I make the move to the wheelchair. My dad flushes and pushes me over to the sink, where I finally get to see my face. I look like I’ve been in a serious fight. With a truck. Both of my eyes are black, and the stitches across the bridge of my nose are dark with blood, making it look worse than I’m sure it is. My face is swollen, not to mention bruised along the left side of my jaw.

“It was a hard hit, Alex. It took your helmet off. We were watching the game. You can stop pretending it’s not that bad.”

Well, that explains the stitches and bruised jaw. I wash the one hand I can move, focusing on my fingers. “I’m pretty fucking scared.”

He rests a palm on my shoulder. “You’re worried about your career?”

“Yeah.”

“Because of the concussion.” It’s a statement.

“I’ve never had one this bad. I keep waking up confused.” One serious concussion is manageable, maybe even a couple, but after a certain point, the stakes get higher and the residual impact becomes too risky.

“We don’t even know the extent of the damage yet, Alex, or the projected recovery time. Let’s focus on accepting that you’re not getting back on the ice next week and move forward from there.”

He’s right. I know this. But hearing it makes it more real than I want it to be. I have to hope for the best, which is quick healing and a fast recovery so I can get back in the game before the end of the season.

When my dad wheels me out of the bathroom, we find Violet and my mom having a whispered conversation. They’re both red-eyed. Violet turns when she hears the door open and comes to me, maybe with the intention of helping, but there’s nothing she can do since she can’t lift me. I manage to get my own ass into bed, but I allow her and my mom to fuss over tucking me in.

I get another dose of drugs, and then I’m back to la-la land.

-&-

I spend the next three days in the hospital. Violet refuses to leave. Charlene and my mom bring her laptop and some files so she can work, and a change of clothes—something more comfortable than jeans.

I try to tell her she can go to work—I know she’s got that proposal to prepare—but she tells me I’m more important than work, which makes me feel good and bad at the same time.

After more than seventy-two hours of observation, the doctor gives me his verdict on Sunday morning before I’m released. Violet, my dad, and my coach are with me when he gives me the rundown. The stitches in my face are the least of my worries. The dislocated shoulder is further complicated by my fractured collarbone and broken rib. I have at least four weeks before I can start any kind of rehab on my shoulder, which was already bugging me before the hit. My rib will have to stay taped for the next three weeks.

The worst part of the discussion revolves around my concussion. I still have no recall of the events leading up to the hit, or anything that happened afterward.

The first memories that have really stayed with me since the injury are when I woke up with Violet in the hospital bed with me, and even that’s hazy. They want to monitor my brain activity closely over the next several weeks, testing for residual impact, I guess. It makes me nervous.

Even if I end up progressing quickly with rehab, which is beginning to sound unlikely, I’m still looking at a good month of sitting on my ass before I can start real training. After that, it’ll be another four to six weeks before I can get back on the ice. It’s already mid-March. Unless we can maintain a solid winning streak, we don’t have much of a chance at the playoffs this year.

Which means I’m out for the rest of the season.

With only three years left on my contract, this kind of injury could change a lot. And not in a good way.

I turned twenty-six recently. While hockey careers are short, I never imagined mine being over already. I figured I’d have at least another five years before I have to make decisions on what’s next. I’ve been planning, but nothing immediate. I assumed Violet and I would have started a family by the time my hockey-playing days were over. We’d have a couple babies, maybe with more on the way.

I’m happy to hang out and be a dad for a few years, take some down time—by then Violet might be working from home, if at all, so we can travel and just enjoy life. Then I’ll get into coaching, if that’s something that feels right. Why did I make millions of dollars to keep working my ass off if I don’t have to?

But that’s all supposed to be later, years from now. I’m not ready to slow down yet.

I’m quiet as I listen to the doctor talk, nodding and agreeing when he sets up what will be a period of rest, followed by a fairly rigorous rehabilitative regime beginning several weeks from now. But my mind is racing, and all I can think about is how hard I worked to get here, and how one hit could take it all away.

Violet grips my hand, her throat bobbing as she swallows thickly. I squeeze back, and she looks at me. Her smile is weak and tears hang heavy on her lashes. Her fear is my own.

I hope this season is the only thing I’m going to lose.

8

Full House

VIOLET

Once we know Alex is out of the proverbial woods, he gets to come home on Sunday. Robbie goes to the airport once Alex is released so he can make his meetings Monday morning. I’m not sure what those meetings entail other than talking about weed, since his job is to research and perfect medical strains of marijuana, but it seems necessary for him to be there.

Daisy stays, settling in a guest bedroom. She loves to cook, and she loves to dote on Alex, so she’s totally in her element. I’m not used to Alex needing to be taken care of.