Page 4 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Everything slows—time, my breath, my heart. My outstretched arm is the first to contact the edge of the disc, but as I continue to torque my spine, something in my hip strains, causing the rest of my body to crumple from the overextension. The puck continues its perfect trajectory into the nylon, and the eruption of the crowd drowns out the deafening pulse of blood in my ears, as well as the scream projecting from deep within my chest.
Fuck.
I can’t move. I can feel every little needle pricking the lower half of me, preparing my body for the brunt of the pain, like a clear sky before a mosh pit of storm clouds. And then the needles transform into a legion of miniature knives, rendering me helpless in layers of suffocating gear. I can feel hot tears bubble up in my burning eyes.
Shit, shit, shit. What just happened?
I attempt to lift my leg to my chest, but I can’t even test my mobility without a searing throb in my lower abdomen. I don’t know how long I’m face-down on the ground. Puffs of heated breath slip through the metal bars covering my face, gusting against the pockmarked surface of the ice; that’s the only indication I haven’t passed out yet. The world’s moving on without me, the raucous cheers from the winning team making my stomach sling sickness up my throat.
“Gage! Gage, are you okay?”
I think it’s Fulton, my best friend, but I don’t want to openmy eyes to check. The last thing I need is a migraine to complicate the unbearable sting wrapping around my leg a goddamn spike strip.
“My hip,” I grit out through my teeth, trying to siphon air into my heaving lungs. And as if my body’s playing some sick trick on me, a violent spasm rips through my hip’s muscle fibers, confirming that I did, in fact, fuck up my hip in a single, goalie-proof move.
“Okay. Don’t worry. A medic is coming over right now. You’re gonna be fine,” he says, though I’m pretty sure it’s more for his sake than mine.
Once other voices join the conversation, all wobbling with varying degrees of concern, everything becomes fuzzy. I don’t remember getting escorted off the ice; I don’t remember the state of the stands after our disappointing loss; I don’t remember even seeing Coach or talking with my teammates. All I remember is feeling weak, like I could barely stand on my own two feet, and I hate that feeling. Powerless, helpless, vulnerable. I was all too familiar with that feeling after what happened to my little brother, and I swore to myself that I’d never feel that way ever again.
“Lookslike you tore your hip flexor pretty badly. There’s no need for surgery, and you will be able to walk again, but you’ll need at least three months to recover until you can be back on the ice,” our team’s physical therapist discloses, offering me a consolatory smile. “I suggest keeping diligent about at-home treatment, but I’m also going to propose three physical therapy sessions a week until you hit that three-month mark, and then we can see how you’re doing.”
My stupid, injured hip taunts me, and my frustration at thesituation shifts into utter hysterics as a clipped laugh shoots out of me. “Fucking great. That’s great. I’m useless for three months.”
“You’ll still be able to go about your day. You may just need more help when it comes to walking.”
So, useless.
I position my legs carefully over the edge of the table, grimacing from the pain moving my hip a mere two inches causes. I know this isn’t a life-threatening injury, but how am I supposed to get around? Will the guys just give me a piss bag instead of wheeling me into the bathroom every time I need to go? Will they stock my mini fridge with food because I won’t be able to get down the stairs? Or will they have to install one of those old-person stairlifts in the house? Oh, God. I need my legs.
And what about sex? Does that mean I’m going to have to enter a dry spell for three months? I don’t think I’m strong enough for that. I think I’d rather just amputate the leg and get it over with.
“How do you expect me to stay off the ice for three months? I can’t just sit around and do nothing,” I grumble.
Hockey is something I enjoy. It’s the epicenter of my life, and everything else I do is based around it. If you take that away, I don’t know how to function. And if you throw in a handicap, then I seriouslycan’tfunction.
Don, the physical therapist who’s been with our team for twelve years, rubs the pronounced smile lines bracketing his lips. “I’m sorry, Gage. You’ll have to get used to letting your body rest if you want to recover.”
“Can’t you just give me a bottle of painkillers and slap a Band-Aid on it?”
He chuckles softly. “If only healing was that simple.”
I throw my head back, focusing on the ceiling tiles overhead, exhaling the weighted realization of my new life off mychest. I won’t be able to help my teammates for at least thirty games. I may be at games physically, sure, but I won’t be with my team spiritually. I won’t be able to share in celebrations or feel like I’m making any difference. And I’m the reason we lost tonight. If I had blocked that shot, we would’ve tied. I let my team down.
I can’t think of a worse hell to be trapped in. Not only that, but my car is still in the shop undergoing damage repairs after that crazy chick t-boned me. So even if I wanted to drive—which wouldn’t be a good idea—I couldn’t.
As my eyes travel over squares of white, I can’t help but jump to the conclusion that staring at a boring-ass ceiling will be the highlight of my days while I hibernate in my king-sized bed. I’ll go insane. I’ll start scratching tally marks into the walls to keep track of how long I’m stuck in my room.
“Besides physical therapy, is there anything else I can do to speed up the recovery process?” I ask, pleading for a scrap of hope.
Don pushes his horn-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “If you want to work on mobility and flexibility, taking a dance or yoga class could benefit you.”
Uh. I’ve never taken either one of those. Yeah, I’m proud of my flexibility compared to my teammates, but I’m nowhere near putting my leg behind my head like dancers and yoga junkies do. Do they do that? I don’t even know.
I tousle the front of my hair with my hand, the tangled strands falling back into place. “Is that my only option?”
“I’m afraid so, Gage.”
Okay. Not great, but if that’s what it’ll take for me to get back on the ice, then you bet your fucking ass I’m squeezing myself into a child-sized tutu.
