Page 85 of Goalie Secrets

“X-rays are useless for his condition. We know this!” I screech.

My hand flies over my mouth, because I sound unhinged. Kyle doesn’t deserve my accusing tone. He’s simply sharing news. It’s not his fault I’m unhinged with worry.

“I’m sorry. I’m, um, just surprised,” I say regretfully.

“It’s OK. This is upsetting for everyone.”

“Why am I hearing this from you?” I ask. It’s a loaded question because Kyle has no idea Jeremy and I have been spending every free moment together for months. Four months, to be exact.

Kyle pauses. His next words come carefully. “I’m guessing he didn’t want to worry you. You know how he is.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” I state curtly.

“I’ll call you when he gets to the ortho wing at the hospital.”

“He isn’t going straight to our clinic?”

“It’s a precaution. The Mavericks want to keep a close eye.”

I mumble a dissatisfied goodbye and set the phone down on the bed. Jeremy didn’t call me. He didn’t even text. After everything we’ve been through, he still thinks he can shoulder this on his own, like it’s some badge of honor to minimize the injury.

My sweater suddenly feels too tight, too hot. I yank it off and toss it onto the bed, pacing the small space of my room as my mind spins. Why didn’t he tell me? Maybe he thought I’d overreact. Maybe he just didn’t want to admit he’d gotten hurt. Or maybe he’s so used to hiding his pain from everyone and I am not the exception.

I stop pacing and sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at my coffee mug. The bitter dregs sit at the bottom of the cup, mocking me.

I glance at the clock. He’s expected in a few hours. That should be enough time for me to figure out if I’m angry or worried or desperate or ridiculous. Or all of the above.

I might as well go to work. While driving, the roads are a blur, and my brain is in overdrive. The second I enter the medical wing, Sabrina greets me, her face pale.

“Did you hear from Jeremy?”

My stomach twists. “No. I heard from Kyle.”

“Dexter called me last night. It was horrible.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“The coverage is relentless on ESPN. And so are the speculations.”

Of course, I could have looked it up myself. What was I thinking? Maybe once I see how the injury happened, some of my anxiety will ease.

I lock myself in the office and pull up the game highlights on YouTube. The first clip is Jeremy standing tall in net, his movements sharp and decisive. The opposing team swarms the crease like a pack of wolves. They’re relentless, shoving and crashing into him in their desperation to break through. Jeremy braces, absorbing the blows, but it’s obvious he’s enduring more damage than he’s letting on. He removes his helmet to take a drink. The camera catches a flicker of distress across his face, gone in an instant.

But I see it. I feel it.

My hands tremble slightly as I grip the edge of my desk. “Get out of there, Jeremy,” I mutter under my breath, as if he can hear me.

The next play is worse. A long pass across the ice forces him to dive. He pushes off with his left leg—the motion I’ve warned him about a thousand times—and stretches out as far as he can. It’s enough to make the save, but the force of the play knocks him over, and an opposing skater collides into him mid-slide. The video cuts off and another player’s highlight begins.

“Fuck!” I yell and nearly throw my phone across the room. I search specifically for his name and come across the footageplayed in sports shows. It picks up where Jeremy pushes off his left leg and lands on his back.

The helmet obscures his face, but I can picture the expression of stubborn stoicism underneath. It’s hard for a man like Jeremy to stay down on the ice. It had to have been brutal if he didn’t get up. The trainers are by his side within seconds, the commentators speculating in hushed tones about what might have happened.

I can’t breathe. The worst-case scenarios hit me like blows of a sledgehammer. Instability. Ligament tears. Cartilage damage. A catastrophic injury that could end his career. Or worse, leave him with irreversible damage.

The trainers kneel beside him on-screen, their words inaudible. The stretcher arrives.

I hate seeing him on it. Hate the image of him being wheeled off. His body, usually so strong and graceful, deflates as they roll him off the ice.