2. Brett

Brett

The phone rings just as I'm running into the practice arena.

"Damn it," I pant, seeing that it's my physical therapy office. I know I'm late, but every time I see that number on my phone, I'm compelled to answer. Just in case.

I hold the phone to my ear as I jog into the building. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Mr. Ratcliffe," the receptionist answers. "How are you?"

"Fine, how can I help you?" I say, breathing hard as I run into the practice arena.

"Well," they go on, "unfortunately I'm calling to let you know that Ms. Stewart isn't going to be in today, and I'm hoping to rebook you with another one of our excellent therapists, Chloe Green, at four--"

"Sorry to cut you off," I say slamming into the locker room and nearly dropping my bag. The room is empty—the rest of the team already out on the ice. I grit my teeth and throw my duffel bag down, opening my locker and ripping out my skates. "But I'll just reschedule to when Fallon is available."

"Are you sure? I can—"

"Shit," I say, when I drop a skate on my foot. It hurts like a motherfucker, and I realize the person on the other end of the line has gone silent. "Sorry—sorry, I'm in a bit of a hurry right now. I'd like to keep the same therapist. Just email me the time. Thanks!"

I drop the phone, hoping they end the call so they don't hear me hopping around, desperately trying to get my gear on so Coach Aldine doesn't rip me limb from limb for being nearly late. Again.

I'm shoving my mouthguard over my teeth as I skate out onto the ice, nearly losing my balance. I join the rest of the group just as Coach Aldine breaks away from the huddle of coaches and skates to the middle of the rink, clapping his hands.

"Alright," he says, scanning past each player and landing on me.

I'm tugging on my practice jersey to try and get it situated right.

"Thanks for being on time, everyone," Coach goes on. "Since you've all had a moment to warm up, let's launch right into drills." He gives me a pointed look, and I can practically hear his voice in my head: On time and ready , Waterski .

I skate along behind the other guys, handling the puck and trying to remind my body to stay loose. Ever since my injury last year, I've noticed myself tensing up, which Fallon says only makes injury more likely. I remember meeting Fallon Stewart during my first PT appointment at the new clinic, just a few months ago. She smelled like peaches and alcohol wipes.

"People underestimate the value of being relaxed," she had said, after telling me to take a few deep breaths. "You ever heard that story about the guy in the tornado?"

I'd laughed, shaking my head, "no?"

Then she'd tapped my arms and legs as she moved, measuring my range of movement on each. Her eyes and hands were totally focused on what she was doing, but she held a conversation with me. Like I was a person. Like I was more than an asset to a hockey team. More than a million dollar check down the drain.

"There's this story about a guy who was outside during a tornado," Fallon had said, "and the thing is—you'd think he died, right?"

"…Right?" I'd said, laughing a bit when she moved to the other side of the room, grabbing a resistance band. She maneuvered me into position, looping the band around my ankle and telling me to pull against it. But as I went through the exercise, I focused on her.

"Wrong," she'd declared, as though she was my professor and so, so disappointed I'd chosen the incorrect answer. "He was hit with something—knocked out. His body went completely limp while he was flying around up in there, and because of that, he didn't get hurt. Landed miles away, woke up a little sore, but okay."

"Is that true?" I'd asked, incredulous. For some reason, I really wanted it to be true. It felt like, if there was some guy out there who had survived being picked up in a tornado, I could survive being injured and missing my rookie season in the NHL.

"I have no idea," she'd laughed, the sound soft and musical, sending a warmth through me I hadn't expected. "It's a story my roommate told me, so probably not. But the point still stands—it's tensing up that causes the most problems. If you learn to relax, you'll be okay. Probably."

I'd been bouncing around from therapist to therapist, going through different clinics and meeting different top-dollar, sports-licensed professionals who ensured me I'd be healed and back on the ice in a certain number of days or weeks. None of it felt careful, or genuine. It just felt like they wanted to offer a guarantee not considering further injury. And no matter how closely I followed the regimen, at the end of the day, my leg only felt worse. Achy and tired.

Just like me.

Then, I met Fallon, and she had no idea who I was. There were no widened eyes, or raised eyebrows when she walked into the room and greeted me. She'd picked up the clipboard, read through the notes and said, "Male, twenty-three, leg injury. So, you're an athlete, huh? What sport do you play?"

I'd stared back at her, astounded. Most people—especially in Burlington—were pretty keyed-in to news about the team. To news about me, and what an irresponsible idiot I'd been to get on a water ski before the start of the last season.

Fallon is the reason I came back in time for the championship game, healthy and ready to go. She's part of the reason the Vipers won the Stanley Cup two years in a row, and nobody even knows it.

"Hey, man," someone says, and I break out of my reverie, looking up to see Devon come to a stop in front of me. We're running through handling drills, and I skate down the length of the rink, juggling the puck as he tries to take it from me.

"Hey," I say, grinning, "how's the fiancée?"

"Don't try to distract me, asshole," Devon says, not looking up from the puck, and just about getting it away from me multiple times.

"I'm making polite conversation," I return, before sticking my tongue out the side of my mouth, focusing on the movement of my stick, the puck. My favorite thing about hockey is when my brain just turns off, and I become fluid, moving with the flow of play without having to think everything through.

It's when my brain is turned on that I get into trouble. Overthink things. Act too quickly.

We make it to the other end of the rink and get in line, breathing hard. Devon lifts his helmet to wipe sweat off his brow, staring me down.

"The fiancée is doing well," he says, a grin rolling over his face slowly. "And speaking of that—"

We're cut off again as it's our turn to skate down the rink, and this time he gets the puck out from under me, whipping it to the other side of the ice.

"Focus, Waterski!" Coach yells.

I nod in his direction, the slight still stinging.

"Damn," I say, under my breath when we get to the wall. "You gotta make me look bad?"

"Look, kid," Devon says, turning to me, "last season was fun and all, but I'm not looking to carry the team again this year. You need to step up, and if that's going to happen, I clearly need to whip you into shape."

"I'm—"

Once again, it's our turn to run the drill. We stop talking and get to work, me trying to keep the puck, Devon trying to take it from me. When we get to the other end, we're both gasping.

"I'm thinking of retiring soon," Devon says, before I can open my mouth. "I want to spend more time with my family, be there to see my kid growing up, you know? And I want to make sure I leave this team in good hands. You have to be those good hands. This season needs to be all about Brett Ratcliffe, and how he rose to the challenge."

Coach Aldine blows the whistle, and we break for water.

"Yeah," I mutter, swinging my stick at my side. "No pressure."

Devon skates away toward Coach and I move over to my water bottle, only to discover that it's dry as a bone. Yet another thing I forgot to do this morning when I woke up.

I wave over one of the team managers and ask her to fill my bottle for me. She gives me a flirty smile and I return it, but my heart isn't in it. Something hasn't felt right for weeks now—honestly, for the whole year. Ever since I saw that water ski and hopped on, knowing in the back of my mind that something terrible might happen.

Three hours later, Aldine blows the whistle again, and we all skate to the middle of the rink. He talks through our strategy for the next game, tells us about the film-watching session we're to attend, then calls it a night.

When I walk out of the practice arena, the town is in full swing. I head down the street toward the parking spot I was forced to take, cursing under my breath about the full arena lot. As I pass the coffee shop, the warmth and hum of late-night pumpkin spice and the poetry reading inside drift toward me, tempting, but I keep walking.

The bookstore next door is decorated with black cats and jack-o-lanterns, and a local restaurant advertises a squash soup and pecan pie cheesecake.

When I was a kid, fall was my favorite season. Now, it just feels like the beginning of another grind. I finish my walk to the car and throw my gear in the back, sinking into the driver's seat. I punch the address for the physical therapist's office into the car's navigation, then remember that Fallon wasn't in today.

Pulling up my calendar on my phone, I see that the appointment was rescheduled for tomorrow morning, before practice. It's silly, but my heart sinks at the thought of waiting that long.

I lower my phone, sighing and looking out the windshield. It's sad when a doctor's appointment becomes the highlight of the week. I know that.

Dropping my phone onto the passenger seat, I shift into drive and follow the winding, private roads out of town, into the exclusive hills toward the sleek, modern house I bought with its sprawling glass windows and towering fence.

When my phone rings, I hit the button quick to answer it.

"Grace?"

"Hey," she says, breathless, a laugh caught on her voice. "I only have a second! But I just wanted to tell you I did it! I made varsity!"

"That's great," I say, the genuine happiness blooming in my chest. "That's—"

When I round another curve, driving into a dead zone, the call drops. By the time I get back to my place, Grace has already texted me again, saying she can call me later.

After parking my car, and trying not to be disappointed, I watch the gate slide shut with a quiet hum, the smooth mechanism more elegant that most homes. Still, it feels like it's locking me in rather than keeping the world out.

Grabbing my things, I walk inside, spinning in a circle and throwing my duffel bag on the floor behind the couch.

"Honey!" I call, wandering into the kitchen. I find half of a burrito from yesterday in the fridge and pull it out, stuffing it in the microwave.

While it cooks, I put my hands to my mouth and shout, "I'm home!"

My voice echoes back to me, and for a brief, pathetic moment, I almost wish a home intruder would call back to me.

When the microwave beeps, I jump, then sigh and take the food out. I walk with it to the couch, throw on the TV, and engage in the nightly ritual I've been completing since my accident a year ago.