Page 84 of Goalie Secrets
The next play is a disaster. We lose possession on a face-off. Players surge into our zone. I move forward to cut the angle. A slapshot comes from the point, and I move to block, but a deflection sends it careening toward the corner of the net. I dive, extending my leg to make the save, but the motion twists my hip at an unnatural angle.
Something gives—a pop or a rip—and the pain is excruciating. An electric shock shoots down my leg and up my spine.
I collapse onto my back. The world spins then narrows so all I can think about it sharp pain. My leg feels like it’s on fire, the hot sting of ache radiating everywhere. I force myself to push past the hurt. My breaths are shallow and fast, each one dragging me closer to the edge of panic. The agony isn’t fading, not even a little.
But I’ve been here before, haven’t I?
A memory from a junior tournament floats to the surface. I had blocked a breakaway with a sprawling kick save that overextended my ankle. It hurt like hell, but after a few weeks of rehab I was back on the ice.
Then college—my rookie season—when a shot from the point hit me square in the mask and knocked me flat. Doctors said I was concussed, but it turned out to be a bruised ego more than anything else.
Even last season, when I hyperextended my knee in a scramble at the crease, the trainers swore I’d be out for weeks. Two games later, I was back.
Strains pass. Adjustments are made. Bodies heal.Right?
I grit my teeth, trying to draw strength from those moments, but this feels different. I stare up at the rafters, the banners swaying slightly. I focus on the biting chill of ice against the back of my neck. The game clock ticks down the final seconds of the period, but the sound is muffled by my thoughts.
My body has always moved differently. Stretched farther, sprung faster, reached longer. The one thing I could count on, despite the strict pain management it takes to control my connective tissue disorder, is how EDS has been a weapon in my game. Now, lying here, I feel betrayed by it. The ice beneath me feels colder than it ever has, and for the first time, I can’t simply force myself to get up.
The trainers are around me now, their hands on my pads, their voices low as they assess the damage. I want to tell them I’m fine, that this is nothing, that I’ve been here before—but the words stick in my throat. Lionel’s voice cuts through the fog, calm but firm.
“Jeremy, stay still. The stretcher is coming.”
“Help me up.” I try to move, but the pain is blinding. My chest heaves with shallow breaths. My gloved hands claw uselessly at the ice.
“We’re getting the stretcher,” someone says firmly.
“No.” I grit my teeth, trying again to push myself up. The second I sit up, my hip flexors scream in protest. There’s a raw, pathetic whimper that surprises everyone. It’s me. I’m the pathetic whimper.
The stretcher arrives, and I’ve never felt more helpless. My teammates gather around, their faces tight with worry, but I can’t focus on anything except the anguish and the fear tearing into my chest. As they wheel me off the ice, I can’t shut off the questions looping in my mind.
What if this time is different?
What if this doesn’t pass?
What if treatments fail?
Vanya’s face comes into focus in my mind’s eye. Her words of warning return:If you keep ignoring the problem, you’re risking your entire career.
The memory hits harder than any slapshot.
I’m halfway through getting ready for the day, standing in my bedroom in front of the closet, a cup of coffee balanced precariously on the dresser behind me. Sunlight spills weakly through the half-open blinds, turning the room into a patchwork of light and shadow.
I’m reaching for a sweater, tugging it over my head, when my phone buzzes from the nightstand. Still wrangling the fabric into place, I glance over. Kyle’s name lights up the screen. That’s unusual. Normally, he’d text.
“Hello,” I answer, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear as I pull the hem of the sweater into place.
“Hey, Vanya,” Kyle replies, his tone unusually flat. “I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone else. Jeremy had a problem on the ice in Vancouver last night.”
The words don’t make sense at first. My stomach twists as I process them, my movements freezing mid-step.
“A problem?” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady.
“He took a bad fall. Stayed overnight at the hospital there, but they’re flying him back today. He’s already in the air and should be landing in a few hours.”
“How serious is it?” I ask. My voice croaks at the effort to stay calm.
Kyle hesitates just long enough for my pulse to spike. “They’re saying it’s not. Bruising, maybe a strain. They didn’t see anything alarming in the X-rays.”