Page 78 of Playmaker

Lila shook her head slowly. “No. Not like last time.”

That was a relief. Sort of. There were any number of things that could go wrong in someone’s knee, and even the same injury didn’t always feel or sound the same twice.

I squeezed her hand, and she gazed up at me, fresh tears in her eyes and her expression full of fear. Rubbing my thumb alongside hers, I shakily said, “You’re going to be okay. You’re in good hands.”

She grimaced and nodded slightly. She was gripping my hand so tight it was almost painful, but I didn’t complain.

Beside her, Connie, our team doctor, and one of the EMTs had a brief but animated conversation. Then the EMT gestured at his partner, who said something into his radio that I didn’t understand.

The Zamboni gates opened, and my heart sank. The rattle of stretcher wheels on ice made my skin crawl.

“I’m going to get out of their way,” I told her. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, all right?”

Lila nodded. I gave her hand one more squeeze, then got up and skated a few feet away so the EMTs could do their job.

Deep down, I knew the decision to use a stretcher didn’t mean the damage to Lila’s knee was catastrophic. Sometimes we’d skate off the ice with help from our teammates. Even with lower body injuries. I’d skated off with a fractured tibia; hurt like hell, and I’d had to lean hard on two teammates, but I’d made it.

Sometimes, though, the people with letters behind their names decided it was more prudent to use a stretcher. Even if the player wasn’t going to the hospital, it was best to get them off the ice without potentially making the injury worse.

That was what I told myself as the EMTs and trainers carefully moved Lila onto the stretcher.

It was what I told myself again as I gave her hand one last squeeze before letting go, and at least a dozen times as I watched them roll the stretcher out of sight. I wanted to follow. Cry. Puke. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was stay out here and play hockey.

But Lila was going to be an emotional wreck tonight no matter what. If the rest of the team fell apart over this, the guilt would be insult to very literal injury.

The Bearcatshadto keep playing.Ihad to keep playing. I was the captain of this team, and everyone on it knew I was Lila’s girlfriend. I had to be the one to lead us, keep my head together, and show everyone—my teammates, our fans, and my girlfriend—that we could play through this and anything else that came our way.

I called on the determination I’d had the day one of my teammates in major juniors had fractured her femur. She’d beenrushed off to the hospital, and we’d all rallied as best we could, still managing to win that game even if it had been by the skin of our teeth. I’d managed to score even after I’d watched my linemate and close friend screaming in pain before they’d carted her off the ice.

I’d done it then. I could do it now.

I took a deep breath to pull myself together. When I turned to my shell-shocked linemates and Lila’s rattled D partner, I could see the same determination in their eyes.

“We’ve got this,” I told them. “Let’s do it for Hams.”

Nods all around.

I skated to the bench and conferred quickly with Coach Reilly. She kept my line out—we’d more than caught our breath from our intense shift—but she pulled Sims back and sent out the second defensive pair. We were down a blue liner now, and Coach wanted Sims to take a moment to strategize with the defensive coach. Sims probably didn’t mind a few minutes to get her bearings; I sure didn’t blame her.

Everyone was rattled. Everyone was worried about Lila.

And when we hit the ice again, we played our hearts out because we weren’t losing our best defenderandthe game in the same night.

Chapter 25

Lila

My knee didn’t swell up as much as it had last time. That was probably the one silver lining of this whole shitshow. Maybe I hadn’t torn my ACL as bad. Maybe I hadn’t torn it at all.

Except I was pretty sure I’d tornsomething. It hadn’t felt quite the same as last time, but I’d had enough injuries to know they were all a little different. I’d sprained my left elbow three times, and though there’d been consistencies, they hadn’t felt exactly the same.

Something had popped this time and last time. The pain was worse last time. Maybe because my knee had already been such a mess back then? Maybe because this tear wasn’t as bad? Was that why it wasn’t swelling like before?

The trainers had X-rayed it at the arena, and nothing was broken, but the EMTs had taken me to the ER for an MRI and a more thorough evaluation. Now I was just waiting for the results and pleading with the pain relievers to do something. I had no idea how bad I’d messed up my knee, and I was too afraid to check my phone and see how the game was going. Had the team been able to keep it together? I wouldn’t have blamed them if they couldn’t—I’d been in that position before myself—butI’d feel terrible. We needed points, especially against division opponents. We couldn’t afford to lose tonight.

I didn’t look. I just waited for someone to tell me. About the game. About my knee. About my career.

The only thing I knew for sure in that moment was that something was wrong, and I’d already been playing hockey on borrowed time. Lying in this hospital bed, I wiped a hand over my face. I wanted to believe this wasn’t a career ender. I’d come way too far, damn it.