21. Sean

21

Sean

The sun's barely up, and here I am, shoveling away in the stables like I'm gunning for the "Ranch hand of the Year" award. Jake's beside me, and between the smell of hay and horse, it's just another glorious day on the Ice Ranch.

Aubrey and Luke are back in Chicago, leaving a hole in my day-to-day. Funny how quick you get used to the chaos of family life.

"So, spill it. You look like a guy who's lost his favorite hockey stick. Missing Aubrey and the kid?" Jake nudges, not one to let a moment of sibling silence go by without poking the bear.

I chuckle, leaning on my shovel like it's the only thing keeping me upright. "Yeah, something like that. It's weird, you know? Never thought I'd be the type to miss the morning rush or the constant noise. But here I am, pining like a teenager."

Jake digs a little deeper. "And how's the whole 'settling down' thing treating you? You've been the poster boy for bachelor life since...well, forever."

I pause, considering his question. It's like trying to explain the offside rule to a baseball fan. "Honestly? It's like I've been thrown into a game with new rules. Aubrey's got this way of calling me out on my BS, holding me accountable. It's refreshing but also a total mind trip."

I start shoveling again, the rhythm giving me a beat to organize my thoughts. "I mean, my track record with women isn't exactly Hall of Fame material. They're usually more interested in the 'Sean Ice' experience than sticking around for the overtime."

Jake laughs, a sound that's half amusement, half sympathy. "So, what you're saying is, you're learning how to be a team player in the game of life, huh?"

"Exactly," I admit, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "Aubrey's the coach I never knew I needed, and Luke's like the rookie I've got to look out for. It's a whole new league for me, man. The bachelor life was one thing, but this? This is the majors."

We continue our stable duties in companionable silence, the early morning sun casting long shadows across the barn. It's a moment of reflection, of recognizing that the life I once lived—the parties, the endless string of no-strings-attached encounters, the absolute freedom—has been traded in for something infinitely more challenging and rewarding.

"Yeah," I say after a while, breaking the silence, "getting used to being part of a team, being someone's husband, someone's dad...it's going to take some adjustment. But if it means having Aubrey and Luke in my life? I'll lace up those skates and hit the ice running. Or, you know, shoveling."

Shoveling away, Jake throws me a curveball in the form of a compliment, "Aubrey seems like she's really good for you, man. You've got that 'grown-up Sean' vibe going on. It suits you."

Just as I'm about to thank him, my shoulder decides it's the perfect time to remind me of its existence, sending a jolt of pain sharp enough to cut through my pride. I wince, trying to mask it with a casual shrug, but Jake's eyes are like hawk's—misses nothing.

"Thanks, man. Aubrey's...she's something else. Really keeps me in line," I manage to say, steering the conversation away from my personal agony column.

But Jake, being the observant little brother he is, picks up on my discomfort. "You good, though? You looked like you just tried to check a ghost into the boards."

I chuckle, playing it down. "Nah, just tweaked my shoulder a bit at practice. No biggie."

His brow furrows, concern replacing the light banter. "The same shoulder? The one that nearly benched you for good?"

"Pure coincidence," I reply, keeping my voice light, but the lie tastes like ash. Jake nods, but I can tell he's not entirely convinced. He makes his exit with a parting shot about staying out of trouble, leaving me alone with my thoughts and an ever-growing dependence on pain pills.

As soon as he's out of sight, I reach for the bottle, the little white pills promising relief but delivering a whole host of problems I'm not keen to admit to. I down a couple more than I should, the guilt gnawing at me even as the pain begins to dull.

This can't go on. I know it, deep down where the truth doesn't need a scoreboard to make its point. The realization hits me like a slap shot—hard and unyielding. I need to see a doctor, get a game plan that doesn't involve numbing the pain until I can't feel anything else.

With Aubrey and Luke in my life, I can't afford to be sidelined by something as beatable as this. They deserve better, and frankly, so do I. The decision made, I pocket the pill bottle, a token of a battle I'm ready to face head-on.

"Time to get this sorted, once and for all," I say to myself, a vow made amidst the hay and horse scent of the stables. For my team, for my health, for my future—it's time to lace up and face this challenge with the determination of a final period playoff game.

***

Driving to Chicago feels like I'm heading into overtime with the game on the line. I've snagged myself an appointment under the name "Mike Fischer"—a nod to my secret life as a man desperate not to let his team down. Or let the minor league team catch wind of the state I'm in. They'd bench me faster than you can say "puck drop" if they knew.

The clinic's got that sterile, too-clean smell, and I'm sitting here trying to act like "Mike" is just a guy with a bad shoulder, not Sean Ice, teetering on the edge of a slippery slope.

"Mr. Fischer?" The doctor finally calls, a clipboard in hand, looking every bit the guy who's about to tell me news I'm not sure I want to hear.

"Call me Mike," I reply, offering a handshake that's firmer than I feel.

After a few preliminary questions, we get down to the brass tacks. "So, Mike, what brings you in today?" he asks, pen poised.

I launch into a tale about a 'recent injury' during a casual game of hockey with friends, downplaying my actual career. "Just took a bad hit, and the shoulder's been giving me grief ever since."

The doc nods, all business as he runs me through the motions, checking mobility, asking about pain levels—the whole nine yards. Finally, he steps back, his expression not exactly what I'd call reassuring.

"These kinds of injuries, they can linger, become a chronic issue if not addressed properly," he explains, and I'm already not liking where this is headed. "Given the symptoms and what I'm seeing, you're looking at a situation that could sideline you for more than just this season if you're not careful."

Great. Just what I needed to hear.

He suggests a cortisone shot for the immediate pain, a temporary fix but one that'll get me through the season. "And pain management," he adds, scribbling a prescription that feels a bit like a deal with the devil. "But I strongly advise against ignoring the underlying issue. You'll need to consider more definitive treatment post-season."

As I walk out of there, shot administered and prescription in hand, the weight of the doctor's words settles in. I'm playing a dangerous game, one where the stakes are my career, my health, and what I can offer to Aubrey and Luke.

Driving back, I'm caught between relief at the temporary reprieve and the gnawing realization that I'm only kicking the can down the road. The pain's dulled, but the problem's far from solved.

***

Two days post-doc visit, and it's like I'm back at square one. The pain, which had taken a brief hiatus courtesy of the cortisone, is crashing back into my life like an uninvited guest. I'm in the kitchen, attempting to help Emma with the cleanup. Attempting being the operative word here.

Emma, in her ever-patient manner, tries to give me some friendly advice on my dishwashing technique. Me, being Mr. Sensitive these days, snap at her like she's just suggested I play the next game blindfolded. Not my finest moment.

Emma, though, she's made of sterner stuff. "Whoa, what's got into you? That's way out of line," she fires back, her surprise clear. She's got that Aubrey vibe of not taking any crap, something I'm learning is a trait shared by the formidable women in my life.

I scramble for an excuse, landing on the one thing that's always been my go-to. "Just the season stress, you know? It gets to everyone." The words feel hollow even as they tumble out, a weak slapshot that doesn't even make it to the goal.

Emma's not buying it, her brows knitting together in concern rather than anger. "Since when do you stress about hockey? That's like saying a fish stresses about swimming. What's really eating at you, Sean?"

"Nothing," I insist, a little too quickly, a little too sharply. "I'm fine."

She sighs, leaning against the counter with a dish towel in hand. "Fine. Just remember, attitude isn't part of the recipe in this kitchen. But if you ever want to talk, for real, I'm here."

As she leaves me to my thoughts and the soapy battleground of dishes, I can't help but feel the weight of isolation settling in. Here I am, surrounded by family, by people who genuinely care, yet I've never felt more alone.

It's a strange dichotomy. On one hand, I've got this incredible support system—Aubrey, who's become my rock; Luke, who's given me a whole new perspective on life; and now Emma, offering an olive branch even after I nearly bite her head off. Yet, on the other, I'm trapped in this cycle of pain and pills, a cycle I know I need to break but can't seem to find the exit from.

I rinse off another dish, the water too hot, the pain a steady companion at my side. It's a reminder of the battles I'm facing, not just on the ice, but within myself. The season's pressures, the fear of letting my team down, the dread of being less than what Aubrey and Luke deserve—it all blends into a cocktail of stress I can't seem to shake.

In this moment, in the quiet of the kitchen with only my thoughts for company, I realize the game's changed. It's no longer just about hockey. It's about finding a way to heal, not just physically, but emotionally, too. Because if I don't, I risk losing more than just a season—I risk losing everything that truly matters.