“You wanted to see me?” I ask Mike Kingston, Aviators head coach, from the doorway of his office. His head is down and he’s scratching notes on a yellow legal pad feverishly.

He lifts his eyes. “Sit down, Luke.”

His office smells like dirty socks and coffee, but I shuffle in and drop into the chair across from the desk.

“How’re you feeling?” Mike puts his pen down and pushes his notepad to the side, giving me his full attention.

“Great, actually. I’m ahead of where my physical therapist expected me to be and I have another appointment with Dr. Patel next week. Last time he said everything is healing well, so I’m pretty confident that I’m close to being back.” I slide the comment in casually, trying not to let desperation seep into my voice. The last six months off the ice—isolated from the team—have me going crazy.

“But he didn’t clear you yet?” Mike asks.

“Well, no, but . . .”

“Dr. Cammarelli?”

I shake my head and look out the window behind him. “No, I . . .”

“Keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll take it day by day and see what Patel says at your next checkup,” he says. His firm tone tells me the case closed. “I’m glad to hear the update, but that’s not why I called you in today.”

“Oh.” I know the Aviators team doctors have been in touch with all of the surgeons I’ve seen about my injury. When Mike asked me to come in for a meeting, I admit I thought Dr. Patel might have relayed some information to the team that he hadn’t told me. Hope for good news fueled the speed with which I got to the Aviators offices. I thought maybe he’d approved my plea to skate with the team. I’m itching to get out there and see how it goes—maybe throw on a noncontact jersey or something.

“The loss of Brandon has hit all of us pretty hard. How are you doing with it, Luke?”

Mike’s question isn’t out of left field, but it hurts like a puck to the nose nonetheless.

My lip quivers involuntarily at the mention of Brandon Dellinger, former Aviators captain, who took his own life a few months ago. Soon after a concussion sidelined him from the game, he found out Jack, his only child, had lung cancer. For months, everyone in the organization watched him pour his soul into doing everything in his power to help Jack recover.

Brandon was one of my mentors on the team. He and his wife, Ally, even let me stay in one of their guest rooms when I was going back and forth between Charlotte and Detroit frequently. During that time, I watched Jack grow up, thinking of him as a mix between a little brother and a nephew. When he got sick, I sat with Brandon and Ally during chemo and radiation treatments, or sometimes I just sat with Jack when they needed a break.

Brandon, already stressed from being forced to leave the game and trying to handle Jack’s illness, snapped when the doctors told them that Jack’s tumor was not shrinking from treatment. In fact, it had gotten worse. And to make a horrible situation even worse—it was inoperable, meaning there was no way to remove it safely. No matter what treatment route they chose, Jack would never recover.

Ally found Brandon dead in their garage the next day.

Swallowing back a lump, I finally squeak out an answer. “Better. But it’s still hard to believe he’s gone.”

“I know. I spoke with Ally a few days ago. She seems to be doing okay. She’s keeping a calm head, if nothing else.”

I nod. “She’s had a lot of family in town helping.”

Mike better get to the point soon, because I can’t handle this conversation much longer. What Brandon did still pisses me off. It saddens me and depresses me. Then pisses me off again. Why didn’t he say something?

“I know it’s been hard for you since your surgery. We don’t want you to feel like you’re on an island. We feel your absence around here, Luke. There’s something missing, an attitude, an ethic, a vibe—I can’t place it exactly. You know the energy you bring to the team—especially the young guys.” He looks up at me. “What do you think about moving into the Director of Player Development role?”

“Until I can play again?” I ask. I haven’t even been cleared to skate with the team yet, but not one doctor has said my career is over. At my last appointment, Dr. Patel made a point to tell me he was impressed with how well I was healing and how strong I’d already gotten with intense physical therapy and workouts. I took that as a positive sign for the future.

“Luke, you are one of the smartest guys I’ve ever coached—ever. I know being on staff instead of in the locker room seems like a demotion. I know you still have the strength and drive and desire to play, but you don’t have the clearance. And from what Smithy is getting from your doctors, the outlook doesn’t look good.”

My jaw clenches and my shoulders tighten, but I work hard to keep my cool. Though I appreciate the obvious ego stroke regarding the attitude I bring to the team, I’m still not ready to accept that I won’t play again. Not until I get the final word from a doctor—or doctors.

“This role is about mentoring our prospects, which we all agree that you’ll be great at. It’s right in your wheelhouse. You are an asset to this organization, Luke. We don’t want you to feel like Brandon. Depressed, forgotten, like you don’t have a place.”

I don’t point out that Brandon had more problems than just the isolation that goes with the loss of his career. He had a kid with terminal cancer. Though my family life isn’t the greatest, I don’t have that stress.

“I don’t feel that way at all. I know I have a place. I’ll be back on the ice with the boys soon.”

“We have to be realistic though, Luke. You get hit or even whip your head around to see the puck, and boom!” He slams both hands on his desk. “You’re a vegetable. That’s the reality of what could happen.”

“Come on, Mike,” I plead. “That’s a worst-case scenario. You know the surgeon has to say that to cover his ass.”

The fact that he threw in the vegetable line straight from the doctor’s playbook makes me think this proposed “desk job” might be long-term.

He looks me straight in the eyes. “You’re still Luke Daniels, Aviators rising star. The injury doesn’t change that. It just puts your career with the team on a different path. The guys love you, the staff loves you, hell, even the ladies still love you.”

I roll my eyes. Not many girls will choose screwing someone on the Aviators staff over an actual player. That’s the hot puck bunny’s less-attractive-friend territory.

Fuck if I’m going there.

“I’m worried about you.” Coach’s voice holds a hint of concern. After three years of playing for him, Mike Kingston knows exactly how to read my mood swings. It’s his superpower. He gets to know every single guy on a personal level. I swear that’s what makes him so damn good. He knows exactly what buttons to push to open the door to an even bigger issue.

“I feel great, Mike. The surgery repaired the disc. It’s healing well. I’m working my ass off in the gym. If I could reinjure my neck turning my head the wrong way, shouldn’t I be padded in fucking bubble wrap? If anything takes me down, I want it to be hockey, not looking both ways before crossing a damn street.”

“Do you really want to go down either way?”

When I don’t answer, Mike continues, “Take the player-development position. Start working with the young guys and we’ll see what your doctors say. Deal?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I’ll take it.”

“Good. Go home and pack. I need you in Peterborough tomorrow.”

“Really?” I ask. Not that I’m upset about jumping right into my new job. I just don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

“Yeah. I’ll have Eddie call you with the details.” Mike gets up and follows me to the door. He claps a hand on my shoulder, in a way that feels paternal. Maybe I’m just a sucker for any fatherly connection since my dad died. “I know it’s hard when you’re disconnected, but you need to remember that you are a very valuable member of this organization, Luke. And if you need anything, or anyone to talk to, let me know.”

“Thanks, Mike.” I glance at my watch, a silver TAG Heuer that my agent bought me when I scored my first hat trick in the NHL. It was a natural hat trick—three goals in one period. “You plan on being here late?”

“Not if I can help it, but I’ve got a call with Peter. I don’t even know what time it is for him in Finland.” Mike glances back at his desk, then at me, as if I have the answer.

“Fuck if I know. I failed International Time Zones 101,” I quip. “All right, I’m headed out. You want me to bring you back some poutine fries?”

Teasing Mike about poutine, French fries covered in light brown gravy and cheese curds, never gets old. Last time we were in Toronto he ate three huge helpings and got sick. The next day, he still wouldn’t stop bitching about his stomachache, questioning the cleanliness of the roadside chip wagon near the arena we ate at rather than how much of it he took back.

“Asshole,” he grunts, then places his hands on the waist of his running pants. “Sarah says I need to stop eating shit.”

“You’re only saying ‘no’ because it isn’t as good reheated.” I wink at him before heading down the hallway to the exit.

Despite being slightly disappointed about what my new role might mean, I focus on how lucky I am to be part of the Aviators organization. Brandon’s suicide rocked all of us. I appreciate that Mike took my mental state into consideration, and how isolated being injured makes me feel. It’s a classy move to actively look for a way to get me involved with the team even if I’m not in the locker room or joining them on road trips.

I’m not saying I’m letting go of my playing career just yet, but I know enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. A position with the organization gives me a purpose. It allows me to be back in the community. I’ll kick ass at this Director of Player Development shit for a few months and bust my balls to get back on the ice where I belong.