Page 82 of The Callahan Effect

"Actual skating?"

"Slow laps only. No contact, no shooting, no sharp turns, and absolutely no scrimmaging. Your hip needs to relearn movement before it can handle hockey again."

"I'll take it."

"I thought you might."

She closed the chart.

"The quickest way back is to not overexert yourself."

I let out a long breath.

"I know."

"Good. Then don't make me regret trusting you."

"I won't."

Satisfied, she wished everyone a good morning before leaving the room.

"Eight weeks," Corey sighed.

"Don't."

"I'm just saying..."

"I know exactly what you're saying."

Dad folded both arms over his chest.

"She's right."

I sighed.

"I know she's right."

Mom reached across and squeezed my hand.

"That doesn't mean you have to like it, but you've been extremely lucky with injuries up to now. You need to remember that."

"I am," I admitted. "But I really don’t like it"

Less than ten minutes later another familiar face appeared in the doorway.

Coach Callahan.

He didn't stride into the room with his usual commanding confidence. Instead, he walked in with an expression far more serious than I'd ever seen even after a hockey game. His gaze settled on the dressing around my head before dropping briefly toward the blanket covering my injured hip.

"You look terrible."

"I've had better days."

Coach introduced himself to Mom, Dad, and Corey before pulling a chair alongside the bed and sitting down.

"I watched the replay…three times."

"Only three?"