Recovery is quieter than hockey. Recovery is slower than hockey. Recovery asks for patience in a language hockey never taught me.
“Don’t rush it,” Jenna says behind me for the third time in five minutes.
“I’m not,” I reply.
“You are thinking about rushing it.”
“That’s different.”
“No, it isn’t. Not when it comes to recovery.”
I rotate my shoulder again, slowly, like she showed me, the movement careful and controlled and frustratingly small compared to what my body still expects itself to do automatically. For a second, I close my eyes just to feel the joint move without pain instead of forcing it forward like instinct wants me to.
“Better,” she says.
“I hate this.”
“That means it’s working. I have to check on Jake. Can I count on you tomorrow?” Jenna asks, and I nod.
I don’t tell her Lisa is coming. Not because it’s a secret. Because I don’t want anyone watching what this actually is.
This isn’t just rehab. This is something else. I hear her before I see her.
The hesitation in her footsteps gives her away immediately. The slight pause at the entrance to the rink tells me she’s already second-guessing herself before she even steps onto the rubber flooring beside the boards.
When I turn around, she’s standing exactly where I expected her to be. Hands in the pockets of her coat. Eyes already on the ice. Breathing slower than usual.
“You made it,” I say.
“You didn’t tell me there would be actual ice involved,” she replies.
“I assumed that part was obvious.”
“I thought maybe this was metaphorical therapy,” she says.
“This is hockey therapy.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It is worse.”
She doesn’t move any closer. Not yet. Which is exactly why I asked her to come.
“Come here,” I say gently.
“I am here.”
“You’re in the doorway.”
“That counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
She exhales slowly and walks toward me anyway. Each step is deliberate in a way that makes it obvious she’s already fighting the instinct to turn around and leave.
“I don’t even have skates,” she says.
“I brought yours.”
