Page 146 of The Last Call Home
We are already home.
And I’m not going anywhere.
Not ever.
– Cass
Santos
“How are you feeling, mijo?”Mom’s voice breaks through the phone the moment I answer.She’s speaking English, which only means one thing—Dad is nearby.He’s always hated when we speak Spanish, paranoid that we’re talking behind his back.It’s ridiculous, really.Mom would never talk badly about anyone—least of all him.She’s the type to let you know exactly how she feels, face-to-face, no filters needed.
Dad should know better.If I ever decide to give him a piece of my mind, I’d do it in plain English, just to make sure he catches every word.What baffles me is why he never bothered to learn another language, when his wife and child are bilingual.But then again, asking him to change is a battle I’m not willing to fight.Some things with him are just better left alone.
I sigh, sinking deeper into the hospital bed.The sterile smell of disinfectant lingers in the air, reminding me of where I am and everything I’d rather not think about.The last thing I need is Mom worrying about my health—or worse, Dad trying to take control of the situation just because my future feels uncertain.
“Please, tell me you’re okay,” Mom says, her voice thick with worry.“They said on the news that you’re out for the season.That the injury was life-threatening.”
It wasn’t.But I know how the media works—how they twist everything, making it sound like the world is ending just to keep people glued to their screens.
“His career might be over, not because of the injury, but because of those pictures circulating on social media,” Dad’s voice cuts in, sharp and loud, like a punch through the phone.
It sounds like he’s standing next to me, even though I have no idea where he is.I just hope they’re not at the airport, ready to fly out here.The last thing I need is Dad showing up, breathing down my neck, reminding me of every single thing that’s gone wrong in the last few days.
Especiallythe picture.
But honestly, the photo is the least of my worries.What I can’t shake is the accident and what I like to call the fatal injury.The seconds that changed everything.
It was the third period, a tied game.I had the puck, cutting across center ice, every muscle tightening as I pushed forward.I dodged one defender, then another, eyes locked on the net.I was in the zone, about to make the breakaway I’d practiced for years.But then ...
Then, my skate caught the ice wrong.My leg buckled.And the next thing I knew, I was on my back, staring up at the arena lights, my leg refusing to move.It didn’t feel real.I didn’t hear the pop they always talk about.Just a sharp snap, a white-hot jolt of pain, and then—nothing.My ankle—it felt like it wasn’t even attached anymore.
The medics rushed over, yanking off my skate, poking and prodding like I was some broken thing.“Can you move your foot?”they asked, but I couldn’t.I tried, but there was no response.No connection.That’s when I knew.I had heard the stories, seen it happen to other players—torn Achilles.It’s supposed to be rare, but of course, it had to happen to me.
I lost everything in that moment.Not just the game.It felt like my whole life was unraveling.
The girl we lost.The boy I shouldn’t love.The life I’ve never been allowed to live the way I fucking want.
Of course, I told myself it wasn’t that bad, that maybe it was just a bad cramp, a pulled muscle—something easily fixable.But deep down, I knew.I could see it in the way they avoided my eyes, the way the air around them felt heavy with things unsaid.
They carted me off the ice like I was a broken toy, discarded.The crowd watched, but I wasn’t really there anymore.My mind had already spiraled away, lost in everything I knew I was about to lose.
The season.
The games.
My team.
And more than that—my career.The thing I’ve spent my entire life building could disappear in an instant.
The hospital was a blur.Tests, machines, sterile lights—it all felt distant.They poked and prodded like I was just another name on their chart.Words like “rupture” and “surgery” were thrown around so casually, as if they were talking about the weather.For them, it was routine.For me, it was everything.They kept telling me it would be fine, that they’d fix it—like it was nothing.
But nothing is simple when you’re the one lying there, watching your life slip through your fingers.
The MRI confirmed it.Full rupture.A clean break.The surgeon came in, clipboard in hand, delivering the news as if he was telling me to renew my driver’s license.“We’ll get you into surgery within the next forty-eight hours,” he said, his voice emotionless, rehearsed.
I’m pretty sure there’s a secret set of med-school classes they don’t talk about.First up, Patient Persuasion 101: The Art of Gentle Deception, followed by Optimism in Practice 102: Telling Your Patient Their Life is Fucking Over (With a Smile).Let’s not forget Positive Spin 201: Breaking Terrible Fucking News Like It’s No Big Deal and, of course, the advanced course: How to Stay Upbeat 301: Smiling While Their Life Falls the Fuck Apart.
“It’s a standard procedure for this type of injury.You’ll be fine,” he said, as if he wasn’t shattering my world.
