Page 72 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Santos

“How are you feeling, mijo?” Mom’s voice breaks through the phone the moment I answer.

She’s speaking English, which only means one thing—Dad is nearby.

He’s always hated when we speak Spanish, paranoid that we’re talking behind his back.

It’s ridiculous, really. Mom would never talk badly about anyone—least of all him.

She’s the type to let you know exactly how she feels, face-to-face, no filters needed.

Dad should know better. If I ever decide to give him a piece of my mind, I’d do it in plain English, just to make sure he catches every word.

What baffles me is why he never bothered to learn another language, when his wife and child are bilingual.

But then again, asking him to change is a battle I’m not willing to fight.

Some things with him are just better left alone.

I sigh, sinking deeper into the hospital bed.

The sterile smell of disinfectant lingers in the air, reminding me of where I am and everything I’d rather not think about.

The last thing I need is Mom worrying about my health—or worse, Dad trying to take control of the situation just because my future feels uncertain.

“Please, tell me you’re okay,” Mom says, her voice thick with worry. “They said on the news that you’re out for the season. That the injury was life-threatening.”

It wasn’t. But I know how the media works—how they twist everything, making it sound like the world is ending just to keep people glued to their screens.

“His career might be over, not because of the injury, but because of those pictures circulating on social media,” Dad’s voice cuts in, sharp and loud, like a punch through the phone.

It sounds like he’s standing next to me, even though I have no idea where he is. I just hope they’re not at the airport, ready to fly out here. The last thing I need is Dad showing up, breathing down my neck, reminding me of every single thing that’s gone wrong in the last few days.

Especially the picture .

But honestly, the photo is the least of my worries. What I can’t shake is the accident and what I like to call the fatal injury. The seconds that changed everything.

It was the third period, a tied game. I had the puck, cutting across center ice, every muscle tightening as I pushed forward. I dodged one defender, then another, eyes locked on the net. I was in the zone, about to make the breakaway I’d practiced for years. But then . . .

Then, my skate caught the ice wrong. My leg buckled.

And the next thing I knew, I was on my back, staring up at the arena lights, my leg refusing to move.

It didn’t feel real. I didn’t hear the pop they always talk about.

Just a sharp snap, a white-hot jolt of pain, and then—nothing.

My ankle—it felt like it wasn’t even attached anymore.

The medics rushed over, yanking off my skate, poking and prodding like I was some broken thing.

“Can you move your foot?” they asked, but I couldn’t.

I tried, but there was no response. No connection.

That’s when I knew. I had heard the stories, seen it happen to other players—torn Achilles.

It’s supposed to be rare, but of course, it had to happen to me.

I lost everything in that moment. Not just the game. It felt like my whole life was unraveling.

The girl we lost. The boy I shouldn’t love. The life I’ve never been allowed to live the way I fucking want.

Of course, I told myself it wasn’t that bad, that maybe it was just a bad cramp, a pulled muscle—something easily fixable. But deep down, I knew. I could see it in the way they avoided my eyes, the way the air around them felt heavy with things unsaid.

They carted me off the ice like I was a broken toy, discarded. The crowd watched, but I wasn’t really there anymore. My mind had already spiraled away, lost in everything I knew I was about to lose.

The season.

The games.

My team.

And more than that—my career. The thing I’ve spent my entire life building could disappear in an instant.

The hospital was a blur. Tests, machines, sterile lights—it all felt distant.

They poked and prodded like I was just another name on their chart.

Words like “rupture” and “surgery” were thrown around so casually, as if they were talking about the weather.

For them, it was routine. For me, it was everything.

They kept telling me it would be fine, that they’d fix it—like it was nothing.

But nothing is simple when you’re the one lying there, watching your life slip through your fingers.

The MRI confirmed it. Full rupture. A clean break. The surgeon came in, clipboard in hand, delivering the news as if he was telling me to renew my driver’s license. “We’ll get you into surgery within the next forty-eight hours,” he said, his voice emotionless, rehearsed.

I’m pretty sure there’s a secret set of med-school classes they don’t talk about.

First up, Patient Persuasion 101: The Art of Gentle Deception, followed by Optimism in Practice 102: Telling Your Patient Their Life is Fucking Over (With a Smile).

Let’s not forget Positive Spin 201: Breaking Terrible Fucking News Like It’s No Big Deal and, of course, the advanced course: How to Stay Upbeat 301: Smiling While Their Life Falls the Fuck Apart.

“It’s a standard procedure for this type of injury. You’ll be fine,” he said, as if he wasn’t shattering my world.

Standard.

Like my future was just some routine repair job they performed every day.

Twelve hours later, I was on my way back to Oregon. The team’s physician wouldn’t let just anyone perform the surgery.

Two days later, I was lying on the operating table, staring at the ceiling. The anesthesiologist leaned over me, telling me to count backward, but all I could think about was that last moment on the ice. Not the arena’s ice after the injury. No, I was back on that ice.

The frozen lake where I used to spend winters with her ever since I can remember.

And later, with Dusty—when we were still us .

Three. Back when skating was pure, untouched by expectations.

Before it became the only thing I had left.

Back then, skating wasn’t about winning, it wasn’t about proving anything to a father who never saw me , only the reflection of his own failures.

It was freedom—before it became a desperate attempt to reclaim something I never truly had.

Being back there, in my mind, helped dull the edges of the endless replay—the snap, the fall, the terrifying realization that everything I had worked for could be gone in an instant.

And then I was out. The last thing I saw before everything went dark was them .

When I woke up, my leg was bandaged tight, propped up like an ice block in a cooler—solid, unmovable. The new surgeon came by, casual as ever, saying things went well, that they’d stitched the tendon back together. Great.

He might as well have been talking about fixing a car engine. “Six to twelve months and it should be running,” he said, like it was just a countdown to when I’d be back to normal.

But they don’t get it. None of them do.

To them, I’m just another patient. Another body to be patched up and sent on my way. Someone should tell him—I’m not just a leg to be fixed. I’m a hockey player. One of the best.

And without that . . . Well, who the fuck am I?

It had only been a few hours since they knocked me out, but it felt like my entire world had shifted.

Three days ago, I was on the ice, chasing the puck, skating like I had a thousand times before.

Now, I’m lying flat on my back, staring at my foot, barely able to wiggle my toes.

And all I have to look forward to is six to twelve months of fucking rehab. Maybe more.

My life now boils down to: rest, elevate, and avoid putting any pressure on it for weeks. Let the tendon heal, then the real work begins—rehab. They’ll probably ship me off to some specialized center where a team of doctors and specialists will work to piece me back together.

The process will be slow. Excruciatingly slow. No quick sprints, no sudden moves. Not for months. I won’t even be able to jog until they’re sure my tendon won’t give way again under the strain.

They told me I’d be working with a specialist—a sports medicine doctor who’d monitor me from start to finish, tracking every tiny improvement like it’s some race against time.

Someone who’d decide when I can push harder and when I’ll have to pull back, as if my life can be measured in reps and recovery schedules.

My entire future now rests on a timeline I can’t control—one that hinges on how fast or slow my body chooses to heal.

And there’s no guarantee it’ll ever be the same. Not like it was.

My career might be over. No more Santos Calderón-Bélanger—assistant captain of the Portland Orcas.

Just . . . no more me.

The surgeon finished with a tight smile, like he’d just delivered great news. I nodded, but inside I was screaming. I wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of the room. I was already mourning everything—the ice, my boys, the games I’d miss. The career I might never get back.

And then there’s the rehab center. Where my life will shrink down to reps, stretches, and sessions with a therapist who probably doesn’t even understand hockey. My team will move on without me. Some hotshot rookie will step in, fill my spot, and I’ll be nothing but a memory. Forgotten.

And now, I’m stuck here, lying in this hospital bed, waiting for my body to pull off some kind of miracle, like time itself is holding its breath, waiting for a sign that I’ll be okay.

But beneath the sterile lights and the beeping machines, all I can think about is the mess waiting for me outside these walls—the tangled knot of my life that’s unraveling faster than I can keep up.