I WOULD TAKE A joint or muscle injury over a concussion any day of the week. At least then,
there would be a treatment plan and benchmarks to track progress in getting back on the ice.
With a concussion, all there was to be done was wait and see. It could be days, it could be weeks, or it could be months before symptoms dissipated.
It was also extremely isolating.
With a standard injury, rehabbing would take place at the team facilities, but a head injury required rest. I wasn’t with the rest of the injured players watching the first two games of the Conference Finals against the Miami Storm from the press box. The noise and lights weren’t good for my recovery.
To make matters worse, I couldn’t even watch those games. Screens were off-limits until I was better, so I laid in bed listening to the play-by-play on the radio. I hadn’t done that since I was a kid, hiding under the covers and listening to a game secretly after bedtime.
By the time the team left for Miami for Games 3 and 4 of the Conference Finals—with the series tied at one game apiece—I was cleared for light activity. Desperately needing human interaction, I opted to work out with the rehab team at the arena instead of in my home gym.
The moment I set foot in the facility, everyone left behind while the team traveled gave me a range of looks—some reflected pity, others disdain.
They’d clearly heard about me and Hannah. How could they not have? To them, I may be injured, but I was the bad guy. Hannah was loved by all. I was the man who’d been dating her behind her father’s back, and then broken her heart.
If they wanted to add my broken heart to the injury report, it should be placed on injured reserve, out of action indefinitely.
Being stuck at home alone only highlighted all she had brought to my life, which was now absent. The silence with her gone was deafening. There was no one using up all the hot water before I hopped into the shower. The kitchen cabinets were devoid of the junk food she’d hidden behind my containers of protein powder. The bed was too big without her lying beside me.
Pushing past the ache in my chest that had no hope of rehabilitation, I was back on the ice by the time the team returned home from Miami for Game 5, up three games to one. We were one game away from playing for a championship—the one thing I’d dreamed of my whole life—but I couldn’t find it in myself to get excited.
The medical and training staff cleared me to play for Game 5 at home, but with strict instructions to the coaching staff to limit my playing time. Coach sat beside me, stiff, not making eye contact during that meeting.
What I wouldn’t give to tell him to go to hell, to tell Hannah what had really happened, but I’d already caused her enough pain. I refused to be the man who put a wedge between her and her family. Even if it meant suffering in silence, knowing the future I had planned for us would never come to pass. The last time I saw her was when she left my hospital room, devastated.
Gearing up for Game 5, I steeled myself to view her from a distance, to hear her incredible voice as she sang the anthem pre-game. When the announcer called the starting lineup and we took our spots on the blue line, the knife in my heart twisted seeing a replacement singer walk out onto the red carpet.
Hannah wasn’t doing what she loved because of me. Everything was so fucked up.
 |
A loss in Game 5 had us traveling to Miami for a Game 6. The Storm were still on the verge of elimination, but it was up to us to close out the series and move on.
Reaching the stunning seaside hotel, I was flooded with memories.
Hannah watching from a cabana as the team worked out in the sand, brazenly demanding shirtless men.
Being in this very city aboard the yacht, being as close as two bodies could possibly be as the sun set over the skyline through the massive window.
Days spent in the sun, every inch of Hannah’s body turning golden brown.
Was this what it was going to be like for the rest of my life? Every little thing reminding me of her, of what I’d lost?
The team congregated in the lobby, waiting to be handed keys to their rooms. Jaxon and Benji approached where I stood leaning against a wall, alone.
Holding out a keycard, Jaxon handed it to me. I didn’t know why I was surprised that Hannah didn’t want to see me; she’d gone out of her way to not share the ice with me last night.
Taking my room key, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “How was she?”
Jaxon crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think? You ripped out her heart and stomped on it.”
He might be my best friend, but he was protective of Natalie’s friends— Hannah, in particular, as Coach’s daughter. I couldn’t even tell him why I’d done what I’d done because it would get back to her.
Taking a deep breath, I corrected, “No, the night of the injury.” Why I felt the need to torture myself by hearing this, I couldn’t be sure, but I had to know.
Dropping his gaze to the floor, his voice softened. “It was bad, man.” Swallowing past the lump forming in my throat, I demanded, “Tell me.”
“We were in the locker room, and it was dead silent after they took you away. Coach denied post-game media access, so when I heard the frantic yelling through the thick door to the locker room, I sprang into action. Hannah was pounding on the training room door, begging to be let in. She thought you were in there. When I explained they’d taken you to the hospital and that you were unconscious, she collapsed in my arms, hysterical. It gutted me knowing there was nothing I could do for her.”
“Jesus,” I breathed out.
Jaxon continued, “Natalie took over for a minute so I could change before taking Hannah to the hospital. I ran to the bathroom and threw up, picturing Natalie in her shoes. It’s one thing to know something like that could happen, but it’s a whole different story when you experience firsthand how it impacts the women we love.”
All I could do was press a hand to my churning stomach, the guilt gnawing at me, knowing she’d gone through hell, and I’d been forced to carelessly toss her aside shortly after. Coach had mentioned how upset Hannah was that night—he clearly didn’t have a soul asking me to kick her while she was down.
“She was such a mess when we reached the hospital that they wanted to sedate her.” Shaking his head, Jaxon finally looked up at me. “How could you do this to her?”
Clenching my free fist—anger at Coach flowing freely—I gritted out, “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Fuck that,” he shot back. “Fix it. I can see it in your eyes—you still love her. It’s her birthday today, for God’s sake!”
“I know,” I whispered. “I just can’t.”
Drop it, Jaxon. I’m in enough pain.
Benji jumped in. “Wait, you’re in love with her?” Shrugging, I replied, “It doesn’t matter.”
“The fuck it doesn’t!” Jaxon roared, attracting attention from a few stragglers in the lobby. “You’ve never been serious about any woman, but seeing you with Hannah? It was like you became a better version of yourself. That’s what love does. You’d be a fool to throw this away.”
Benji’s head whipped between the two of us in shock. Pointing at Jaxon accusingly, he asked, “You knew?”
Jaxon rolled his eyes. “Not by choice. Get yourself a girl, and maybe you can start hanging out with us more when we do couple things.”
“Fuck that.” Benji shuddered at the thought. “I don’t need your secrets that badly. Women are more trouble than they’re worth. Good for one thing, and one thing only.”
“Nice,” Jaxon muttered dryly.
Holding his hands up in defense, Benji was unapologetic. “Just calling it like I see it.”
Glaring at him, Jaxon remarked, “I hope someday a woman brings you to your knees and you have to admit just how wrong you are.”
“Doubtful,” Benji scoffed.
For once, I agreed with Benji. Love was more trouble than it was worth.
|
Declining the offer to join some of the senior members of the team for dinner, I locked myself in my hotel room. This was the first road trip in months where I would be sleeping alone.
Fuck. I miss her.
Ordering room service, I reclined on the bed, my eyes open but unfocused as the TV provided background noise—I couldn’t bear the silence. A ding coming from my phone had me reaching for it, hope blossoming. It was quickly dashed when my lock screen showed an email alert from Holden.
Oh no.
Knowing what was inside, I opened the email, a rock settling in the pit of my stomach.
Cal,
Sorry this took so long, but I got backed up and could only work on it in m spare time. Your girl is really talented. You should bring her by when you’ done for the season. I can make a few calls and have some people take a loo at her. I think she has something special, and it would be a shame not
share her gift with the world. She could be a star, and you know I don’t sa that lightly. Good luck against Miami tonight. Hope this year is your yea You deserve it.
Holden
Attachment: Hannah Moreau Demo
Why did this have to come in today?
It was killing me that it was her birthday, and she was hurting as badly as me. This recording was her gift, and I couldn’t even give it to her now. She couldn’t bear to see me, so it was unlikely that she wanted to hear from me, even for something this special. Maybe in a few months, I could slip it to Natalie so it made its way to Hannah. She should have it, but the wound was too raw right now.
Because I was a glutton for punishment, I threw in my earbuds, cranked up the volume on my phone, and opened the attachment, pressing play on the first track. Hannah’s beautiful voice soothed my frayed nerves, and I allowed myself to fall asleep, hoping that when I woke, I’d find the events of the past two weeks to be nothing more than a bad dream.
