Page 31 of The Best Parts of Him
Dabbs couldn’t say he hated it.
On the television, Ryland had the puck, and it would’ve been a perfect breakaway if not for one of Minnesota’s D-men, who charged at him from the left and barreled into him like this was football instead of hockey.
Ryland and the D-man went crashing into the boards in a flurry of skates and sticks.
“Jesus Christ,” Bellamy fumed. “What the fuck?”
A knot formed in Dabbs’ stomach.
The D-man got to his feet.
So did Ryland, much more slowly.
“Oh shit,” Bellamy muttered.
“Oh no,” said Zanetti.
Ryland skated off the ice, surrounded by the refs and a couple of teammates.
His right arm hung by his side and his left hand gripped his right shoulder.
The knot in Dabbs’ stomach pulsed. “Oh fuck.”
chapter eight
A dislocated shoulder.
Ryland sat in the athletic training room in his base layers after the game and swore. It hadn’t been his first dislocated shoulder, but it had hurt like a son of a bitch. His team’s athletic therapist had popped it back in, after which the pain had subsided substantially, and he’d managed to play out the game with a combination of adrenaline and pain meds.
But the agony. It had taken him what felt like five whole minutes but was actually more like thirty seconds, according to Des, before he’d managed to get to his feet and skate off the ice.
And now he had to wear a sling.
He swore again.
“Sorry,” Stephanie—the team’s AT—said with a smile that indicated she wasn’t sorry at all. “It’s got to be done. But only for a few days, a week at most.”
“How long will he be out for?” Coach Fahey asked from a chair against the wall.
“A couple of weeks at least. Maybe three. We’ll reassess after two.”
Ryland sent a pleading look Coach’s way, hoping he’d override her.
“Sorry.” Coach shrugged.
“We’ll want to consider surgery next summer.” Stephanie handed Ryland a roll of athletic tape. “You and I both know that one dislocated shoulder means it’s more likely to happen again, and the more it happens, the harder it is to reduce. And you’ve had three in the past three years. But for now . . . ” She tapped the roll of tape. “This, plus two to three weeks of rest and recovery. I’ll put a plan in place for rehab, and you’ll have strength and motion back in no time.”
Ryland hopped off the exam table. “Thanks, Steph.”
“Thanks, Steph,” Coach parroted, rising. “Got a second? I want to chat about Hewitt’s back.”
Leaving them to it, Ryland exited the training room. The locker room was just down the hall, and it was quiet when he entered, his teammates having gone home for the night, showering, grabbing a post-game snack from the kitchen, or a post-game workout in the weight room. He tossed the roll of athletic tape into his gym bag with a sigh, then sat on the bench in front of his stall.
Well. This sucked.
Miles Sheppard emerged from the showers and sat to his left, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist. “How’s your shoulder?”
Ryland shrugged his left shoulder—the good one. “It’s fine. But I’m out for the next two to three weeks.”
