If anyone was looking for me, they would see I was there. Up in the gods, three rows from the back in the nosebleed chairs, looking down at the men on the ice. Watching them and wishing I were down there with them.

I’d missed three sessions now, but none of this was obligatory; no one was on my ass demanding that I attend. But I wanted so much to be learning more. I was missing out, because every one of us who’d listened to Trent was faster, more focused, and I was stuck now.

And not just because of the shit that had gone down with the tablets, no – this was about the fact that I was there for results on my knee, and I knew they wouldn’t be good. The only thing keeping me on the ice had been painkillers, and look where that had gotten me.

I was losing my last chance to get an NHL spot; the Railers would take one look at me, my knee, my stupid fucking addictions, and I would be gone.

They were a progressive team, focused on inclusion and fairness and all kinds of things PC, but even they couldn’t carry a skater who couldn’t skate on the roster.

On the ice, the guys were working on glides again, and even from up here I could see the improvements. Stan was on one side talking to Trent, and my chest tightened when he lifted a wriggling Trent and held him up in a parody of a lift. He soon set him down, but the damage was done; I’d seen Trent laughing, enjoying his time with the team.

And I wasn’t there.

Trent’s work might prove to give us an edge as a team, just that small difference to push us one more round in the playoffs.

Us? There wouldn’t be an us. I was looking at injured reserve, or even worse.

The session finished, and I slid down in my chair, pulling my ball cap low over my face, hidden up in the shadows where no one would think to look. This place was no East River Arena, only thirty or so rows of seats, but I was far enough away to hide for sure.

When the rink was empty, I left my seat, heading for the exit to the parking lot before anyone noticed me.

“I saw you,” Trent said from behind me.

I turned to face him, carefully because I felt like shit, and my knee hurt, and I was done with today.

“Hey,” I said, which was all I could manage.

Trent looked tired but good. His eyes were smudged with kohl, his hair artfully tousled and streaked with what looked like a jade green in this light. He was all in black, his familiar diamanté piping around his collar, and he looked so good.

And I had fucked up; thrown it all away.

“You should come down on the ice with us,” Trent said when I stood there looking at him blankly.

“I have to get back to Harrisburg today. I have…” I waved at my knee, then up at my head, like that explained everything. I didn’t expect him to understand. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, with no framework for what exactly I was apologizing for.

He smiled at me – not a huge smile, more sad than happy, but it was a beautiful smile, and abruptly I needed to touch him. I stepped into his space and cradled his face in my hands, tilting his head to mine.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.

“I know you are,” he murmured. There was none of his usual sass, there was no fire in his eyes. All I saw was sadness. I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips. Just one, and then I left without looking back at him.

Maybe he’d still be there for me after I was done with whatever I had to do next.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

I just had to have hope, because somehow, in a short space of time, Trent had become the center of everything for me.

Everything.

My phone vibrated to remind me of the need to get my ass in gear and to the airport for my flight back to Harrisburg. The flight itself was short, the cab ride from the airport to the arena even shorter, giving me no time to get my head in a good place.

Grief took my breath as I walked into the East River Arena, under the banners with pictures of the team. I saw numbers and photos of Connor, Stan, Ten, Arvy, but none of me yet.

I suspected I would never make it up there. The shop held my jersey with my number and name on the back, but I doubted that anyone would buy it.

Idly, I wondered how many they’d brought in for my fans, and I couldn’t help the snort of derision that I even had fans.

Jeez, I have it bad today.

I slipped into one of the many small rooms off the main corridor, and took a moment to settle my thoughts. I couldn’t go into this meeting feeling like I was already done. I had to channel some kind of courage from somewhere, and lace it tight with hope. It took me a while to get my breathing settled, even longer to find that kernel of courage that I had to dig really deep for, but finally I was as ready as I would ever be, and I moved out of the shadow and into the brightly lit corridor.

When I knocked on the doc’s door, I was exactly on time, and I heard the gruff, “Come in.” He stood as I entered, extending his hand and saying something generic. I wasn’t sure what, because I was looking at his face, judging his expression, trying to see any microscopic changes that might indicate how bad the news could be. I wanted him to give me the news in words of one syllable, no fancy explanations. Was I done? What was wrong with me that PT and manipulation couldn’t help with?

“How have you been?” Doc asked, and I stared at him blankly.

“I’m good,” I said. Because what I really wanted to say would have the Doc consigning me to anger management and counseling all in one go.

He gestured to the X-rays up on the backlit boards, and encouraged me to stand closer, and then he began, with words that meant nothing. He wrote down what was wrong with me, and I read it to myself as he explained. Sporadic osteochondritis dissecans. That was what made my knee joint snap and swell and throw me off stride. That long name meant I needed surgery.

“It’s probably been caused by injury, but it could also be due to repetitive use of the joint.”

Repetitive use? Hockey players – hell, any kind of professional sports person – knew what repetitive use was all about. It was how we trained muscle memory.

He pointed at the X-ray, and I peered at what he was trying to show me. “The knee is a synovial joint where three bones articulate with each other – the femur, tibia and patella – and has two articulations.”

I must have looked at him blankly, because he frowned and repeated that again. This time I nodded to indicate that I understood. Of course I understood. I knew my knee intimately; each muscle, tendon and bone when I pressed and pushed to get the pain to go.

He continued, and I tried to look like I understood so he didn’t repeat himself. I didn’t want to hear this, I wanted a conclusion.

“The articular bones are covered by white, shiny and elastic cartilage, and the smooth articular surface of the femur, here.” He tapped the X-ray with a pen. “That rolls and slides on the tibia plateau, with synovial fluid that nourishes and lubricates the cartilage.”

“And?”

Please cut to the chase. My head hurts, my stomach is a mess, and I need to get out of here to my next meeting – the important one where I tell management what a fucking mess of a skater they contracted.

“In patients with osteochondritis dissecans, the subchondral bone with its articular cartilage doesn’t get any blood supply anymore, and degenerates. Luckily, you’re at stage three with some partially detached lesions – what we call a dissecans ‘in situ’.”

“I’m lucky. Does that mean some rest and PT and I’m okay to play?”

Doc looked right at me. He was an expert in being straight with players, renowned for it on the team. “No, Dieter, I’m sorry. You will need an operation. We would look to repair the blood supply by inserting an arthroscope through the cartilage and the site of the osteochondrosis into the healthy bones, then stabilizing the fragment by pinning or with screw fixation. Look, I know this is a lot to take in, but the operation itself is a simple one, and you would need six to ten weeks of recovery and physical therapy, then you could be back on the ice.”

I did a quick calculation in my head. Six weeks was right at the start of the season, ten weeks meant I’d miss games, sidelined. The Railers had pulled me from the farm team to play, not sit in the owner’s box looking down on games.

I was fucked.

“What if I don’t have the operation?”

Doc didn’t react like a normal doctor would. He didn’t look shocked or concerned – hell, he dealt with skaters who demanded to play even with broken legs or shattered eye sockets. He was used to the idiocy and bravado of the hockey player.

“That is your choice, of course,” he began carefully, “but my report to management with the advice for you to have an operation is the foundation for your inclusion in the roster. They will insist you get the work done, because you’d be no good to them otherwise.” He softened a little now he’d delivered his advice about what the team would want me to do. “Also, Dieter, the pain you must be in at times…we need to stop that for you, okay?”

I nodded, because I think he expected me to understand that last part.

“Now, we can have you in the hospital tomorrow. You’d be back and resting in a couple of days, rehabbing within a few weeks. Shall I set it up?”

He was asking me the question, looking at me for an answer, and I’d lost my words, all the words. I had nothing.

So I nodded mutely, and my chest hurt, and I felt sick, and the walls of the doc’s office were closing in on me.

He pressed a hand to my shoulder. “Let’s move this up to the meeting with management, okay?”

I followed him out of the office to the elevator that would take us the four floors to the team admin area, where management rubbed shoulders with marketing, and where the decision would be made to void my contract. Once they found out about the opiates, about my addiction…

I would be gone.

Everyone was there. Felix Cote, the owner; Dawson Brown, the manager; the player rep, Anatoly ‘Toly’ Sokolov, a ten-year veteran who worked hard for the team; and Coach Benning. Connor Hurleigh, captain of the Railers, was there as well. I thought he’d have been in Philly with Trent and the rest, but come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him on the ice that morning. He threw me a smile and stood up to fist-bump me. I liked Connor. He was a good guy, a good player…hell, he was one hundred percent made of good.

I’d bet he never took Percocet to chase a high.

Doc settled on one of the array of sofas and so did the others, so I took my own seat and waited for the sentence.

“What we’re looking at is potentially having you on injured reserve for the start of the season, aiming to get you back on the ice for November – at least that’s our understanding from what Doc has explained.” Cote cut straight to the chase without any talk about the injury or how it might have happened. He wouldn’t care how, just about the mechanics of getting me on the ice. “You’ll travel with the team, and we’ll press-release a lower-body injury. How does that sound?”

To a normal man, one who had a fucked up knee, one who wasn’t battling addictions, that would sound fine; a solid plan.

Doc was talking to Coach, Connor leaned in listening, about rehab, and PT, and I was abruptly not even present in the room. I was a chess piece they were positioning, with plans in place to have me rehabbing, back playing November.

“I have something I want to say,” I said, but no one stopped talking. “Please,” I said a little louder, and one by one they looked at me. “I have something to say.”

I stared right at Connor and Toly. They were possibly the only ones in the room who would truly understand addiction in a player, or the need for pain relief that became more. They would have seen it on so many levels.

“I’m an addict,” I began, and swallowed, my mouth dry. “I’m addicted to opiates, and while I had everything under control before – attending sessions, having a sponsor – I didn’t tell anyone on the team or my agent.” I lied about that, because even though he’d dumped my ass, Bob was a good guy; I wasn’t going to throw him under the bus. “I relapsed when the pain became too bad in the playoffs, and I need help.”

There. I’d said it. I didn’t have to add that I understood if they wanted me off the team – that was a given. There were ECHL teams out there who would be happy to have me play despite my shit, so I wouldn’t have to give up.

I just wouldn’t be there with the Railers.

“Ahh,” Cote said, and sat back at his desk, resting his hands on his soft belly, courtesy of one too many social occasions in the name of the Railers, I should imagine. He wasn’t an ex-skater, he was a money guy who loved hockey. He couldn’t know what it was like to drag yourself onto the ice with an injury.

“Toly?” Connor asked our teammate, the players’ rep, the one whose job it was to look out for me. I’d blindsided him as well; it wasn’t as if I’d told him what was happening. The only one I’d told was Layton.

I should have told more people.

Toly was still staring at me, but not in a way that worried me. He didn’t look pissed that this was the first he’d heard of it, any more than Connor did. A rush of thankfulness made me lightheaded, and I must have done something good in a previous life not to get a fist in the face from either of them.

“This is first I heard,” Toly began, his Russian accent sexy and low. “I will work with Dieter.”

“I will as well,” Connor said, and I realized how pathetically grateful I was to have Connor as my captain. The man was quiet but fair, and he didn’t have a bad bone in his body. “I’m concerned how this will impact the team, but for now let’s take this a step at a time.”

Cote nodded. “We’ll get Layton on this,” he announced.

Poor Layton; he was getting all the team shit to deal with.

“Okay,” Cote finally said, “you’ll make contact with the substance abuse program, work on that alongside rehab. It won’t be easy, but I’ve seen players get through this before. I won’t say I’m happy about the situation, but you have the Railers’ support to get you back on the ice where we want to see you.” He leaned forward again and looked right at me. “You belong in this team, Dieter, but make no mistake – if you can’t crack this, we will have to come up with a plan B.”

“I understand.”

I was still looking at Connor, because the player in me needed the reassurance – hell, the approval of my captain. He still didn’t look pissed; equally, he didn’t look like he was throwing his arms out for a life-affirming bro-hug.

But he wasn’t shocked. I could work with that.

Then he nodded. “We’ll get through this together,” he said. He didn’t mean he’d be holding my hand through therapy and the operation, he just meant he had my back.

And now I felt like I wanted to fucking cry.

Cote cleared his throat. “We’ll do a press release about the LBI, state that you’ll be out for the start of the season. Doc here can feedback on progress, and you’ll refer yourself, with our support, to the substance abuse program and get clear and cohesive SAP counseling.”

My stomach sank. I’d expected that; they were investing in me, and they knew that the SAP was the best system for me to get my head right.

“You’re voluntarily making contact, and you will rehab and have counseling, and we’ll take a view…” He looked at the pad on his lap. “Mid-September.”

There was nothing I could say to any of that. They were right. If I wanted the NHL, I had to do what I was told, and they hadn’t taken away my chance of being a Railer.

I just had to prove to them they were right not to give up on me.

But while I sat there scared shitless, with the dark tunnel of pain and rehab ahead of me, I just wanted two things.

I wanted a Percocet to take the edge off.

And I wanted Trent to still want me even though I was fucked.

When I was back in my apartment, I wrote a long text to Trent, my thoughts and hopes, and the fact that I wanted him to talk to me and be there for me and about how sorry I was that I’d messed up.

Then I backspaced it all and sent just two words.

It’s done.