Page 66 of Body Check

“I heard you the first time,” Derek snaps. “Does it hurt?”

“Not any more than usual.”

That’s the honest truth; it always hurts. No matter how warm and stretched I am before a game, after three hours of activity, it always aches. The osteoarthritis is something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.

There are invasive procedures, but they have side effects, and it would mean the end of my playing career. At thirty-seven, it’s doubtful I’d come back from it. And being in the last year of my contract, it’s unlikely any other team would want me after surgery.

There’s still a chance the Grizzlies will want me for another two years. That’s my Plan A, at least. But it means keeping healthy, doing all of my PT, and not letting the bumps and bruises get to me.

Easton, Jenkins, and Gonzo are on the ice, and I try to focus, but the throbbing in my knee makes it hard to concentrate on the instructions Coach yells in my ear. They rotate off, the third line taking the ice, and I start to shake, anticipating. I love hockey. I love it with every fiber of my being. What will I do when it’s not part of my life anymore? I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.

Coach claps my shoulder, and then I’m heaving myself over the boards again, right when Logan gets control of the puck. There’s nobody in the Seattle defensive end.

I put on a burst of speed, hurtling myself forward to be in the right place, and the puck lands on my tape with precision accuracy.

There’s no time to set up a play. I fire at the goaltender, the puck clanging off the post on its way to the back of the net. Quick and dirty, just the way I like it.

My knee fucking throbs from the exertion. I do my best not to limp off the ice, but the tightness on Derek’s face tells me I’m in for a world of trouble.

An hour later, after cooling down and showering, I’m in the PT bay, where Derek digs his fingers into my knee.

“I’m fine,” I say, for the tenth time.

“Shut up,” he snaps.

“It works. I can play.”

“I didn’t say you can’t. I said, you’ll to hurt yourself worse than you already have.” He sighs. “It’s nothing structural. Ice. Elevate. Rest. The usual.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, with a sarcastic salute.

The athletic trainer glares at me. “Go on, get out of here. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He wraps my knee with ice, and I return to the dressing room. When I finally have a chance to check my phone, there’s a text from Amelia.

How are you feeling?

I don’t lie to her.

I’ve been better.

I’m sorry. This sucks.

And I know she’s talking about more than simply not being able to interact.

Miss you.

I text back, before shoving the phone into my pocket.

I can’t look at her, because if anyone takes one glance at my face while I do, this whole charade is over. I can’t talk to her without it turning flirty; I can’t touch her without pulling her into my arms.

I miss her so fucking much, and she’s only in the next room.

The team bus delivers us to the airfield, and as we board the plane, I take my usual spot in the middle, aisle seat. She’s a few rows ahead of me on the right side, sitting with Patrice, so it’s the perfect location to covertly watch her.

Gonzo drops into the seat beside me. “How’s the knee?”

“It’s fine.”