Page 84 of Body Check

“Well, it looked like a panic attack. Have you had one before?” There’s no judgment on his face.

“No. Never.”

“Hmm.” Doc sits back on his chair, studying me. “What were you thinking about when I came in? Your ankle?”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I quietly admit, “Amelia. I think I fucked up.”

“Well, most likely, yes,” he says, with a chuckle. “You’re not infallible.”

“No, I mean… I said something I shouldn’t have.”

“So, you’ll apologize.”

“Like it’s that easy.”

“If she loves you, it is,” Doc says. He picks up his tablet. “Now, let’s talk about your ankle.”

After taking off the cast, he does a visual examination before examining the incision site. The stitches have dissolved, the fresh scar a vivid reminder of what happened. With time, it’ll fade. The pain will go away. But I won’t be able to escape the memories.

“Am I clear to start walking on it?” I ask.

“You know the timeline is weeks, not days,” he says. “You’re out for the rest of the season, Jason.”

Groaning, I cover my hands with my face. “No.”

“I’m sorry, son. I know it’s not what you want.” He pats my knee. “Even if the team goes deep into the post-season, you won’t be back.”

“But I can come back?”

“If it’s what you want, yes. We can help you rehab and get back into shape.” Doc pauses. “But if you decide you’re done… that’s okay, too.”

“I don’t want to go out this way. Not like this.”

“We can’t always choose how we go out. It’s not always on our terms.”

I swallow. This is the end of my hockey career. I know deep in my soul I won’t get another contract. Even if I pour my entire being into rehabbing, I’m too old, too injured, too slow.

This chapter of my life is over. But the next is just beginning. Amelia. A life post-hockey.

Clearing my throat, I meet Doc’s eye. “In that case, I need a referral to a urologist.”

“Oh? Are you having issues?”

“I want a vasectomy.”

Amelia doesn’t want kids. Neither do I. Why should I needlessly put her at risk when we’re both sure about what we want for our lives?

Dr. Hudson frowns. “Are you sure? You have your whole life ahead of you.”

To him, this is sudden, but I’ve been chewing on it for weeks. I don’t have a problem using condoms, and Amelia has an IUD. Eventually, though, she’ll take the fertility drugs again in preparation for another surrogacy. I’ll hold her hand the entire time. But I won’t put her at risk.

“Yeah, but I don’t want kids.”

My revelation a few months ago in Amelia’s exam room opened my eyes. I can have a fulfilling life without kids. I can have a fulfilling life without hockey.

“I’ve thought about it for a while, but I didn’t want to do anything during the season that would keep me from playing.” Swallowing against the lump in my throat at the idea I won’t play again, I focus on the positive. “If I don’t have to worry about missing any more games, I can do the procedure now. Get it over with.”

Doc surveys me seriously. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

“Positive.”

“And she’s not pressuring you into this?”

I shake my head. “This is for me.”

“All right, then. I’ll write you the referral.”