“You can go on back. He’s been asking for you.”
At Coach’s words, I rise, but then Pete puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, sorry,” Coach says, clearing his throat. “Uh, Pete should go first. I think they’re only letting one person in at a time.”
Neither man’s eyes meet mine, and I’ve been sitting here for at least two hours, so I know damn well that visitors are allowed in pairs.
That either means that Van’s mom has snuck in through some back entrance or Van doesn’t want to see me. Neither option seems possible, but one of them has to be true.
Five minutes later, when Steph Donohue steps into the waiting room and looks around frantically, I have my answer.
38
Van
Two days of hospital food has me wanting to jump out of this bed and run to Wolfie’s as soon as the doc signs my discharge papers.
But that’s not happening. I won’t be running anywhere anytime soon. Hell, I can barely walk right now.
In less than a second, everything changed. The docs aren’t saying anything definitive now, and I get that. It will take weeks for the swelling to go down, and then I’ll have surgery. It’s like freshman year, but so much worse. A meniscus tear hurt like hell and took months to heal. But Corey Bradford’s illegal hit caused way more damage. I could hear my knee pop when I hit the boards at a bad angle, but when he caught my skate with his stick, my knee twisted at an unnatural angle, tearing three ligaments.
Basically, the only thing holding my knee in place right now is the brace I’m wearing.
“Mr. Vandaele,” a nurse calls as she pulls the curtain open. “Bet you’re ready to get out of this place. I’ve got your papers ready to go, I just want to go over some instructions with the person who’s taking you home.”
A vision of Josie’s face pops into my mind, but I’m blaming that on the pain meds.
There’s a list of people who are helping me recover and shuttling me back and forth to rehab and appointments, and Josie’s not on it.
Pete rounds the corner right on time and sits in a little plastic chair. “That’s my job,” he says.
The nurse goes over the instructions and Pete listens like the good student he is. I’ve heard it all and watched enough videos from the internet that I know exactly what my future looks like. I’ll go to rehab for the next few weeks and then have surgery. The recovery from that will be painful as hell and will take a lot longer. And at the end of all the pain and ice and therapy and elevation and fucking sitting on my ass? My big reward is that I’ll be the best guy in the beer league.
My hockey career is over, and it’s barely just started.
Between my coach, my mom, and my teammates, I’ve had about all the positivity I can handle.
I appreciate it. I really do. But I saw the trainer’s face when he looked at Coach while we were still on the ice. I felt a burning, searing pain in my knee that I’ve never felt before and that hasn’t let up yet. I saw the scans. I know the facts. A few days ago, I was a strong, healthy player that a couple teams were looking to take a chance on.
Now, though? I’ll be twenty-three in a few weeks, and close to twenty-four by the time I can even think about playing at a competitive level. It’s hardly ancient, unless you’re a hockey player with a history of knee injuries who’s just starting his pro career. I’d be going against guys five or six years younger than me. A few days ago, my speed and power put me on a lot of scouts’ radars. By the time I build those back up, I’m playing a losing game.
The guys brought my bed downstairs, so now it sits in the same place as the couch Mickey lit on fire. Conveniently (and strangely), there’s a toilet and shower in our living room, so my setup could definitely be worse.
On one hand, sleeping downstairs is great because I don’t have to fuck around with stairs yet, and I’m close to everything. On the other hand, I hear everything. There is literally no privacy down here, which means that no matter how quiet they think they’re being, I already know that Josie’s here and she’s talking to Pete and Will.
My best friend knows I’m not ready to see her, but it’s been three days since I got hurt, so I guess I can’t put this off any longer.
“Van, you awake?” Will calls from behind the shower curtain the guys hung to give me a little space of my own. It was a nice thought, but it’s a clear shower curtain, so it just looks weird as hell and offers no barriers at all.
“Yep,” I say, struggling to adjust my pillows and sit upright.
Josie’s by my side in a flash and she fluffs them perfectly, because of course she does. I don’t think there’s anything Josie Reynolds has ever tried that she hasn’t been great at.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“I brought you cookies,” she says, holding a box proudly. “Tillie and Milo helped. Iris was the taste-tester.”
“Nice. You can just put them…” my voice trails off as Pete swoops in and grabs the box to take it to the kitchen.
