Page 43 of On the Line
“I need a pad of paper and a pen,” he said. “It’s time to make a list.”
Three days later, Mitch found himself seated in one of the meeting rooms inside the Knights’ arena, gathered around a table with his coach, the President and Vice President of the organization, the General Manager, a public relations representative, his agent, and Gabe Huntley, acting in his official capacity as the Knights’ captain.
“So you’re just moving back to Michigan?” Gabe asked once Mitch said his piece.
“Are you sure you can’t play?” His coach asked.
“What about your contract? We just signed you to an extension.”
Leave it to the President to only be worried about money at a time like this.
“Look,” Mitch said, scrubbing a hand down his face and reclining in the plush leather chair, trying to ease some of the tension in his back. “This isn’t how I wanted to go out. But my career is over. I have to rehab this injury, and I have to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do with my life once I’m on my feet again. My mom lives in Michigan. Ann Arbor is home to one of the best in-patient rehab facilities in the country. It makes the most sense for me to move back. I know this isn’t what you had planned when we signed my extension. I can assure you I expected to be playing well past the age of thirty-four. But it’s the hand I was dealt, and I can’t do anything about it now. All I can do is move forward. I’m here as a courtesy. Void my contract, do whatever you have to do to make yourselves feel better or whatever makes the most sense for the club. But I’m leaving tomorrow, so we need to get this shit sorted now.”
Those gathered at the table stared at him, blinking in stunned silence. Since his move to LA, Mitch had been a quiet but reassuring presence in the locker room. He had never been known to raise his voice or lose his temper off the ice, and the guys had often referred to him as a gentle giant.
It was a far cry from the man he’d been in Detroit, and only Gabe knew how he truly was, having gotten drunk with him enough times for the old Mitch, the real Mitch, to resurface.
“We’re not going to void your contract just because you got injured,” the President said. “We’ll continue to pay you out on it subject to the terms agreed upon.”
A diplomatic answer, but one that made Mitch’s shoulders relax a bit. Not that he was hard up for money, but his medical care wouldn’t be cheap, and it was nice to know he’d be taken care of while he figured his shit out.
“Great,” Mitch said, making to rise from his chair, heavily relying on the cane now permanently attached to his hand. He was walking, which he was eternally grateful for, but it was slow and laborious. “Now if that’s all, I have a lot of shit to do before I fly out tomorrow, so I need to go. But I just want to say thank you for giving me a shot these last few months. I loved playing here, and I’m sorry my time with y’all had to come to an end like this.”
Those gathered simply nodded before turning toward each other, murmuring in low voices as Gabe helped Mitch from the room.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Gabe said. “Now who am I going to get Friday night margs with when we’re not on the road?”
Mitch laughed. Friday night margs had become a tradition with them, born from Mitch’s first week in the city when he and his teammates were just getting to know each other, and Gabe took Mitch to dinner to size him up.
“You can always take Cally,” Mitch said with a smirk, and Gabe lifted his arms to shove Mitch, stopping at the last second as if realizing what a mistake that would be.
“Over my dead body will Callyeverbe invited to Friday night margs."
Ann Arbor.
Mitch genuinely couldn’t believe he was back in the Mitten. When he left the previous spring, he had burned so many bridges—truthfully, all of them except the one that led to his mother and stepdad.
It had been three weeks since his accident, and he was back on his feet.
Tentatively.
But he was walking. And that was enough.
Even if his career as a professional athlete was over.
At thirty-four, he was already washed up. It would be a knife to the gut a million times more painful if he couldn’t walk on top of it.
He wasn’t exactly an invalid, but living at the facility while he regained strength in his back and legs made the most sense. Everything was available via phone call or a short walk down the hallway.
His room was nice, if sparse and a bit suffocating sometimes. There was a comfortable bed topped with memory foam that cushioned his body like a cloud, relieving some of the strain on his lower back while he slept, and a large comfortable chair in the corner that looked out over the parking lot. The television had access to all manner of channels, and he found himself watching a lot of comedy movies late into the night when he couldn’t sleep.
Rehab was going well, but for someone used to moving about the world when and how they pleased, it was also moving so slowly it bordered on frustrating.
His strength flagged easily, and too much time spent on his feet or in an upright position caused persistent tightness and stinging pain in his back. There was always a cane or wheelchair nearby for particularly bad days.
“Good morning, Mr. Frambough!” The woman at the desk said when he exited his room and shuffled past, on his way down the hall for strength exercises with his physical therapist.
“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, Denise,” Mitch said as he hobbled by, “you can call me Mitch.”
