Page 100 of Changing the Playbook
“Strength is actually better than before your injury.” He sounds genuinely impressed. “The cross-training really paid off.”
“Yeah, who knew yoga would make me a better defenseman?” I swing back onto the table. “Though I still can’t put my foot behind my head.”
“Please don’t try.” Morges lets out a long laugh. “I don’t want to see you back here.”
He pulls up his rolling stool, the universal doctor signal for serious talks. “How’s the season going?”
“Great.” The word comes out too fast, too bright. “We’re on a six-game winning streak. I’ve had at least a point in every game. Scouts at every home game…”
The words hang between us, hollow and rehearsed.
“That’s all very impressive.” He tilts his head, waiting. “But I asked howyouthink it’s going.”
The examination room shrinks. The fluorescent lights hum louder. “What do you mean? I just told you?—”
“Last year at this time, you’d have given me shot percentages broken down by period. Ice time comparisons. Plus-minus ratings sorted by opponent.” His voice stays gentle, curious. “You once asked if you could chart your recovery metrics in your sleep.”
“That was a legitimate question.”
“It really wasn’t.” He grins. “Now you’re giving me headlines. What changed?”
I consider the answer. Everything. Nothing. Hockey still matters—God, it matters—but somewhere along the way, after meeting and getting with Sophie, the edges of that need have softened.
“Life stuff,” I finally manage. “Balance.”
His eyebrows climb. “Balance? You?”
He laughs, but there’s something else in his expression. Pride, maybe.
“Actually,” he says. “My friend runs an elite mobility program. Three sessions a week, two hours each, perfect for someone going pro.”
The numbers slam into me. Six hours a week. Plus travel. That’s Tuesday movie nights with Sophie. Thursday study sessions where she reads horrifying medical cases while I play with her hair. Saturday mornings when we attempt breakfast and mostly just make a mess.
Six months ago, I’d have signed up before he finished the sentence. Would’ve restructured everything, calculated the percentage increase in my likelihood of being drafted and how much more it would have earned me on my first NHL contract. But now…
“Can I think about it?”
The words surprise us both.
Dr. Morges blinks, then his expression softens into something knowing. “Of course.” He studies me. “You seem different, Mike. Calmer. Happier.”
“I started meditation back up.” The lie springs out of me. “After you said I gave up on it too quickly.”
“Really?” His tone says he’s humoring me, because he knowsthatexperiment lasted a week. “How’s that working?”
“Oh, you know. Very… meditative.” What the hell is meditation anyway? “Lots of breathing. Focusing on the present. Om?”
He actually laughs. “Mike, you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”
“Fine. I fell asleep. Every time.”
“So what actually changed?” He leans back, genuinely curious now. “Because something has.”
The truth sits heavy on my tongue. How do I explain how Sophie makes terrible jokes during horror movies? That Andy and I spent last weekend failing spectacularly at mini golf? That Maine’s stupid Mario Kart challenges matter as much as power play percentages? That new things excite me as much as hockey?
“Remember how you said I should find things outside hockey?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Well, I did. Pottery, dance classes, poetry readings, rock climbing with eight-year-olds. I’m terrible at all of them, which is actually kind of nice.”
“Not needing to be the best at everything is growth.” His approval warms something in my chest. “That’s huge for you.”
