As I’m pulling my brace back on, Jared says, “You’re not failing.”
Feels like I am.
“You’re adjusting,” he adds.
Doesn’t feel like that either.
Later, in my car, I sit with the engine off, my forehead resting against the steering wheel. I used to measure my days in goals, assists, wins. Now it’s reps completed, degrees of motion gained, and pain tolerated.
I fucking hate it.
But worse than that, I’m terrified that this is it. That one day soon, someone’s going to tell me that my knee did everything it could. That hockey did everything it was going to do for me. And then what?
I start the car, my jaw clenching as I think of everything I’ve lost.
I’ll be back here in two days. I’ll do the squats. I’ll grit my teeth and count the tiles and let Jared dig his thumbs into my scars because if I stop showing up then it’s really over. And I’m not ready for that yet.
The drive home is quiet. I don’t blast music like I usually do. I just listen to the sound of the turn signal clicking and my thoughts doing laps I can’t keep up with.
When I get home, Ellie’s car is already in the driveway.
My chest tightens. I knew she’d be here, but for some reason it still shocks me that it’s her.
Inside, the house smells like her vanilla perfume. She’s had the same scent since high school, and I love it. It’s familiar and sweet and… it’s Ellie. I shut the front door a little harder than necessary, toeing off my shoes and leaning against the wall for a second while my knee throbs in protest.
“Jamie?” she calls from the direction of the kitchen.
“It’s me,” I call back.
“You okay?” she asks tentatively, as if she’s mad at herself for wondering about my well-being.
“Fine,” I call back automatically.
I’m a damn liar, but she doesn’t need to know that. I round the corner and find her standing at the counter in one of those oversized sweaters that swallow her whole. Her hair is up in a messy bun. She’s wearing no makeup. She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful.
That realization hits harder than it should.
Ellie studies my face, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“You don’t look fine.”
“Physical therapy was shit.”
She gives me a pensive look. “That bad?”
I shrug, heading for the fridge. “Depends how much you enjoy being humbled by rubber bands.”
I grab a water, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. Ellie leans back against the counter, arms crossing loosely.
“Is it helping?” she asks.
“Feels like it’s making it worse, but Jared says it’s helping.”
“Is that your therapist?”
“Yup. He’s an asshole, but he knows what he’s doing.”
There’s a beat of silence that feels awkward.
