Chapter one
Jude
Doc’s face is grim as he walks back into the room with a folder in his hands. I know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. That doesn’t stop me from sending a small prayer out into the universe that it isn’t as bad as I think it is.
“Well, Jude, I’ll be frank with you.” He settles down on the rolling stool in front of the bed I’m sitting on with my leg stretched out in front of me. “The damage to your knee is extensive. Given the number of times you’ve torn the ACL, it’s a wonder you’re still able to move around at all. Surgery has bought you some time, but that time is running out. My concern is this: one more hit or twist to that joint and you might never walk pain free again, if at all.”
I keep my eyes trained forward, my head falling slightly down, letting a piece of brown hair — I’m long overdue for a trim — fall into my face. As prepared as I thought I was, I hadn’t let myself think it could bethat bad.Staring at the brace wrapped around my knee, I let his words sink in. Part of me rebels against them. He’s wrong, he has to be. Hockey is who I am; it’s all I have. But that fucking brace is impossible to ignore, as are the occasional headaches I still get two weeks after the game that changed everything.
I don’t remember much, most of what I know has been pieced together by my teammates, coaches, and my family, who were watching from the team’s box that night. Apparently, I was sidelined by one of the opposing team’s defensemen. The way he hit me caused my leg to give out underneath me. I twisted, landing on my leg, destroying the ligaments that were already weakened from past injuries. Combine that with the concussion I sustained when I crashed into the boards, and it’s been a rough couple of weeks.
“So, you’re saying I’m done.”
“No, not completely.”
My head shoots up to stare at him, my mouth falling open in surprise. Doc holds up a hand, as if he can slow down my racing hope. But my mind is jumping ahead. Hope is a dangerous thing.
“I might not be out for the whole season? Is that what you’re saying? I’ll do anything, Doc. Extra therapy, hell, I’ll pay for a brand new fucking knee if that’s what it takes to get me on the ice.”
“Jude, stop.” His firm voice is the sound of brakes screeching on my runaway thoughts. “Down the line, you will need a knee replacement. That’s a given at this point. But not right now. You need to heal from the ligament repair first. Then, with adequate therapy andtime —” He pauses, letting that one word sink in. “With time, you might skate again. Given your fitness level and what I know is your exceptionally high level of dedication, you’re better off than most. But it’s extremely doubtful that you’ll return to the elite level of play you’re used to.”
“But there’s a chance.” I’m being stubborn as hell, I know. But I can’t avoid it. Being stubborn is what made me one of the longest running players in the league. It made me a champion. A captain. A leader.
“Jude, there are other ways to be on the ice. Regardless of your rehab potential, the risk of a future life-changing injury is extreme.”
That flare of hope starts to flicker out, but my dumb-ass brain holds onto it, tucking it away. I won’t give up. Not without one hell of a fight. I rake my fingers through my hair, pushing that annoying piece back again.
“More life-changing than this?” I mumble under my breath, trying to come to grips with the bomb I’ve had dropped in my lap.
“Yes, Jude. I’m not one to be dramatic; I like to keep it real with my players. I will not be able to sign off on you returning to the team unless you have some sort of miraculous healing. And let’s face facts. You’re an older player; many guys would have retired by now. Especially with the sheer number of injuries you’ve had. Hell, it’s incredible that you’re still playing. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s time to start thinking of what comes next.”
My eyes close. I’ve had my head in the sand for too long, ignoring the fact that I’m one of the oldest guys in the league. Retirement is a dirty word to me, and not the fun kind of dirty. And now I’m paying my dues, being forced to face that very real possibility with absolutely no plans in place.
When Doc speaks again, his voice is gentle, as if he’s trying to soften the blow he just dealt me. “You don’t have to stay in Billings for rehab. I know your family is up in Canada, and I would be happy to vet any physical therapist of your choosing if you wanted to go up there for a while.”
I nod, my eyes still shut. If I don’t see the pity that I’m sure is written all over his features, maybe I can convince myself it doesn’t exist.
“Let me know what you decide, and we’ll go from there.”
I nod again. The door opens and closes, and then I’m alone. The arena is empty, with everyone off on an away game series. Doc is joining them, having stayed back just so he and I could meet.
The raw truth is, I’ve been left behind, while the team I gave everything to for a decade carries on, business as usual. Not that it would be fair to expect anything different, but it brings up a weird sense of abandonment.
The news surrounding my injury immediately after it happened brought a wave of sympathy from my fans. Even as I fought through the pain of injury and surgery, I felt loved. Supported. Like I had people standing behind me, ready to welcome me back with open arms. But that faded over the last ten days or so as the media attention turned, instead, to my replacement as captain and what that meant for the future of the team this season.
I sit there, the silence echoing around me, and the walls start to feel like they’re closing in. As much as I want to be left alone to wallow in anger and self-pity, I don’t know if I can stay here, in the city that adopted me as one of their own. The same city that celebrated my rise and then forgot about me after my fall.
I climb out of the chauffeured car provided by the team — it’s my right knee that’s injured, and driving myself is not an option. I hate being dependent on others, especially to this extent, but at the same time, I have to be grateful the team is still taking care of me.
Especially since I’m doing nothing for them in return.
I hobble on my crutches up to the front door of my building, giving a brief nod to Larry, the doorman who’s been working here ever since I moved in.
“Hello, Mr. Donnelly,” he says in his usual jovial tone. Before my injury, I’d sometimes stay and chat, but I’m not in the mood. I just want to go upstairs, grab the bottle of whiskey that’s above my fridge, and sink into my couch and my misery.
“Hey, Larry.”
He’s good at his job, so he takes my curt greeting in stride, opening the door and closing it behind me with nothing more than a casual nod of his head.
