Page 38 of The Tryout
“Nope. A forward from Stanford had the puck and I wanted it. So I checked him into the boards.”
I’ve watched the video at least a hundred times since – hell, I consider pulling it up now. But I still can’t find the exact moment where my knee twists the wrong way or is hit in the wrong spot. All I see is me trying to come away with the puck and instead falling to the ice.
“It’s funny. At first I didn’t even know I was injured, at least, not badly.”
The look on Finn’s face tells me he doesn’t find it any funnier than I do.
“But suddenly my leg just…wouldn’t. Wouldn’t move, wouldn’t support my weight. It wasn’t until I was on the ice that I realized I was screaming.”
My own memories of the event are pretty hazy, but between the YouTube video and Jamie’s recollections, I’m at least able to recount it accurately.
“It was your ACL, right?”
I nod.
“Grade 3, complete rupture. They thought it involved the MCL, too, before surgery. Luckily it didn’t. Probably wouldn’t be playing today if it did.”
He presses his lips together.
“Do you…do you need medicine? I could get it for you.”
That does get a smile out of me, because no matter what, Finn is just a nice guy. Hell, I was interrogating him about his driving history and dead grandmother not twenty minutes ago, and yet he’s still most concerned with making me comfortable.
“I try not to take anything too strong anymore. But maybe a couple Advil?”
He hurries off toward his bedroom, emerging a moment later with two small red pills. Grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, he returns to the sofa. I take the pills, and as I swallow, he asks another question.
“Is it…is it supposed to last this long? The swelling and pain?”
I shrug.
“Sort of? These days, I don’t really feel pain as much as discomfort, and it’s mostly from the swelling. And the swelling can last for a lot longer than I originally thought – years. I’m supposed to ice after every practice and game.”
His face snaps up and I realize I’ve given myself away.
“But you aren’t. Avery!”
I close my eyes, the warmth of his concern hitting harder than the guilt.
“I know, I know. I just…didn’t really get in the habit in the beginning and now it’s a whole…thing.”
Truly, the psychological part of recovery has been the worst. The fear of making a good check, knowing I may not get up from it. The struggle to manage my pain without becoming dependent on the oblivion the pills could bring. And yes, the difficulty in seeing myself as an injured player, as someone who does need to stop by the training room at the end of the day.
“I’ll be better, I promise.”
He doesn’t look particularly reassured, and I would bet a thousand dollars that he’s the one heading to the training room after tomorrow’s game in search of ice. Again, the warm feeling fills me.
“Would you keep me company while I ice? Maybe we can watch Jamie’s game?”
He nods, sliding to the floor to sit in front of the sofa – the first time since I moved in that he’s chosen to spend some extra time with me.
Well, at least my knee’s good for something.
CHAPTER NINE
FINN
The next week, Banks asks me to stay after practice for a few minutes. I am more confused than concerned; even though Banks is technically the assistant coach and Porter the head coach, they tend to have a heavy defensive/offensive split. I think the last time I spoke with Banks was when the organization was trying to move me out of the team-organized hotel last fall and wanted to make sure I wouldn’t be homeless. Once the others are off the ice, I turn to Banks.
