Page 25 of Off Limits PUCK

“Gotcha,” I say with confidence. I tap my stick on the ice, feeling the weight of it in my hand.

“Here, you won’t be needing this today,” Dr. Jones says with a boyish wink as I slide the sling off. “We’re all rooting for you. I hope you know that.”

I can feel it. I’ve felt the boost to my mentality the past few days, being with the guys in the arena all day and not going home until late. We are told under no circumstances are we to go out and do anything stupid, so we don’t. We hang out in the locker room, in the executives’ break rooms, and anywhere else in the arena that we find that’s comfortable. I rest my arm and resist the urge to do much more than fist bump the guys, leaving their shoulder nudges and punches alone.

All we talk about is hockey. All we think about is hockey. And all we want is to start the season with three wins. If we can win the first three games, we’ll set the tone for the rest of the season. I can feel the adrenaline in my veins. I can feel the fight fuel me. I’m tired of holding back, of hanging back while my team practices and pushes their bodies to the limit. I’m ready to play.

I hear the familiar banging of sticks against the inside of the player’s bench wall that stands between the guys seated on the bench and the ice. I’m surprised they didn’t listen to coach and head back to the locker rooms.

I pull off the yellow jersey with my bum arm, glad not to feel any pain in my shoulder. I look at Coach. “I’m ready.”

He runs me through some easy plays, letting me score on him to bolster my confidence. He’s experienced enough that he won’t make a mistake and bump me too hard. And he’s old enough that his competitive edge won’t make him check me against the boards of the rink like I’m healthy when I’m not.

Then, comes the first hit. He announces it before he comes next to me. I relax into the contact, his shoulder hitting my bum one surprisingly hard. I wait for the searing pain. But it doesn’t come. Is it the adrenaline? Is it my own self-denial? I can’t tell.

He faithfully sticks to the plays that he and Dr. Jones agreed to with me today, nothing more and nothing less. It’s just enough for me to test my shoulder and it’s more than enough to get me hungry for the competition of a real game.

Twenty minutes later—and all too soon—it’s over. The guys cheer for me and I skate toward the bench, holding up a gloved hand and bumping fists with them all the way down the line. I look for Allie, but she isn’t there, having slipped out sometime during my test. I can’t deny that it hurts my feelings a little bit. I know she’s pulled back, but I would have hoped she would have stuck around to see my test through to the end.

The entire team heads to the locker room to shower and change. It’s a home night for us in preparation for the game tomorrow.

“Everyone better have their asses here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning!” Coach is bellowing out as we pack up and head out. “And you,” he says to me as I file past him, “we’ll talk in the morning about how you feel in that shoulder of yours.” He gives me a fatherly nod and smile.

I feel on top of the world as I drive home. It’s only then that I realize not only did none of us get the usual rub down by the PTs after our practice, but Allie was nowhere in sight, demandingthat I lay on the table and let her torture my shoulder with her strong little hands.

When I get home, her room is dark, and the door is shut firmly. I make my way to my own room, texting her that I need some attention. She texts back that I should get in my jetted tub for twenty minutes and then go to bed. She’s at Kenz’s tonight.

It hits me like a punch in the gut. She’s supposed to have my back. Sure, she’s been distant the past few days, but she’s been here in my home, at least. Now, the night before my big comeback game, she’s at my sister’s place?

Something feels off. A bath with those jets hitting my back sounds nice, so I run the water and then sit in it, brooding. Three times I reach for my phone to text her, but then I think better of it. She doesn’t want to be here. She doesn’t want to support me. Heck, she is acting as if she doesn’t want me at all.

“She doesn’t want me,” I say the words aloud, frowning. I put on some music and toss my phone onto a towel on the floor beside the tub. “So be it. I have a career to rebuild. And she has a career too. Maybe this is for the best.”

I sleep well that night and wake up ready for the game. Coach and Jennifer, the name of the pretty redhead chef with the big attitude about me eating enough macros every day, are waiting for me at seven in the morning. A hot, delicious breakfast spread out in my kitchenette area.

“Well, if I eat all this,” I say, grinning at the healthy options laid out before me, “then I’ll be too sluggish to get my ass on that ice and win us the season opener game.”

Jennifer just smiles politely and returns to the kitchen for a bowl of fruit.

Coach chuckles. “I asked the guys who live around here to come over for breakfast. Nothing like a little team spirit to make a man feel like a warrior.” He goes to smack my shoulder the way he would for any of the guys but pauses. “How’s the merchandise?” he asks, referring to my shoulder.

I laugh, giving my shoulder some movements, up and down and then extending my arm out. “Honestly, it’s good. I need to work it out a bit.” I glance around. “Which would be the job of my PT, but she seems to be MIA today.”

Coach frowns for just a second, then grins at me. “We have lots of PTs at the rink already. I’ll have one of the guys work out your shoulder for you this morning.”

Ah, I get it now. He’s keeping Allie from me and will only let one of the male PTs touch me. I almost laugh at how protective he’s being. But then I remember what Allie said—my recovery is more than just being about me. I sigh and surrender to the apparent wisdom of everyone around me. If Allie is a distraction, then I have to just let her go. Too many people are counting on me today.

“Sounds good,” I say with far more gusto than I feel. Truth be told, there’s an empty space in my heart without her being here. I miss her. Even though I’m not allowed to miss her.

The doorbell rings and I rush to answer it, hoping for the pleasant and very acceptable distraction of my teammates. Four dudes full of adrenaline and testosterone stand outside my door, their game faces on. I can feel their competitive energy rolling off of them in waves. It invigorates me.

All in all, six guys show up and then after breakfast we go over the plays with Coach before driving almost in a line of fancy sports cars to the arena. I feel like I’m on a high—today is going to be awesome. We’re going to win. I can feel it.

At the arena, one of the PTs does a routine check of my mobility and inflammation. I’ve eaten so much fruit—a natural diuretic and anti-inflammatory—that I’ll be pissed if I’m still inflamed in my shoulder. He gives me the all clear to hit the ice.

As he high-fives me, I grin like a kid on Christmas morning, but deep inside somewhere, I’m anxious. Where is Allie? I’m feeling panicky at the thought of facing today’s game without her blue eyes watching me, believing in me. I shove all that away. She’s choosing not to be here for me. She’s choosing to stay away.

I look at my phone for a text, a call… anything. But nothing comes in from her. Betrayal tastes bitter on my tongue as I make my way to the locker room with the guys.

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