Page 6 of Until He Scores

Still, attacking my relationships was a below the belt blow. Not that they cared. I tried to never bring my private life into the public venue. Not because I was ashamed, I wasn’t. Certain parts of my life hadn’t been for public consumption. Including who I did and didn’t date or fuck. Derrick, when we’d been together, made me forget my all-important rules.

Now, I paid the price as I recovered and began my new career as a coach.

While he vacations on St. Lucia Island with his new boyfriend—but I’m the one that cheated.

I exhaled. I wasn’t going there today.

The happy bark of my parents’ dog greeted me before I even stepped up onto my parents’ wraparound porch, tugging me out of my morose thoughts. I raised my hand to knock, knowing it was the polite thing to do. Although, I could have walked through that door, and my parents wouldn’t have cared. However, I also realized it’d been a while since I’d seen them. Announcing my arrival, though I was sure more people knew I was back for an indefinite amount of time, than not, seemed like the right, polite, thing to do.

“If you knock on that door,” my mom yelled. “I’ll whip you with my apron strings.”

A smirk tugged at my mouth. I had half a mind to try her as I stepped inside. The smell of fresh baked peach cobbler, roast beef, and collard greens smacked me in the face, and my stomach rumbled in delight. “Are you threatening your favorite child?”

“Yes.” She came around the corner into the foyer of the house. Her green checker-print apron was tied around her waist and her glass hung around her neck. After my first stint with the US Men’s National team, I came out to my parents. I was more afraid of their reaction than the guys I faced on the ice. What I expected and how things went, were twototallydifferent things. My parents chuckled softly before my mother said,we knew. Damn near passed out on them. Years of worry melted away and our relationship was better for it. “But if your Daddy finds out, you better lie to him and tell him I made no such threats.”

She narrowed those pretty cornflower blue eyes of hers at me while waggling her arthritic finger in my face before engulfing me in a tight hug. Something I hadn’t realized I needed until her warmth seeped into me. “I won’t tell. I swear.”

“That’s my good boy,” she murmured, holding on an extra second. She took a step back and assessed me with a critical eye, just like she had after every important game. “Don’t look hurt.”

That was because she couldn’t see my knee. I’d been in rehab for six weeks already. Since my ACL hadn’t been a complete tear, the surgery went smoothly, however it was everything after surgery that led up to this moment. Joining theMountaineersas their defensive coach was a barometer of sorts for me and theThunderbirds. However, that was a conversation for another day. “I’m feeling better already.” The lie slipped effortlessly off my tongue.

What should have been a textbook repair and rehab had turned into a mess. Though the repair had stabilized my knee, a secondary infection set in. I’d been hours away from them opening me again to clean out the mess if the IV antibiotics wouldn’t have kicked in when they did. Then there was the scope surgery a few days later to remove debris from the original procedure and what pus was left over from the dead bacterial infection.

Afterward, during a follow up appointment, my orthopedic surgeon couldn’t say with certainty what caused all the issues. Since the scope and infection though, I’d had a limp and horrible joint stiffness that led to a quick deterioration of bone and cartilage. The only thing ortho could come up with other than needing more time was arthritis. Doc said physical therapy coupled with my geriatric age in respect to the game, would make this particular injury a long-road to recovery.

That’s when I went to see Dr. Jay at Vanderbilt Hospital. He looked at the CAT scans and MRIs I had on my knee, along with the infection, and added scoping. His suggestion—total knee replacement.

In his opinion, the infection would come back, and this time spread deeper into the bone, if I didn’t agree to the surgery.Another infection, in his opinion, meant the risks of amputation. He’d only seen the outcome a few times as the head orthopedic surgeon for Vanderbilt. However, he was eighty-five percent convinced the limp I had and the lingering pain within the joint itself had more to do with the initial injury, and I’d been skirting the path to replacement for a while.

So, I had two options. Medically retire and go into coaching or keep playing and understand at some point, I’d lose my leg above the knee. Neither appealed to me. Knee replacement at least gave me the opportunity to continue to do what I loved, even if I couldn’t play. Didn’t mean I hated either prospect any less.

Both sucked.

Over the last twelve years, I’d had two concussions and this injury. I’d counted myself lucky given the circumstances. I could have been like the guys who medically retired after taking a cheap shot into the boards, or got hit in the face with a puck, breaking bone and taking chiclets. No way in hell I was losing my teeth. My parents spent way too much money keeping my pearly whites straight and perfect. Occasionally, I even used my retainer just to be on the safe side.

But that wasn’t why I came home.

I was supposed to be taking a few days to unwind and get ready for my first official practice as a coach after seeing the team doctor tomorrow morning. I already knew the head trainer would have a million questions about the surgery, what my goals were as a new coach, and how long I planned on staying with theMountaineers. Truth was, I planned on pushing myself, even if my knee wasn’t ready. No need to act like a washed-up old man when the thrill was still there and the yearning to be back in the spotlight kept me focused and desperate. Although, I was sure the desperate part had been a sign to slow down.

I just didn’t heed it.

For now.

“Uh huh,” Mom muttered. “I’ll be the judge of that. She shooed me into the living room where my dad sat, watching one of the NHL games while reading the newspaper on his tablet. “Park your butt and elevate that leg. I’ll get you some hot chocolate.”

I rolled my eyes and hid my laughter. I missed this. On the couch where she said to sit was a pillow and a blanket. The temps had taken a decidedly drastic downturn this winter. NWS Nashville was calling for sub-artic air and maybe snow or ice by the beginning of the week. Not something I wanted to think about, especially when it came to traveling with the team. Or walking on ice with an artificial joint in my body.

“How was the drive?” my father asked, not looking up from whatever he was reading.

“The usual,” I replied. “Traffic. People.”

“Talked about you before the game,” he mumbled, lifting his chin to the fifty-inch flat screen. “Boys don’t have a lick of sense between them. You’re going to coach like you played. Turn that whole organization around. Just you wait and see.”

I hoped so.

Realistically, I had to face the truth. Being a coach and being a player were two totally different disciplines. As much as I might not want to acknowledge it, I had to state the obvious. In a league where thirty was past a player’s prime, there were only a few guys older than me still killing it on the ice. There happened to be six players between Giordano and me, before I bowed out, in the age category. Fleury and Crosby were right there as well. The fact analysts and podcasters speculated when we’d leave or how we’d leave, always made proving myself on the ice, the top priority.

Now... The focus wasn’t on me.

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