42. Sean

42

Sean

I blink my eyes open, the antiseptic sting of hospital air hitting me before the fluorescent lights drill into my brain like a bad joke at a goalie's expense. Everything’s a blur—my head’s spinning faster than a puck in overtime. There's a crowd around my bed—Pops, Aubrey, faces swimming in and out of focus. The tension is so thick you could slice it with a skate.

Pops is the first to speak, his voice a strange mix of relief and sternness. "Thank God you're awake, kid. We've been worried sick."

Aubrey squeezes my hand, her eyes brimming with tears but also a spark of relief. "You scared us to death. How are you feeling?"

I try to speak, my throat dry and voice barely a whisper. "Like I've been hit by a truck. What... what happened?"

“Sean, what the hell were you thinking?” Pops growls, the words sharp, each one hitting like a slap shot.

“Wha—?” My throat feels like I’ve swallowed the hockey rink whole. Everything’s a mess, and I can't string together where I am or why.

Pops goes on. “You were in an accident, son. You got behind the wheel when you shouldn’t have. We need to talk about what led to this.”

Aubrey's next to him, tears streaking her face.

“Sean, why?” Her voice breaks, and it cuts through me worse than any check into the boards. “Why would you do something so stupid?”

I’m trying to gather my wits, still catching up. “It wasn’t pain meds,” I manage to get out, the room spinning slightly as I prop myself up on my elbows.

Pops’ face doesn’t change, and Aubrey’s tears don’t stop; if anything, they fall faster.

“You should have been more careful. You should have asked, done something...” She’s gasping between words, and it feels like I’ve just missed the game-winning goal.

“It’s these herbal treatments from the coach,” I try to explain, feeling like I’m defending a lead in the last minute of play. “I thought they were safe.”

Pops shakes his head, disbelief etched deep into his frown. “You thought wrong, and it could’ve cost you more than a game.”

The room is filled with a heavy silence, like the air right before a faceoff. I look at each of them, the disappointment, the worry, the fear. And it hits me—this isn’t just about hockey. This is about them, us, our little team at home.

“I didn’t... I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The fight’s gone out of me, left in the locker room, maybe. “I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. Therapy, rehab, whatever—I’m in.”

Aubrey sniffs, wiping her eyes, and Dad just nods slowly.

The door creaks open, and in walk Coach McDaniels and Sam Cortez, their faces drawn with concern. The room's tension ratchets up a notch, as if we're all waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

"Sean, it's good to see you awake," Coach McDaniels starts. "We've been worried about you, son."

Sam nods vigorously alongside him, his usual upbeat demeanor shadowed by the gravity of the situation.

"Yeah, hearing you were in here gave us all a scare. Really glad you’re okay, man. And the rest of the team’s glad, too," he adds, genuine relief threading through his words.

Their collective sigh of relief almost echoes through the room, momentarily lightening the load of the heavy air, setting the stage for what feels like a much-needed timeout in an intense game.

Sam steps forward, his eyes locking with mine. "When I heard about the accident, I feared the worst," he starts, his voice thick with regret. "I should have been clearer about the herbal injection I gave you. It contains a strong natural muscle relaxant. I assumed you were going to catch a ride back with Jake."

I can see he’s genuinely upset, his apology coming from a place of deep concern. "I'm really sorry, man. This is on me."

Coach McDaniels, usually all gruff and game plans, softens a bit as he takes over the conversation. "I've spoken with Sam here, and he's filled me in about the shoulder pain you've been dealing with," he says, his tone unusually gentle, reminding me of how he sounded when my dad first brought me to practice as a kid. "Considering everything, and especially with this recent scare, I'm making the call to bench you for the rest of the season."

I start to protest, ready to argue that I can handle a few more games, my good hand already clenching into a fist at my side. The familiar burn of frustration rises in my chest, but he holds up a hand, stopping me mid-breath.

"It's not just about this season, Sean," McDaniels continues, leaning forward in his chair, his weathered face etched with concern that makes my stomach twist. "I need you to focus on healing. That shoulder of yours isn't just a minor injury; it's a ticking time bomb, and I won't have you blowing your future on my watch. You're benched, effective immediately. And before you try to negotiate - this isn't up for discussion. I've already cleared it with management."

It feels like a gut punch, worse than any check into the boards I've ever taken, the kind that leaves you gasping and seeing stars. My shoulder throbs in bitter agreement, a constant reminder of just how fucked I really am. But deep down, past the anger and frustration burning in my chest, part of me knows he's right. Playing through the pain isn't proving toughness anymore; it's risking everything I've worked my whole life to achieve.

I nod, resigned, my throat tight with emotions I refuse to let surface. "Yeah. OK. Season's over. Got it." The words taste like ash in my mouth, but there's no fight left in me today.

Coach McDaniels claps me on the back—a bit gingerly, given the circumstances—and Sam gives me a nod, his face still etched with worry. My trainer's eyes linger on my shoulder a moment too long before he turns away. They leave shortly after, their footsteps echoing down the hallway, and somehow the room feels emptier despite their departure. The silence that settles in weighs heavier than their concern ever did.

I'm fuming, the hot anger in my veins burning brighter than the pain throbbing through my shoulder. I can't believe this—my career hanging by a thread and here they are, treating me like I'm some junkie who carelessly tossed his life and family aside. The frustration is too much. "I need to be alone," I bark out, the words sharper than I intend.

Dad hesitates, his mouth parting as if to launch into another lecture or perhaps another wave of disappointment. But instead, he claps a hand on my good shoulder——gentle, like I'm a rookie again—a silent, supportive gesture that speaks louder than any words we've exchanged today. He doesn't leave right away, his eyes searching mine for something, maybe reassurance or a sign I'm still in there somewhere. After a moment, he nods slowly, understanding or accepting, I can't tell which, and then he walks out, his final words echoing softly, "I'll be here when you're ready to talk."

The door clicks shut, and it's just Aubrey and me. She lingers by the bed, her presence a steady calm in the storm that's my life right now. She starts softly, "Sean, I'm sorry," pausing as if searching for the right way to continue. "But let’s be honest, your recent behavior hasn’t exactly polished your halo." Her attempt at lightening the mood falls flat, and she sighs, shifting closer.

"But more than anything, we were all just scared. Not just me, but Luke too," she adds, her voice lowering to a whisper, pressing the reality of my actions back into focus. Her fingers twist nervously in her lap, a tell I've come to recognize when she's holding back stronger emotions. "He kept asking if you were going to be okay, if you needed a special doctor like when he had his ear infection."

Her words slice through the anger, carving out a hollow space filled with regret. I've messed up, badly, and not just in my head. The pain medication bottles hidden in my drawer feel like they're burning through the wood, accusatory evidence of my spiral. "Luke was worried?" I manage to ask, the image of my son's concerned face more painful than any physical injury. My shoulder throbs, a reminder of why we're here.

"Yes," she nods, reaching out to take my hand, her touch grounding. Her thumb traces small circles on my skin, a gesture so intimate it makes my chest ache. "He doesn't understand everything that's going on, but he knows his uncle was hurt." The emphasis on 'uncle' twists like a knife, reminding me of all the lies still between us.

The weight of her words settles heavy on my chest. The room feels smaller, tighter, as I realize the ripple effects of my actions. The walls seem to close in, matching the suffocating guilt. "I need to fix this," I whisper, more to myself than to her, a pledge to the little boy waiting for his dad to come home whole. My free hand clenches into a fist, determination warring with the fear of failure.

Aubrey plants her feet, her commitment clear as she cuts through my fog of self-pity and frustration. "I'm staying tonight, Sean. Like it or not." Her voice carries that no-nonsense edge I've come to both adore and dread. "Luke's taken care of, and I'm here for you. We're going to see you through this and get you home."

I'm too stunned to argue, too raw to even muster the stubbornness that usually defines me. The idea of her sticking by me, even now, knits something warm in the cold expanse of worry stretching inside me.

"And when you're ready to start getting your life on track," she continues, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that pins me in place, "to be the dad and the man I know you can be, I'll be right here." Her voice softens, a soothing contrast to the harsh beeps and sterile smells surrounding us.

I open my mouth, then close it, words failing me. She pulls up a chair, settles down, and we're enveloped in a thick silence, the kind that's heavy with words unspoken and promises yet to be made.

As the quiet stretches between us, I turn my head to look at her. She's a steadfast presence, a lighthouse in the chaos that's become my life. The realization that my hockey career might indeed be over begins to sink in, not with the sharp sting of a fresh wound, but with the dull ache of an old scar.

"Yeah," I finally whisper, the word a fragile thread of resolve. "I've got a lot to fix."

Aubrey reaches out, her hand finding mine, squeezing gently. "We've got time, Sean. We'll figure this out. Together."

The End