Page 147 of The Last Call Home
Standard.
Like my future was just some routine repair job they performed every day.
Twelve hours later, I was on my way back to Oregon.The team’s physician wouldn’t let just anyone perform the surgery.
Two days later, I was lying on the operating table, staring at the ceiling.The anesthesiologist leaned over me, telling me to count backward, but all I could think about was that last moment on the ice.Not the arena’s ice after the injury.No, I was back onthatice.
The frozen lake where I used to spend winters withherever since I can remember.And later, with Dusty—when we were stillus.Three.Back when skating was pure, untouched by expectations.Before it became the only thing I had left.Back then, skating wasn’t about winning, it wasn’t about proving anything to a father who never sawme, only the reflection of his own failures.It was freedom—before it became a desperate attempt to reclaim something I never truly had.
Being back there, in my mind, helped dull the edges of the endless replay—the snap, the fall, the terrifying realization that everything I had worked for could be gone in an instant.
And then I was out.The last thing I saw before everything went dark wasthem.
When I woke up, my leg was bandaged tight, propped up like an ice block in a cooler—solid, unmovable.The new surgeon came by, casual as ever, saying things went well, that they’d stitched the tendon back together.Great.
He might as well have been talking about fixing a car engine.“Six to twelve months and it should be running,” he said, like it was just a countdown to when I’d be back to normal.
But they don’t get it.None of them do.
To them, I’m just another patient.Another body to be patched up and sent on my way.Someone should tell him—I’m not just a leg to be fixed.I’m a hockey player.One of the best.
And without that ...Well, who the fuck am I?
It had only been a few hours since they knocked me out, but it felt like my entire world had shifted.Three days ago, I was on the ice, chasing the puck, skating like I had a thousand times before.Now, I’m lying flat on my back, staring at my foot, barely able to wiggle my toes.And all I have to look forward to is six to twelve months of fucking rehab.Maybe more.
My life now boils down to: rest, elevate, and avoid putting any pressure on it for weeks.Let the tendon heal, then the real work begins—rehab.They’ll probably ship me off to some specialized center where a team of doctors and specialists will work to piece me back together.
The process will be slow.Excruciatingly slow.No quick sprints, no sudden moves.Not for months.I won’t even be able to jog until they’re sure my tendon won’t give way again under the strain.
They told me I’d be working with a specialist—a sports medicine doctor who’d monitor me from start to finish, tracking every tiny improvement like it’s some race against time.Someone who’d decide when I can push harder and when I’ll have to pull back, as if my life can be measured in reps and recovery schedules.My entire future now rests on a timeline I can’t control—one that hinges on how fast or slow my body chooses to heal.And there’s no guarantee it’ll ever be the same.Not like it was.
My career might be over.No more Santos Calderón-Bélanger—assistant captain of the Portland Orcas.
Just ...no more me.
The surgeon finished with a tight smile, like he’d just delivered great news.I nodded, but inside I was screaming.I wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of the room.I was already mourning everything—the ice, my boys, the games I’d miss.The career I might never get back.
And then there’s the rehab center.Where my life will shrink down to reps, stretches, and sessions with a therapist who probably doesn’t even understand hockey.My team will move on without me.Some hotshot rookie will step in, fill my spot, and I’ll be nothing but a memory.Forgotten.
And now, I’m stuck here, lying in this hospital bed, waiting for my body to pull off some kind of miracle, like time itself is holding its breath, waiting for a sign that I’ll be okay.But beneath the sterile lights and the beeping machines, all I can think about is the mess waiting for me outside these walls—the tangled knot of my life that’s unraveling faster than I can keep up.
There’s that thing that happened back in Dallas.When I was doped up on pain meds, drifting between reality and some hazy dream.Waiting for surgery.Waiting for someone to wake me up, shake me, and tell me I was late for the game.That this—all of this—was just a nightmare.
But it wasn’t.And Dustin Haverbrook, my best friend, snuck into the hospital room when no one else dared to.The kind of moment that, for anyone else, would be considered a small act of friendship.But for me?For us?It’s a tragedy in the making.The exact kind of moment my father will try to erase, rewrite, cover up with money and power, just to keep my life from spiraling completely out of control.
Because Dustin—Dusty—didn’t just visit me.He showed up when I was completely out of it, too far gone on pain meds to keep my mouth shut.I must’ve said something.Something raw, something real, something that slipped out of the cracks I usually keep hidden away.Maybe something Dustin’s been waiting to hear.
And then ...he kissed me in a public place.
I don’t remember everything, but I remember that.The way his lips brushed mine, soft but with a desperation that felt like a question.Like a dare.And now, as the fog of medication fades, I’m left with the aftermath.With the sinking realization that, somehow, my private life has crossed a line I never meant to draw.
My PR team is going to have a field day with this.They’ll have to spin it, clean it up, because if this gets out—if anyone finds out what happened—it’s over.Everything I’ve worked for.Everything my father has built.It’ll all crumble.
And Dad’s right.My career—it’s slipping through my fingers faster than I can hold on to.It feels like I’m watching it disappear right before my eyes, and I can’t stop it.What’s going to happen to me?What’s left when the thing you’ve built your entire life around is gone?
My future is on the verge of collapsing.Just like Dustin’s.Maybe that’s why he kissed me—because deep down, we’re both afraid.Afraid of becoming our fathers.Afraid of losing ourselves to the expectations and the legacies we never asked to inherit.
If only they hadn’t taken her away.If only she hadn’t disappeared all those years ago.The one person who could’ve kept us whole.The one person who might’ve kept Dustin and me from falling apart.
