That game still haunted me.
I’d taken a penalty late in the first overtime period—tripping their captain and face of the league, Jaxon Slate—putting my team down a man. My former college captain, Cal Berg, became the overtime hero, scoring the winning goal during that power play. I would never forget that moment, the sinking feeling of guilt layered with the disappointment of defeat. It didn’t matter that we had squandered opportunities earlier during overtime; I was the one sitting helplessly in the box, watching on as my team struggled and failed to kill the penalty I’d incurred.
So, this year had to be our year. We were one win—one goal—away from playing for a championship. And even though I wouldn’t be by their side on the ice, I would support my teammates as their leader. Knowing my boys, they’d rally for me; it’s what we did for each other.
“Maddox?” Sam’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.
“Yeah?” I groaned as he shifted my knee, bending it gently. Even that slight movement felt off; my knee wasn’t stable. I knew I was missing a ligament holding everything in place. It was only a matter of determining which one.
“We need you to lift your hips so we can take off your hockey pants. Then, we’ll move you over to the X-ray machine.”
I nodded, knowing the drill. This might be my first torn ligament, but I’d been around long enough to have scares. A strain could mimic the symptoms of a tear, but I knew that wasn’t the case tonight. So, the firststep would be to rule out a potential bone fracture. Then, I’d be sent for an MRI at Indianapolis General Hospital. That scan would find any damage to my soft tissue.
Dr. Sanders, the Speed’s team physician, entered the room. He gave me a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Trying to make the win even more dramatic, are we, Maddox?”
My heart stopped beating, and all the pain faded away, if only for a moment. “We won?” I breathed out.
Nodding, he confirmed, “None other than our new rookie, Braxton Slate, with the game-winning goal.”
Closing my eyes, I let out a slow breath. We were one step closer to lifting that gleaming silver trophy high above our heads before our names were carved into it for all of eternity, immortalizing us as champions.
“Kid’s got great instincts,” I remarked.
Braxton happened to be the much younger brother of Jaxon Slate. Braxton had been sent over to us from Connecticut in a trade near the deadline in the middle of his rookie season and was currently living in my house until he got settled in Indianapolis. He was a great asset to our team, and it was a wonder the Comets had let him go, especially to a divisional rival. But from what I understood, he’d requested the trade. I couldn’t blame him. His brother’s skill level was unmatched; he was a generational talent, the measuring stick to which every current player compared their game. I couldn’t imagine living in that shadow, not just in the same family but on the same team. It made sense why he would want to branch out and spread his wings. Honestly, he was playing better hockey now than I’d seen from game film of the Comets prior to our matchups throughout the season. Indy was where he belonged, and we were glad to have him.
I only hoped the boost of adding yet another young, enthusiastic player to our roster would be enough to cover my absence as the Speed were championship-round bound.
The sound of post-game analysis and replays of Braxton’s game-winner, combined with the heavy dose of painkillers coursing through my veins, had me loopy enough to relax in the hospital bed as I awaited the results of my MRI.
Dr. Sanders walked in with another doctor, and my suspicions were confirmed. Our team doctor worked with a specialist whenever heavy-duty surgery repair was involved. I would lay good odds that the one accompanying him would be the best orthopedic surgeon in the Midwest.
Dr. Sanders spoke first. “How are you feeling, Maddox?”
My body melted into the mattress. “Whatever drugs you gave me, keep ’em coming.”
He chuckled. “Good. I’m glad to hear pain management is no longer an issue.” He stepped aside, gesturing to the other doctor. “Let me introduce you to Dr. Harris. He’s a premiere orthopedic knee surgeon we had flown down from Chicago.”
Nailed it.
“Hit me with it, doc.” There was no need for pleasantries. Facts and timelines were more critical.
Dr. Harris walked to the side of my bed, a tablet held in his hands. “Hello, Maddox. Unfortunately, the results of your MRI revealed a full ACL tear, which will need surgery to repair it.”
I nodded. “How soon can I be back on the ice?”
Dr. Harris huffed out a laugh, throwing over his shoulder to Dr. Sanders, “Athletes are always fun.”
“One-track minds,” Dr. Sanders confirmed.
Turning his gaze back to me, Dr. Harris explained, “I’m sorry to inform you that you won’t be back on the ice this season.”
I waved a hand. “I kinda figured. What about next season?”
His lips folded in, and dread settled in my gut. “The recovery time for an injury such as this is considerable. You won’t be able to put weight on the knee for three months.”
I did the quick math. It was late May, so three months from now would be late August. Okay, so I would miss the front part of the season next year. I could deal with that.
But any blossoming hope died at his following words. “Even for a non-athlete, recovery can take six to nine months. And with the risk of re-injury, I wouldn’t suggest pushing yourself to beat that timeline.”
