25. Lila

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 torn something . 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—but I'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.

But when I was in this much pain—when it hurt to move my knee at all—it was hard to imagine ever lacing up my skates again. Just the thought of putting weight on it made me want to start crying again.

And God, I hated that I'd cried on the ice. One reporter had written a scathing article a couple of years ago about how women weren't suited for hockey, and their tears over injuries were exactly why. He'd waxed poetic about players in the men's league gritting their teeth through all kinds of awful pain, still remaining stoic even when they had to leave the game or go to the hospital. Then he'd included pictures of a few players from the WHPL, as well as one from the Olympics and one from major juniors (which was a kid, for Christ's sake), each showing a player in tears after an injury.

Never mind that there were reams of videos and images of male hockey players crying. Anything from a serious injury to an emotional retirement speech to a devastating loss or emotional win. Hell, one of the guys had choked up during a press conference when he found out—in front of the cameras—that his best friend had just been traded. Toxic masculinity was definitely present and accounted for in men's hockey, but there was no hockey without emotion, and sometimes emotion included tears. Nobody even cared. I mean, there was no faster way to reduce an entire arena of fans to sobbing than for a legendary player to tear up while making his final lap around the ice before retiring.

But yeah, we girls were too weak and emotional because Lisa Brewer cried after breaking her shoulder, Kolleen Gray shed some tears after a puck fractured her cheekbone, and Elsa Karlsson—who was fifteen —cried after a collision left her with three cracked ribs.

Whatever.

It was stupid, but it stuck with me, and all I could think now was that the video and images of me wiping away tears were filtering their way onto the social media of that reporter and his fans. That there were already posts about how I was evidence that women were too soft and delicate for this sport.

I didn't know why that was bothering me so much tonight. Maybe it was because fixating on whether or not someone cared about me crying was a lot less scary than wondering if I'd played my last game of hockey tonight.

I closed my eyes and rubbed them. This was hell. Couldn't they just come give me the prognosis? Like… now?

Except I also didn't want to know. I was afraid to know.

So I just focused on how much I didn't want to start crying again. Because in that moment… Fuck. I felt like breaking.

There was a knock at the door, and then a nurse peeked in. "Ms. Hamilton? You have a visitor."

Clearing my throat, I sat up a little. "I do?"

"Yes. Sabrina?"

That was the first good news I'd heard all night. "Send her in. Please."

The nurse disappeared, and then Sabrina stepped in, dressed in the suit she'd worn to the game.

"Hey." Her eyes were wide with concern. "How are you feeling? Have they said how bad it is?"

She reached out to me, but I put up a hand.

"I… still smell like the game."

Sabrina rolled her eyes and gently knocked my hand out of the way. "I don't care." Then she hugged me, and suddenly I didn't care either. I buried my face against her neck and held on for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as relief came my way for the first time since I'd gone down. Hot tears came too, but I just didn't care. Sabrina was here. She wouldn't give me grief for being emotional right now.

I was so damn glad she was here. So damn relieved. Especially since—

My brain caught up, and I drew back. "Wait, shouldn't you be at the airport?" The team had to be on their way there right now.

Sabrina grimaced. "I've got a flight first thing in the morning. I told Coach I wanted to be here with you, at least for tonight."

My stomach knotted with guilt. "But you need to sleep. You'll be exhausted and jetlagged when you get to—"

Her soft lips stopped mine. "I'm not going anywhere. It's a short flight. I'll be fine."

I let my shoulders slump. "I guess it's good I didn't do this right before a West Coast road trip."

Sabrina kissed my forehead, then eased down on the edge of the bed, sitting beside my uninjured leg. She gripped my hand tight. "I just wish I could stay beyond tomorrow morning."

Shaking my head, I whispered, "No. The team needs you."

"But I need to be with you."

I didn't know what to say to that. And as much as I didn't want the team to be without her—without their captain—I was so relieved she was here with me.

It did give me pause, though, and I squeezed her hand. "People will figure us out, you know. The public, I mean. That we're…"

Her soft, tired smile shut me up. Rubbing her thumb along mine, she said, "I'm not worried about it."

"You're not?"

She shook her head. "No. I wasn't going to broadcast it on social media or tell that weird reporter five minutes after we got together, but I mean, the team knows. If other people find out…" She trailed off and shrugged. "I'm more concerned about being here for you than about keeping us a secret."

At that, I relaxed a little. "Thank you for coming." I moistened my lips. "How, um… How did the rest of the game go?"

"It was a hell of a grind, but we pulled it off."

My spirits brightened minutely. "Yeah? What was the final score?"

"2-0." She smiled. "Sims got a gorgeous empty netter."

I managed a laugh. "Good. She's been losing her mind that she hadn't scored a goal yet."

"She has a truckload of assists, though."

"Yeah, but you know how it is."

Pursing her lips, she nodded. "Yeah. Well, she's got one now. And she got a primary assist on my goal."

I laughed. "Why am I not surprised you scored?"

She just smiled, leaned down, and kissed my forehead.

I was glad the team had held it together, and that my defensive partner had rallied too. I knew from experience how easy it was to shake apart after my D partner had been carted off to the hospital. That she'd managed a primary assist and a goal—empty net or otherwise—meant she hadn't spiraled like I'd done in the past. I could definitely breathe easier now knowing I hadn't thrown her off her game.

Sabrina continued filling me in on the game, which lifted my spirits a lot. It was good for the soul, listening to her tell me about Laws chirping at one of the opposing players until she goaded her into throwing a punch, and how Anya had made two highlight-reel saves during the third period.

"I'm not surprised the officials reviewed that second one." Sabrina shook her head. "We all thought the puck went in. I mean, most of Anya went in! But when they showed the video review…" She whistled. "I don't know how, but she kept that puck from crossing the line."

"Wow," I said with a laugh. "Where was it?"

"Caught between her skate and her pad. She said afterward she wasn't even sure if she'd felt it, but she was pretty sure that was where it was. Sure enough…"

"Jesus." The goalies had almost no peripheral vision and could barely feel anything through their gear. "I'll bet Seattle wasn't happy about that."

Sabrina laughed and shook her head. "I'm surprised their coach didn't get ejected, honestly. She's about as chill as any head coach, but oh my God…"

"What did she expect the officials to do, though? Make an exception when the puck didn't cross the line?"

"I think she was convinced it did cross the line, but Anya nudged it back over."

"Oh for God's sake."

"I know, right? So the refs threatened to eject her, and we got a power play because of the bench penalty for unsportsmanlike. Kind of tilted the ice in our favor after that, but they still made us work for it."

"Those assholes."

"Seriously." She scowled playfully, then laughed. Sobering, she reached into her suit jacket and took out her phone. "Oh, and Detroit was losing last time I checked." She peered at the screen and tapped it a few times. Then her face lit up as she showed me the phone. "Looks like the hockey gods are working in our favor tonight."

I looked at the screen.

Detroit: 2

Albuquerque: 5

Time remaining: 0:32

I laughed as I relaxed back against the pillows. "I mean, stranger things have happened, but down by three with thirty-two seconds left? Looks like that winning streak is probably over."

"Let's hope. They've been—oh, they just scored." She frowned at the screen. "They'd better not turn that around…"

"Oh crap. Did I just jinx us?"

"Probably."

I rolled my eyes and laughed. Then she leaned closer and turned the screen so we could both watch. We couldn't see the game play out, but the League's app showed the timer, who had possession, and the score, so we could at least keep up.

The acronym EN appeared beside Detroit, indicating they now had an empty net.

"Ooh, they pulled their goalie," I murmured. "Think it'll help?"

"Maybe." We watched the time tick down.

Then Albuquerque's score changed to 6. A second later, the player's name popped up with ENG, indicating she'd scored an empty net goal.

With four seconds left on the clock.

We watched the last four tick down, then cheered quietly (we were in a hospital, after all). Our team still wasn't out of the woods yet—there were still plenty of games left, and it was still statistically possible for us to get knocked out of the playoffs—but we had a little more breathing room than we had earlier.

We. As if I'd be playing alongside the Pittsburgh Bearcats again this season.

"Hey." Sabrina took my hand. "What's wrong?"

I sighed and met her gaze. "It's probably a safe bet that the Bearcats are going to the playoffs. But…" I gestured at my leg. "Somehow I don't think I am."

Sabrina frowned. "The important thing for you is to get better. We can take it from here."

"I know you can. But I don't want to leave the team in a lurch."

She was already shaking her head. "You're not. You played a key part in getting us this far. We wouldn't be where we are in the standings without you." She squeezed my hand and softly said, "We'll hold down the fort while you get better."

I smiled even as a lump rose in my throat. "You better. I did all that work, so…"

That made her laugh and roll her eyes, which helped to soothe that lump.

Right then, there was a knock at the door, and a second later, the doctor came in. My humor vanished along with the threat of tears, and I was suddenly in semi-panicked mode. This was it, and the doctor's grim expression wasn't promising.

"Well, we've got your results back, Ms. Hamilton." She turned on a flatscreen monitor and pulled up a few black-and-white images. I was more or less familiar with what a knee MRI looked like, but hell if I could actually decipher them.

"The good news," she said, "is that you didn't tear your ACL."

I released some of my breath. Not all of it, though, because I could hear the "but…" hanging in the air. "What's the bad news?"

The doctor gestured at one of the images. "You're looking at a grade three tear of the medial collateral ligament."

"The—" My brain caught up, and my heart sank. A torn MCL. Just what I needed. "Grade three? How bad is that?"

Her expression remained grim. "It's a complete tear. Honestly, I'm surprised your ACL didn't tear along with it—you don't usually see an MCL tear like this without additional tearing elsewhere."

I swallowed. "Oh. Guess I should… Guess I should buy a lottery ticket, then."

"I would."

Oh. Hell. I'd been joking, but… okay.

As much as I wasn't sure I could stomach the answer, I asked anyway: "Am I going to be able to play hockey again?"

The doctor was quiet long enough that I could already feel the crushing devastation setting in. This was it, wasn't it? My career was over. I'd finally done enough damage that there was no going back.

What do I do now?

I'd spent a lot of time last season wondering what post-hockey life would look like, and I still hadn't figured it out. Now I had to do it all the fuck over again. With the playoffs so close I could taste it.

I swept my tongue across my lips. "Am I still going to be able to play hockey?"

Her expression stayed grim. "You're looking at a lengthy recovery. At least six weeks after surgery before I would recommend even thinking about skating. Most likely longer."

"But I'll recover?" I asked. "Enough to play hockey?"

She pursed her lips. "I don't want to make promises based on future predictions. We won't know the full extent of the damage until we're operating, and there's always the possibility of setbacks and complications. It is absolutely possible you will recover enough to return to playing professional hockey. It's also possible that you won't." Shaking her head, she softly added, "We just won't know until you get there."

I closed my eyes and pushed out a breath through my nose. I'd been around this block enough times that I knew her answers were the best she could offer. There were no guarantees in medicine. I knew players who'd come back from injuries that should've had them permanently sidelined, and others who'd had their careers ended by things that should've been easy to bounce back from. The human body was a mystery sometimes. A mystery and a shitshow.

"I'll write you a referral to an orthopedic surgeon," she went on. "The sooner you have surgery, the better your chances of a full recovery."

"Thanks," I said numbly.

She answered a few more questions for me, then left, and for the first time, I wished Sabrina hadn't come to the hospital. I wanted to crash and burn and wallow in self-pity and the possibility that the life I'd worked so hard to build was over. I wanted to be angry and devastated without anyone telling me things would be okay. Because there was a very good chance things wouldn't be okay, and I deserved to be pissed off about that for a while.

Sabrina got up and eased herself down on the edge of the bed. "Come here," she whispered, and wrapped her arms around me, drawing me in to lean against her.

I squeezed my stinging eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she stroked my hair. "This really sucks."

That hit me harder than a bullshit platitude would have, and I couldn't hold back the tears. The whole time I cried, she just held on. She didn't tell me it would be okay. She didn't tell me to stay strong or to think positive. She just kept stroking my hair and holding me together while I fell apart.

And despite wishing momentarily that she didn't see me like this…

I was grateful beyond words that she was here.

I should've been used to watching my own team's games on TV while I was home with my knee in a brace. That was how I'd spent most of last season.

It was different this time, though. Harder. I missed the game, but I missed my teammates even more. Especially Sabrina.

She stayed with me as much as she could. When the team was in town, I had both her and Faith helping me out. When they were on the road, I was on my own, though Euli's wife was amazing about helping me get to and from doctor appointments.

My surgery had gone well. The orthopedist was optimistic that they'd repaired my MCL, and they hadn't discovered any additional damage in the process. I'd have another post op appointment in a week, and depending on how that went, I'd start steadily rehabbing.

I wasn't going to play again this season, though. I'd known that as soon as I'd gone down, and every medical professional in a fifty-mile radius had been sure to drive the point home. I might be ready for training camp, but that was far from a guarantee.

Fuck my life.

It was like watching my career going on without me. I'd had that feeling last season, too, but this time it had the added sting of watching my girlfriend from a million miles away.

In the beginning, I'd been so bitter and irritated that we were on the same team, constantly in each other's vicinity. Now I was a mess watching her on TV. I wanted her here .

No, that wasn't it. I wanted to be there . With her. Playing hockey alongside her. Sharing fist bumps on the bench and psyching each other up in the locker room, and then sitting together on the plane or curling up together in the hotel.

Now we were days away from the playoffs. Detroit had made a hell of a push to snatch the third place spot in the standings, but Pittsburgh had also rallied and jumped up to second, with both teams knocking Cleveland clear down to the first wild card spot.

Tomorrow night was the final regular season game. Next week, the playoffs would start.

And I wouldn't be there.

Well, I would be. I'd be in the owners' box along with some of the other injured players, sitting high up above the action and cheering helplessly while the game went on without me.

I'd get to see Sabrina before and after games, but only briefly. She'd be flying back and forth between Pittsburgh and Detroit for alternating games. If Pittsburgh won that series, then it would be another week or more of the same with another city. It could be a solid month before the season ended.

I wanted Pittsburgh to go all the way. If we could—if they could hoist the Cup in our first season, that would be amazing.

But I wouldn't lie—I would miss my girlfriend.

Worse… a month or so of barely seeing each other when we'd only been dating for a few weeks? Would she even still be interested in me after that?

Fuck. That was just what I needed. Lose my career and my girlfriend all at once.

The thing was, hockey was Sabrina's life. And professional hockey kind of made itself every player's life anyhow. The schedule was intense. The travel was constant. It was well-known throughout both the men's league and ours that being a hockey spouse was hard because of that. Some people thought, oh boohoo, you're the wife of a millionaire pro athlete—cry me a river . Not that anyone was a millionaire in our league, but even the spouses of the highest paid players in the men's league had to sleep alone more often than not for most of the year. Giant rocks, enormous houses, and piles of money only made up for so much of that.

Most of them made it work. I didn't know how happy they were, but they usually stuck it out one way or the other.

It probably helped that a lot of them had been together since high school. They had history. They'd made it through the U16 and major junior and college years. The pro hockey life had all the bullshit of those years with a sweet paycheck to make it all worthwhile.

Sabrina and I… we didn't have history. Not as girlfriends, anyway. Not even friends.

Burrowing deep in my gut was a cold fear and a miserable resignation that Sabrina wasn't coming back.

Oh, she'd be back in Pittsburgh. When the team came back, so would she.

But how much time would she spend with me?

She could be training. Skating. Working out. Running. Flying out. Flying back. Living her damn life.

Where was there room for the prickly asshole who'd thought the worst of her, grudgingly let her in, and given her a few short weeks of sex and togetherness before being laid up?

"Okay, someone's getting up in her own head." Faith's voice pulled me back into the present, and I peered up at her as she stepped into the living room. "What's wrong?"

"Besides everything?" I replied testily. Then I felt bad for snapping at her. "Just… this all sucks. My leg. Not playing hockey." I sighed. "Being away from Sabrina."

Faith watched me sympathetically as she eased herself down on the couch beside me. "Yeah. It does suck." She inclined her head. "And isn't it time for you to take another painkiller?"

I made an admittedly pathetic noise. My leg was aching, as were all the other muscles that didn't like sitting still this long. "I hate what they do to my head."

"I know you do. But you need to stay ahead of the pain."

"It isn't that bad." Not entirely a lie. "I'm good."

"Don't try to power through it. It'll just make your recovery longer." She paused. "Take half a pill now? See how you feel?"

I chewed the inside of my cheek, then nodded. "Okay. Half a pill."

She picked up my pill bottle off the coffee table and disappeared into the kitchen.

Rubbing my forehead, I exhaled. She was right and I knew it, but I still didn't like taking these stupid things. I was also scared to death of getting hooked on them. Nobody wanted to talk about how often that happened in hockey, but I'd watched it play out with my own eyes before. I didn't want to go down that road.

The cushions shifted beside me. "Lila. Look at me."

I turned to Faith, eyebrows up.

She reached over and squeezed my arm. "I know why you don't like taking them. But you should manage your pain."

"It's fine," I said. "I think I just overdid it a little yesterday."

"That's on-brand."

I managed a laugh, if a halfhearted one. Truth was, I hadn't done much yesterday, but I was supposed to be doing a lot less . Getting up and walking around on my crutches was good, especially to avoid blood clots and other unwelcome things like that, but I'd probably done more moving around than I should have. I couldn't help it—I was restless. I was a hockey player. I didn't do sitting around waiting for something to heal.

I dutifully took the pill she'd broken in half, though, washing it down with my water bottle. Then I blurted out one of the things that had been bothering me the most: "What if my career is over?"

Faith, like Sabrina, wasn't one for platitudes about how positive thinking and all that bullshit would get me back on my skates. "It could be over," she admitted. "But you won't know that for a while. Don't start grieving your career when you still might have it."

"But I want to be ready if I don't have it," I said.

"Fair enough." She studied me. "You know, a career-ending injury isn't the same as a life-ending one."

I chewed my lip and nodded. She knew of what she spoke—her own career had ended abruptly thanks to a neck injury. She could still skate, and she still did great as a skills coach, but full-contact and full-speed play was off the table for her.

"I know it isn't," I said quietly. "I just… don't know what to do next."

"It's a tough thing to figure out," she admitted. "And I won't lie—I still miss being able to play. The adjustment period sucked. I won't blow smoke up your ass and tell you you'll magically be okay with not being okay enough to play hockey."

Closing my eyes, I exhaled. That was surprisingly liberating. Sometimes all I needed to hear was that I didn't have to be happy with the cards life dealt me. After a moment, I faced her. "I'm also worried about what this is going to do to me and Sabrina."

Faith's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" I told her everything I'd thought about earlier, with Sabrina's demanding schedule and being separated as much as we were. "Even when she's home, there's no guarantee we'll see each other. Sometimes she just needs to sleep, you know?"

Faith nodded.

"I'm just… I'm afraid she'll… I don't know if saying she'll forget about me is the right way to describe it, but that's what it feels like."

It sounded so stupid when I said it out loud, and I cringed, expecting Faith to roll her eyes and tell me what a dumbass I was.

Instead, my friend regarded me silently for a long moment. Then she reached over and clasped my hand in hers. "Don't take this as me telling you this all in your mind or you're imagining things, okay? But one thing I learned when I hurt my neck was that sometimes, when you're dealing with a crisis"—she tipped her head toward my leg—"it can seem a lot bigger than it is. Like it's going to last forever and never get better and everyone around you is going to leave you behind."

I swallowed hard. It did feel like that—like this was never going to end, and I was always going to be in post-op limbo.

"It also makes everything else seem bigger," she went on, keeping her voice as gentle as her grasp on my hand. "It isn't because you're being dramatic or projecting or whatever—it's because you already have so much on your plate, even adding some minor stress is overwhelming."

"So… straws and camels' backs."

"Exactly. So I suspect that while you're here worrying that Sabrina is going to forget about you, or that a few weeks of not seeing much of each other will be something you can't come back from…" Faith offered a soft smile. "Your girlfriend is probably just counting the hours until she can be with you again."

My throat tightened around my breath, and I avoided my friend's gaze.

She gave my hand another squeeze. "Remember, there's two people in this relationship. It's not just you. If Sabrina is worth being your girlfriend, then she also understands that she has to pull her weight too. I mean, if she was injured, would you expect her to be putting a hundred percent into the relationship?"

"I…" Some warmth rushed into my face as I sheepishly admitted, "No. Of course not."

"Right. And right now, you're in a position where you have to focus a lot of energy on recovering while she's focusing her energy on the playoffs. Neither of those things a forever. You give her space and understanding while she concentrates on hockey for a few weeks. If she's the kind of girlfriend I think she is, she'll do the same while you're recovering."

"God, I hope you're right."

"Pfft. I'm always right."

That brought a laugh out of me that gave me more relief than anything this pain pill could. "I'm going to ask your wife about that."

"Don't you dare." She let go of my hand and huffed melodramatically.

I snickered, but as I sobered, I said, "Maybe I should suggest we go somewhere after the playoffs. Like take a vacation. You know, so we have something to look forward to together?"

Faith's smile was gentle and sincere. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

I released a relieved sigh. "Okay. Okay, I'll do that." My head was getting a little foggy, though, so I added, "Maybe after this pill wears off."

Faith patted my arm. "Good idea. Get some rest."

I nodded.

And a few minutes later, tugged under by Percocet and not so wound up over my future with Sabrina, I was out cold.