Page 39 of Tough Call

In the back of an ambulance on the way to the hospital, I tried to get comfortable on the gurney. Tried. Failed. Ugh, my leg hurt so fucking bad, but even that wasn’t as awful as all the thoughts swirling in my head.

I closed my eyes and pushed out a breath. I swore I could hear all those doors slamming shut all over again. No one had wanted to sign me while I was recovering, and they were only now—after the past few years of proving I could still play at a professional level—paying any attention to me.

Or, well, they had been.

Fuck my life.

This didn’t feel like a career-ending injury. The medical staff thought I might have another MCL tear. Not a severe one, but one that meant my time playing here in Prague was over. If I was lucky, I might rejoin my professional team in the Swiss playoffs.

But my phone wouldn’t be ringing any time soon. Nor would my agent’s. No NAL scout or GM was going to bet on me while I was injured. They’d need to see me back in playing condition—need to be sure I hadn’t lost a step during my recovery—before they took that chance.

Pressing back against into the uncomfortable gurney, I stared out at ambulance’s rear window at the snow falling lazily onto the streets and buildings. There was nothing I could do now. I’d have a diagnosis soon, and then I’d return to Genève and figure out my recovery. I’d focus on rehabbing my knee and keeping my conditioning up so that when I returned to the ice—whether it was this season or next—my performance would draw the attention of those scouts again. My dream of returning to NAL wasn’t over. It was just delayed.

Right?

Hopefully. I was still young enough to be worth the gamble. The longer I went without an NAL PTO, the less likely I was to get one.

And all that was assuming I recovered enough to be worth the NAL’s time. Guess I’d find out once the MRI was done.

The hospital got me in pretty quickly, and after the MRI was done, I returned to the emergency department to wait for the results. I was told we’d be waiting a while, so Karolina, my Czech interpreter, left to get coffee. Before we’d left, she’d grabbed my phone out of my locker stall, and I took it out to see how my team had fared without me.

Before I could even open the app to check the score, though, I realized I had a text.

Connor

Are you okay? Do you need a lift back to the hotel?

Oh, right. He’d been at the game, hadn’t he? I’d seen him in the stands. He must’ve been worried. And it was on-brand for him to offer me a ride; he was always taking care of everyone around him.

Waiting on MRI results. Probably an MCL tear. (sad emoji)

Team staff will take me back to the hotel.

He responded almost immediately.

Shit, I’m sorry. How bad is the tear?

Don’t know yet. The doc at the arena thinks it might be a 2nd degree.

Is that bad?

I don’t know much about those.

it’s not good but I might not need surgery.

Fingers crossed.

Your team was out for blood after you left.

oh yeah? I haven’t even seen the score yet.

6-3.

Wow, guess they did okay without me!

I think they were motivated to win FOR you.

A lump suddenly rose in my throat as I recalled a conversation from our past life.