Good observation.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Alright. She’s pissed. That’s fair.
I lean my hip against the counter. “You know, the attitude’s new.”
“No,” she bites, her head snapping in my direction. “What’s new is you being here.”
Her voice cracks a little, and it guts me. I know she must hate me, I know I didn’t think things through when I left. I don’t blame her for not wanting anything to do with me.
I step forward before I can think better of it. “Look, Ellie—”
“No.” She raises a hand, palm out. “You don’t get to stroll back into my life and pretend this is normal. We are not normal. This situation isn’t normal.”
A beat passes before I can get myself to reply, and when I finally do, all I can say is, “Okay.”
That seems to surprise her. Her eyes flick to mine, guarded but curious.
“Ellie, I’m not trying to pretend nothing happened,” I say quietly. “I know what I did. I know how I left. And I’m not asking you to be okay with it.”
She looks down at her papers, blinking rapidly like she’s refusing to let emotion win.
