12. Center Ice

CHAPTER 12

CENTER ICE

FRANCINE

Stefan takes a hard hit into the boards, his second of the night, face flaring with anger as he spins away. After orienting himself, he tracks down his assailant and offers him a high stick to the back. This isn't like Stefan, and I'm worried he's going to get himself something worse than a two minute penalty. When his opponent turns around, Stefan drops his gloves with a shake of his hands, squaring up and taking a swing.

Hyryck and Larsson get in on the action, trying to pull Stefan away, but he shakes them off as well. The officials wait out the fight rather than getting involved. Fists are flying, and both skaters are staying upright. I don't know how much longer either one can last before they're both exhausted. Finally, after what seems like an eternity on the ice, Stefan drops and the fight is over. The refs pull him and his opponent away from each other, all but dragging Stefan over to my box.

"Number fourteen, that's a ten minute misconduct."

Because of my injury, the league insisted that an on-ice official let the players into the box, and all I have to do is make sure they get out. It limits my movement and keeps me from putting too much weight on my knee. Stefan is about to serve his longest penalty of the season and he enters the box, he tosses his helmet to the floor, and tries to catch his breath.

"What has gotten into you?" I hiss, trying to keep things as professional as I can, almost certain we're on camera.

"I told you earlier, management turned down my request."

"This is about me? Stefan, we will figure things out, but this is not the way to handle it. I am not worth ruining your career for."

"Francine -"

"Stop. We'll talk about it off the ice."

The rest of his ten minutes is tense, but at least the Union don't have to play shorthanded in his absence. Finally, his ten minutes are up, and I send him back to the ice where he immediately skates off to the bench. Thankfully Stefan doesn't see the penalty box again during the game, but that doesn't mean he's off the hook.

We've been driving to and from work together, and usually I meet him near the player entrance, but tonight I wait for him in the penalty box, texting him to let him know where I'll be. Across the ice, Stefan steps into the union bench and, even in his charcoal slacks, black dress shirt, and dress shoes, he effortlessly jumps the boards onto the ice and crosses toward me. Opening my own door, I carefully step onto the ice myself.

"What are we doing here, Francine?" Stefan meets me at center ice.

"This is where you like to fight, so I thought we'd have it out here."

"Have what out?"

"Your misconduct tonight. I don't want you fighting because of me. At least, I don't want you fighting other skaters because of me. It's not worth it."

"It is – you are – worth it. Your family is still out of town, I'm about to go on a week long road trip with the team, and you're going to be having surgery. But you're not worth it?" Stefan's voice is raised, echoing in the empty, dimly lit, arena. "Francine, I don't want you to be left alone here while everyone who loves you is out of town. But fine, keep telling yourself you're not worth it."

Everyone who loves you.

Those words crash land in my brain and everything else is a blur.

"What…what did you say?"

"I don't want you to be alone…" He takes a step closer, reaching for my hand. "Not when someone who loves you is in another country."

"I love you too," I whisper, reaching out for his waist and steadying myself. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm mad at you for what you did tonight."

"There are more important things in my life than hockey and all I asked for is enough time off for your surgery and they can't even allow me that?" Stefan puts distance between us as he walks toward the penalty box, voice carrying.

"Stefan, that's the reality of our life in professional sports. I'll be here when you come home, and I won't be alone when you're gone. I have friends here. Friends who care for me and can stay with me if I need them to."

"You'll stay at my place," he says, as I walk toward where he leans against the door to the box. "No arguments."

"Stefan…"

"Stats."

"Fine. I'll stay at your place. But I'm not doing it for you, I'm doing it for Stevie."

"I'll take it," Stefan opens the door to the box and guides me inside, pointing me toward his usual spot on the bench. "I am sorry about tonight."

"I'm not the one you need to apologize to." I sit down, grateful to be off my feet.

"I talked to Chris at practice. He told me if I needed to blow off some steam, he was my guy." Stefan sits beside me stradling the bench and gently turns me to face him. "We played for Canada together a lifetime ago. He understood. Even thanked me for not breaking his nose. Again."

"Do I want to know?" I ask with a laugh, slinging my non-injured leg over the bench and scooting closer to him.

"I shot a puck at his face, it's not worth getting into right now. And he knocked out one of my teeth tonight, so I'd say we're even." Stefan's hands frame my face and his lips seal over mine. Wrapping my arms around him, I press my body to his, seeking his warmth. "Admit it, Stats," Stefan grins, revealing his now two missing teeth, "you love the toothless look."

"You make it work."

Stefan pulls me into his arms and kisses me again. Taking control and stealing my breath as he does. I may never look at the penalty box the same way after tonight.

"I've called this meeting of Team Francine so that we can all get on the same page before her upcoming Surgery," Stefan sits at a table in Donut Worry, across from Rachel, Malina, and me. "I'm going to be on the road with the team, and I'm counting on the two of you to take over in my absence."

"As if it would take both of us," Rachel says under her breath. "I'm more than capable on my own."

"What was that?" Stefan throws her a pointed look.

"Just that I have taken care of Franny a few times when she's been sick or aggravated her hip injury, and I think I know what I'm doing." Rachel leans forward, resting her forearms on the table between her and Stefan, staring him down. "You've been around for what, all of a week?"

"Rach," I settle a hand on her arm, "back off."

"It's been more than a week," Stefan backs down the tiniest bit, "but I've been taking care of her since this injury and know that she…"

"Is sitting right here," I interject. "And last I checked I can take care of myself. All I need is someone to pick me up, take me to the surgery center, and then bring me home."

"To my house." Stefan interrupts and I shoot him a ‘shut up if you know what's good for you' glare.

"Yes. To your house. And maybe stay with me for one night. Doctor Kahlid said, and Malina agreed, that I should be walking with crutches after a day, and ready for physical therapy in two. All I need is a ride there and back until I'm cleared to drive. So," I look at my people – my two closest friends, and the man I'm falling in love with – and give them all my most assertive face. "Team Francine would do well to remember that I am still a human being with bodily autonomy and can make decisions for her own care. Okay?"

"Okay," Stefan says, contrite.

"Sorry Franny," Rachel throws an arm over my shoulder. "I got carried away."

"I'd really like it if you two," I waggle a finger between Stefan and Rachel, "could get along. It doesn't have to be right away, but I don't want all this…whatever this weirdness is, okay?"

They both nod, and Rachel reaches across the table, offering a handshake to Stefan that he accepts with a nod.

"No more weirdness." Stefan assures me. "I'm just worried, that's all. I hate that I won't be with you."

"We'll take care of her, Morrow," Rachel says softly before turning to me, "while respecting her autonomy of course."

"Thank you." Stefan and I chorus in unison, breaking the tension that was settled over our table as Malina laughs and the rest of us join her.

"And I," Malina, who has been silent this whole time, finally chimes in, speaking directly to Stefan, "will make sure that these two don't kill each other."

"We'll be fine," Rachel offers with a fond laugh, "as long as Francine doesn't try to do too much, too soon."

"And as long as Rachel realizes that I can make that choice for myself."

After Stefan adjourns the unofficial meeting, we finally eat our donuts, and then he and I head back up to his house. It's still early in the evening, and an unseasonably warm March day, so he hooks Stevie up to her run in the open backyard, and we sit on the paved patio down by the water.

"So…" he starts, reaching for my hand and lacing our fingers together, "Rachel is…"

"An acquired taste?"

"I was going to say intense, but yes, she's also that."

"She cares very deeply for her people," I scoot closer to him on the outdoor loveseat, "and I've been her people for a while."

"I gathered." Stefan lifts my hand to his lips and softly kisses my knuckles. "I hope you know that you're my people too. That I want to be one of your people. But I also don't want to ruffle feathers."

"Rachel can handle having her toes ruffled and her feathers stepped on a bit, trust me."

"I don't want her to hate me." He says this last bit quietly, almost reluctantly.

"She doesn't hate you," I assure him, leaning my head on his shoulder, "she's a little territorial, that's all. She'll get to know you soon enough, and then she'll be snarky but affectionate instead of just snarky."

"Good to know."

Surgery day arrives and Rachel, who was able to get time off from her day job, picks me up at Stefan's the morning of the procedure and promises to keep him updated as much as she's able to. Malina checks on me while I wait in pre-op, sitting with me for a bit, holding my hand and easing my anxiety as the clock ticks closer to surgery time.

"I love you, Franny," Malina, squeezes my shoulder as I lay back and the bed starts to roll down the hall. "You're in good hands."

The surgeon comes to my bedside, greeting me with a kind smile as he reads through my chart.

"Which knee are we doing?" He asks. His resident was already here a few minutes ago asking the same question.

"Right." I offer him a weary smile as he grabs a marker and scribbles his initials just below my right knee.

"Good. Who do you have here with you?"

"My friend Rachel. She's not family, but you can speak with her after my surgery. I had a letter drawn up if you need it."

"That won't be necessary," Dr. Khalid smiles. "I'll chat with her when we're done. I'll probably be with my next patient once you wake up."

"Sounds good."

"How are you feeling, Francine?"

"To be honest…I'm a little nervous."

A slow smile spreads across Dr. Khalid's lips. "That's perfectly normal," he reaches down and places his hand on my knee, "three pokes, I'll get in there and clean things up, and then you'll be back up and walking before you know it."

"What about skating?" I ask.

Walking is fine, but I'd rather skate.

"Francine, I've worked on a lot of hockey players. This won't keep you out of the game." A nurse comes in and shuffles Dr. Khalid off to change and get ready for surgery and the anesthesiologist is right behind them asking all the same questions I've already answered a few times this afternoon.

"We're ready to roll," a voice calls from somewhere down the hall. "Let's move."

Closing my eyes to block out the lights moving overhead, I do what I can to quell my nerves, doing what I did as a kid afraid to cross the Mackinac Bridge when we'd travel between peninsulas: reciting the names and numbers of the Detroit Union's 1997-98 championship winning team. Osgood, number thirty. Murphy, number fifty five.

There's music playing in the operating room. One of those bands that shares a name with a city. After they wheel me in, I move myself over to the small table, making sure I'm not laying on my IV or heart monitor lines. I'm no stranger to hockey injuries, and this isn't my first time inside an OR, but it doesn't get any easier. The music helps though, and the team talking me through what's going on; from the nurse to my left helping me situate on the table, to the orthopedic resident on my right adjusting the arm rest and getting my IV line out of the way.

When the anesthesiologist fits a mask over my nose and mouth and tells me to take ten deep breaths. As I do, I continue down the Union lineup, my vision goes fuzzy, and yellow at the edges. The last thing I think about is Mary Anne and why she's walking away. Who is she walking away from? Why did she walk away? I may never know. But I do know, when I wake up with gritty eyes and a dry mouth, that song is stuck in my head. I try sitting up and my arms tangle in a blanket. Panic settles in my chest until a pair of hands gently lays me back down in the bed.

"You're okay, Francine," the voice sounds far away, but the fog finally clears enough for me to realize I'm in a recovery room, Malina sits to my right, Rachel to my left. "The surgery was a success. Your knee is going to be just fine. The anesthesia just needs some more time to wear off. Do you want crackers or anything?"

"Is a popsicle an option?"

"I'll check with the nurse."

"Stefan…?" The only thought in my head that breaks through the fog.

"I called him after your surgeon talked to us," Malina answers, taking my hand in hers and giving a squeeze. "Once the anesthesia wears off you can give him a call. He's expecting it."

"Do you think that'll be before puck drop?" The words feel funny coming out of my mouth and I must have said something wrong because Rachel covers her hand to stop a laugh.

"Say again?"

"Will this wear off before puck drop? I want to talk to him before he has to play."

"Where's he playing tonight?" Malina asks.

"Canada."

"That's a big country," Rachel chuckles, tapping on the screen of her phone. "Looks like Toronto. He's probably going to be practicing soon. But you could leave him a message."

"That's okay. I can call him after the game." I mumble around a bite of popsicle before closing my eyes and dozing a little bit more, nestled under the warm recovery room blankets.

"I should have called him." I'm seated on the sectional sofa in Stefan's living room, my foot propped up on a stack of pillows, watching as he takes another hard hit into the boards. He's been dropped down to the fourth line for the last period of play after a disaster of a second period. Too many giveaways. Too many hits. No communication with his line. It's been hard to watch.

"He's got it bad if you're the reason he can't find the puck tonight," Rachel quips from where she's perched on the other end of the sofa, Stevie curled in her lap. "I will not let you blame yourself for him being unable to play tonight."

"Be nice, you."

"This is me being nice, Franny."

"I know," I sigh. "At least you're nice to me, though."

"And me," comes Malina's voice from the kitchen, "most of the time."

"You two don't have to stay," I remind them for what feels like the hundredth time. "I can handle myself."

"Rachel is staying with you tonight to make sure that you don't try to do too much, too soon. Just because you can walk without crutches doesn't mean you should. Just because you don't have too much pain doesn't mean you shouldn't stay up on your pain meds."

"I…"

"I know you, Franny." Malina levels her gaze at me. "That's why Rachel is staying. I would if I didn't have an early shift tomorrow."

And so, I find myself surrounded by my two closest friends, cocooned in Stefan's couch as the night winds down. We find another hockey game to watch, and I doze on and off until the sound of the doorbell pulls me from my sleep.