Page 29 of The Goalie in Room 1

“No! Dammit! You don’t get to do that shit. No fucking sugar coating. No beating around the fucking bush. I want to know. How. Fucking. Unlikely?”

My arms folded over my chest. “Unlikely enough that I will not recommend you for surgery if the only outcome you’ll consider a success is an NHL contract.”

“What’s it fucking matter to you? Is this about your ego?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because this surgery could make you better.”

He scoffed. “My life is hockey.”

“I know.”

“No, you fucking don’t. Because if you did, you’d know there is no better if I don’t make it back.”

“I do know, Cash.”

“Then why the fuck are you telling me to have another surgery if it’s not going to get me back on the ice? I’ve had three fucking surgeries with the same goddamn outcome that you’re suggesting.”

“I know you have.”

“Do you?” His voice rose. “Do you know what that means? Because I do. I know exactly what another surgery means. I know what it feels like to wake up afterward. I know the fucking pain. The swelling. The crutches. The rehab. Spending months doing the same stupid fucking exercises over and over again because somebody keeps telling you that if you work hard enough, maybe you’ll get your life back.”

“I know.”

“Then give me a reason.”

“I can give you a reason. I just can’t give you the one you want.”

He went still.

I hated this. God, I fucking hated this. And I hated it even more because this was Cash. He wasn’t just another athlete sitting across from me. Another chart. Another knee. Another career-ending injury. I was attracted to him. I gave a shit what happened to him. I cared about him.

More than I should.

Definitely more than I was ready to admit or examine too closely.

“I’ve watched the way you move,” I said. “I’ve reviewed every image. Every operative report. Every note from every surgeon who has treated you. Every rehabilitation report. Every attempt you’ve made to return to play. I know exactly what has already been done to that knee. And what you’ve put yourself through to even get here.”

His jaw clenched. “And?” he asked.

“And I can improve it.”

His eyes snapped to mine.

“I wholeheartedly believe I can give you a better knee than the one you have now. One with significantly less pain. With better function. Better stability. A knee that lets you stand behind a bar without shifting your weight every few minutes because it hurts. One that lets you walk through a grocery store without paying for it afterward. Take stairs. Work. Exercise. Live your life without constantly calculating how much everything is going to hurt.”

“And maybe hockey.”

There it was.

Three words that erased everything else I’d said.

“Maybe,” I said carefully. “But you need to understand what that word means coming from me.”

“Yeah, Thad, you’ve made it clear. It means a chance.”