Page 13 of Love Me (Charlotte Monarchs Hockey #1)

“Don’t you want to keep it that way?”

“Get to the point, Dr. Patel,” I say through clenched teeth.

“If you get injured again and—God forbid—become paralyzed, they won’t see their teammate, their peer.

They’ll see a hardheaded idiot who didn’t listen to multiple medical professionals, all of whom had warned him about the consequences.

Is that the kind of legacy you want to leave behind?

Does that sound like a good life for a former hockey star? ”

Former hockey star.

My chest tightens, and it feels like the air gets thinner.

But I refuse to let his words stop me from pressing on. I knew what he would tell me before I walked through the office doors. He’s trained to talk about the most severe outcome so he doesn’t get slapped with a lawsuit. People sue doctors at the drop of a hat these days.

But I’m not going down without a fight. The chances of being paralyzed are probably so small that it’s barely even a possibility. Dr. Patel has to pound it in because someone somewhere sued the fuck out of a doctor who didn’t explain the worst-case scenario.

Every single physical therapist and personal trainer I’ve worked with over the last few months agreed on one thing—I’m in amazing shape. Good enough to get back on the ice and practice with the team. I knew convincing Dr. Patel would be my biggest hurdle.

I’ve done my research on the injury. And while I didn’t find many athletes with it, I did come across an article about a rugby player who came back from a similar injury.

Rugby is ten times more dangerous than hockey.

Those scrums are hardcore. I’m surprised more guys don’t have neck and spinal-cord injuries.

“Can I practice with the team and see how I feel? They can throw a non-contact jersey on me and—” I stop. His lips are a grim, straight line, which tells me I’m the only one excited about the idea.

Dr. Patel sits across from me with a tired, sad expression on his face. He probably wants to kick me out of his office.

“I will not clear you to play or practice . I would not advise working out with the team. I would not advise getting back on the ice. I’ve made that clear to everyone in the Monarchs organization that has contacted me.

” He taps his mouse with his index finger, extinguishing the glow of the computer screen lighting up his face.

“I’m sorry, Luke. I know this is the most devastating news a professional athlete could ever hear, but it’s my job to look out for your health.

It’s my reputation—and my conscience—if I clear you and something horrible happens. ”

I press my lips together and gaze at my shoes. His reputation doesn’t mean shit to me. What about my reputation? What about my fucking career? I want to scream at him.

No. Fuck screaming. I want to punch him.

Despite the anger making my heart slam against my chest and my knees shake, the next best thing is completely forgetting. My thoughts race to the pain pills I got after my surgery, still tucked away in a bathroom drawer—the only thing that has ever made me forget everything.

Randomly thinking about using again scares the shit out of me. The only reason I kept them at all was to remind myself of my mental strength and how I can overcome anything.

I look up and ask, “Can I get a water, please?”

Dr. Patel smiles and nods. “Of course.” He stands up and walks over to the small refrigerator in the corner of his office.

I drop my head in my hands and rub my face.

Leaning forward, I catch the musky scent of the dark purple candle on the surgeon’s desk.

The smell reminds me of the nasty Russian cologne Gribov used to douse himself in when we were getting ready to go out—before he met his girlfriend.

The recollection snaps the random craving for the pills.

“Here you go.” The doctor hands me the water bottle. I accept it with a nod of thanks. He continues. “You okay?”

I tilt the water and take a long swig. As I twist the cap back on the bottle, I answer honestly, “No. I was hoping for different news.”

Was I? Dr. Patel warned me at my six-month follow-up appointment that I probably wouldn’t play again.

I just didn’t believe him. A month later, I went back to Dr. Cammarelli for a second opinion on that, and he recommended retirement, as well.

If the injury I have is so unpredictable, then why the fuck did I waste my time and money on therapists and rehab?

“I know, Luke. And I am truly sorry. I don’t know how helpful the program is that the league has for players who have to leave the game due to injury or if they even have one. That’s my homework for you. Find out. Talk to people you trust. You need support right now.”

I nod, though I stopped listening to him when he said he was sorry. He’s just confirmed—once and for all—that my hockey career is over.

“The transition is going to be hard, Luke,” Dr. Patel continues, reaching out and grabbing a business card from the bamboo holder on his desk.

He flips it over and scratches his pen across the back.

“This is the number for a good friend of mine. He’s a therapist who has worked with multiple athletes who have been in a similar situation.

” He looks up quickly. “If the league doesn’t have the resources you need, give him a call. ”

He holds the card out to me, and I take it. “Thanks.”

“This isn’t the end, Luke. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to work in the sport. You’re a star. The Monarchs don’t dump their stars.”

I nod again. It’s the only movement my body seems to allow right now. At this moment, I feel like I could go through the rest of my life nodding. Not listening. Not reacting. Not caring. Just nodding.

I’ve been in a semi-desk job with the team for the last six months.

It’s not the life I expected. I want to be on the ice.

I want to be in the locker room with my teammates.

I want to skate around the rink holding the fucking Stanley Cup over my head.

Realizing that dream is the reason I’ve worked my ass off for the last twenty years.

A win against the Capitals two nights ago clinched us a playoff spot for the first time in four years. Our chances don’t look good, but I’ll be damned if someone tells me I’m not going to be able to play in my first postseason NHL game.

My arm may be fixed, but it feels like everything else is numb.

I rise to my feet and walk to the door, glancing at the name Dr. Patel wrote on the back of his business card. Richard Johnson. Come on. Is he for real?

“Give my friend a call. And take care of yourself, Luke.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. “I’ll be sure to give Dr. Dick a call ASAP.”

Not my finest moment, but I don’t give a damn because walking down the hallway toward the exit door feels like the fucking green mile on the way to my execution. Once I step outside, the thing I’ve refused to accept for almost a year will be real.

My hockey career is dead.