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EIGHT

RILEY

I stare at the ceiling tiles.

There are forty-two of them.

Like the hockey number I’ll never wear again.

That’s fucking ironic.

“How are you feeling today, Riley?”

I blink and glance over at my therapist.

Dr. Ledlow knows exactly how I’m feeling.

It’s the same way I felt yesterday, the day before that, and the three months that have passed since the night of the accident and my world flipped upside down.

I’m pissed off.

Helpless.

Like I’m suffocating as my world crashes around me and I can’t do anything about it.

It’s been like this for twelve weeks. An endless cycle of being angry at everything while also grieving the life I’ll never get back.

No more skating with the boys.

No more shooting on an empty net.

No more outdoor rinks and Winter Classics.

No more signing jerseys with my name on the back.

No more hockey, and I don’t know who the hell I am without hockey.

I’ve been playing since I could walk. My first word was puck. My earliest memories are of skating on a frozen pond up the road from our house in Illinois. Learning to lace up my skates and how to hold a stick. Growing up and scoring a goal in the World Junior Hockey Championships. Taking my college team to its first ever Frozen Four appearance and winning, then signing with the Stars after my junior year.

Thousands of people dream of making an NHL team. Few actually do it, and I’m a kid from Chicago who got lucky.

Not lucky enough, I guess, and that’s what hurts the fucking most.

Riley Mitchell.

The former NHL star.

Now what am I?

A guy who bets on games?

A guy who sits in the stands and watches his teammates get everything he dreamed of?

The future is bleak as shit.

“Fine,” I grit out, then I wonder if I could make the walls cave in. It wouldn’t make things worse, and I guess there’s some comfort in that. “Just fine.”

“How’s the pain?” he asks.

I’ve been on so many medications, I can see how people get addicted. When the first twinge of an ache starts and I feel the phantom limb syndrome my doctors warned me about, I’m wishing I could pop another pill.

Or four.

It feels good when you’re not hurting, and all I do these days is hurt.

“Fine,” I repeat.

Might as well make it my middle name.

“Are you getting used to the crutches?”

I glare at the assistive devices leaning against the arm of the couch. I hate the fucking things. The skin under my arms is raw. I’m still trying to figure out how to balance on one leg as I move around my apartment because I can’t just pop on my temporary prosthetic limb in the middle of the night when I need to pee, but I refuse to be pushed around in a wheelchair.

“What do you think? I got up here, didn’t I? Nice job having an office on the third fucking floor, by the way. Real accessible.”

Dr. Ledlow blinks. He’s unfazed by my outburst and jots down a few words on the notepad resting in his lap. He’s probably mentioning that I’m unstable. I can’t wait for the team to read his notes and think I need serious help.

Maybe I do.

“You know the more it takes for you to talk to me, the longer we have to do these sessions, right?” he tells me.

I grind my teeth together.

I do know that.

The team and the league mandated therapy sessions for me when I got out of the hospital, but I’m not ready to be psychoanalyzed when I’m still so mad at the universe.

I’ll probably always be mad about the deck of cards I’ve been dealt.

Massive blood loss.

Severed tendons.

Nearly being crushed by the other car.

An amputated leg above my right knee.

Days that should have been spent celebrating with my teammates were spent in the hospital where doctors weren’t sure I was going to pull through.

Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t.

It would’ve been easier for everyone than the burden I’ve gifted them, and that makes me angry all over again.

It’s a miracle he’s alive , I heard a nurse whisper when I was in and out of consciousness.

Drunk driver , Coach told my mom when I couldn’t open my eyes. Four times over the legal limit .

Haven’t seen a patient so roughed up in years , a doctor said when I woke up from surgery.

“I’m not sure why the league gives a shit.” I huff and stare out the window. It looks like it’s going to rain. I used to love watching the thunderstorms roll across Lake Michigan when I was a kid. I’d count the lightning strikes. I’d try to gauge how far away the storm was and smile at the first crack of thunder. “I’m never going to play hockey again.”

“You don’t know that. Plenty of athletes go on to compete in events with prosthetic limbs. Look at the sled hockey team that plays in the Paralympics.”

“No thanks.”

Dr. Ledlow sighs. I’ll give him credit for showing up to our sessions. If I had to deal with me, I’d probably quit.

“Who’s downstairs waiting for you today? Is it your mom?”

“Yup. I’m a child getting picked up from school.”

“You’ve met with your prosthetist?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “He’s not bad.”

An amputee too, I learned when I went to the first of my fittings a month after surgery. I’m lucky my wound is healing as quickly as it is. It’s allowed me to get the ball rolling on an artificial limb, which is complex as hell.

There’s 3-D imaging. A socket and a metal pylon that’s going to act as my calf. A fake foot. A dozen other pieces that go into creating the final product, and I’ll be getting mine soon.

And then I have to retrain my body to function with the prosthesis, which is just fucking great, because I’ve been slacking on my physical therapy. I skipped my session at the outpatient office yesterday, and I don’t plan to go tomorrow.

Everything’s always come naturally to me. Thinking about having to relearn how to balance—how to fucking walk —makes me want to scream.

I should be used to all of this; my dad lost his leg when I was a teenager. He was a firefighter, picked up a shift from a buddy, and ran into a burning building to save a woman and her child.

He barely made it out.

After I woke up from surgery, he told me he’d help me learn how to adjust to my new life. He was there with me when I decided between a mechanical or microprocessor-controlled leg, but all of this is a burden on him. Another responsibility delegated to someone else because I can’t do it myself.

“Riley,” Dr. Ledlow says gently. “No one expects you to be okay. You almost died. You lost a part of yourself, and you’re never going to get it back.”

“I’ve never had any anger issues on or off the ice. My penalty minutes are some of the lowest in the league. I paint to decompress and read romance books, for fuck’s sake. But here I am, thinking about things I want to break and the things I want to yell at the people who piss me off. Spoiler alert: it’s every-fucking-body.”

“Seven stages of grief,” he tells me. “You’re on stage three: anger. Rage toward the situation. Rage toward yourself and others and the universe.”

“I get to go through four more stages?” I groan and stare at the ceiling again. “Can’t wait.”

“The good news is you’re feeling something . And I want you to express those feelings.”

“What comes next?” I mumble.

“They’re not necessarily linear, but if we’re going by textbook definitions, you’ll face bargaining after anger. Followed by depression and?—”

“Yippee.”

“—testing then acceptance. You’ll come to terms with this change eventually. Life will go on. I’m not asking you to give me a mile, Riley. I’m not even asking for a foot.”

“I hope not. I only have one now, and it would be pretty fucking rude of you to take that from me.”

“Humor is a positive sign. Maybe that will be your coping mechanism.” Dr. Ledlow chuckles. “All I’m asking for is an inch. Any forward motion is still progress. Okay?”

“Okay.” I reach for my crutches and stand. “Sure.”

“I’ll see you in a few days. And I’ve been told to remind you about your meeting with the team next week. Coach Saunders was adamant I get the message to you.”

“What’s the point?” I look at him. He’s not much older than me. Mid-thirties, maybe, if I had to guess, and he came highly recommended according to my mom, who’s been driving me to my appointments three times a week. “Why bother when we all know what they’re going to say? No skating. My contract is voided. Thanks for all you’ve done for the team, but we need to make room for a guy who can actually handle a stick .”

“Because they’re your family, and they love you.”

I rub a hand over my chest, thinking about the flowers and balloons that were in my hospital room when I woke up. All the food that’s filled my fridge and the low voices I hear when I’m locked in my bedroom.

I thought I was losing my mind at first, but the noises turned out to be my teammates—again, according to my mom. They sit in the living room for five, six hours. Sometimes there are hushed conversations. Sometimes I hear video games being played on my TV. Other times—most times—it’s quiet.

They don’t try to get me to come out, but I know they’re there.

And it makes me cry into my pillow.

“Okay.” My fingers curl around the hand grip of my crutches. Dr. Ledlow is nice enough to hold the door open for me. “I’ll go.”

I make my way out of his office and wait for the elevator, grateful when I get to the ground level and back outside. I can breathe better out here, and I don’t care how unbearable the September heat is in my hoodie and sweatpants.

I’m not ready for the world to see my scars yet. The ones on my leg, yeah, but the others that are still healing: my arms. A small spot on my cheek. My left shin and knee.

TMZ got a hold of photos from the crash, and they still pop up on ESPN every now and then. I threw up in a trash can the first time I saw them. Now I can get through a solid forty-five seconds of seeing my face plastered on the TV before I have to change the channel.

“Hi, sweetie.” My mom rolls down the passenger side window of my SUV. “How did it go? You stayed in there longer than you did last week. That’s encouraging.”

“Mmhm.” It takes me a second to lower myself into the seat, and I wince at the exertion. “I guess.”

“Dad and I have our flight to Chicago in the morning. I’ve been in touch with the airline and explained our circumstances. They’re willing to let us change our return ticket so we can stay?—”

“I’ll be fine.” I stretch out my left leg and drop my head against the seat. “You both have done enough to help me. I’m going to have to figure it out for myself eventually.”

“Are you sure?” She reaches over and puts her hand on my thigh. “You might be twenty-six, Riley, but you’re still my baby. I?—”

“I said I was fine, Mom. Stop fucking coddling me,” I snap. I push my glasses up my nose. Hot tears sting my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. That was… I didn’t mean?—”

“I know you didn’t.” She moves her hand to my hair. It’s gotten long, and it likes to stick up in random directions when I wear a hat. My barber texted me and said he’d come to my apartment to cut it so I wouldn’t have to figure out a way downtown, but I haven’t answered him. I haven’t answered anyone in weeks. “I know you’re feeling hopeless, and you might be thinking?—”

“I’m not.” I swallow. “That’s a lie. I have. I was. But I’m not anymore.”

“Good. That’s good.”

She sniffs. When I look over at her, I notice how much she’s aged since the time I saw her at an away game in Chicago last season. Her skin is paler. She’s lost weight. Her hair—which she usually keeps bright blonde—is fading to brown.

It’s like I’ve sucked the life out of her, and that’s reason enough to make sure her and Dad head home tomorrow and get back to their routine.

I don’t want to be the reason for anyone’s unhappiness.

My own is enough.

“I won’t.” My voice shakes. It feels like there is sand stuck in my throat. “I promise.”

“My sweet boy.” Mom pats my cheek and smiles. “Do you look at your father any differently because he lost a limb?”

“No. He’s a hero.”

“Your kids are going to say the same about you one day.”

“Kids.” I snort. “That implies someone is going to want to fall in love with this.” I gesture up and down my body. All of that—dating, friendships—seems like a far-off dream. “I’m a mangled and messed up piece of a human.”

“That’s what love is, Riley. No one ever said it was easy.”

“Easy.” I stare out the window at the people living their lives while I’m over here having an existential crisis. Teetering on the edge of a breakdown. “I don’t think anything is going to be easy for me again.”