CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CARTER
It’s late when I finish up at the rink the following night, working with the fresh memory of what happened here yesterday. I thought showing that side of myself would drive her away, but she lapped it up, begged me for more.
I’m exhausted, but my cock doesn’t share the same sentiment, tenting up my pants thinking about Wren’s tight body and haunting eyes, the way her pussy and ass gripped and milked me dry. All those nights spent with my dick in hand and now I have the real thing. I don’t deserve it.
I park the Zamboni and stand at the glass looking into the rink. Even at this late hour it’s calling to me. There’s genuine hope now, hope I might be able to make my way back into the NHL. Coach Williams said himself I was close, to come down tomorrow for training. That is my time to shine, to show everyone Crusher White is back in business, that my time spent inside wasn’t in vain, that I’m physically and mentally prepared to kick ass.
I head into the locker room and gear up, putting on my skates, and heading out onto the ice. It’s slick as a motherfucking mirror, polished to icy perfection.
I’m tired, but I go harder than I should. I work on puck control first before shifting into straight shooting and stickhandling drills. An hour in, I decide to finish up with sprints.
I hear the ice sluicing below as I jet for the other end of the rink, pulling up just before the barrier and skating back with all the speed I can muster.
By the third revolution there’s a whisper of pain in my knee, but I push it aside, decide to carry on.
By the fifth revolution it’s less of a whisper and more of a roar, but still I ignore it, thinking I can power through it.
My arrogance is my undoing.
I’m halfway down the rink when it gives way completely.
It’s hard to describe that kind of pain to someone who’s never experienced it—a deep, stabbing butter knife twisting into your cartilage, bringing you down whether you like it or not.
And I go down—hard.
I’m not wearing a helmet, my head impacts so hard I immediately feel blood spilling from my forehead over the ice, a rosy bloom of it.
I slide and roll, my knee crashing into the ice again and fresh pain lighting up my entire body.
I scream out and release my stick, hands gripping my knee but failing to contain the intense agony.
Stay calm.
I come to a stop on my back. I stare up at the corrugated roof above, the rink lights blaring down.
I breathe across the ice, blood running down into my eye.
I hold my knee, but by doing so I’m only making it worse. I realize I’m doing it because I want to hold it together, to hold the torn remnants of my dream alive.
Forget it. It’s over.
And with that thought the lights above diminish into a pinprick until all is black and quiet.
*
Someone’s slapping my face.
I open my eyes and try to draw focus, thinking it’s Wren, my savior.
But it’s Steve. His face is hashed with worry. He slaps my face again, his voice growing louder in the fog of my head. “Carter?” He looks down my body. “Jesus.”
He wipes my eye. I wince, notice there’s blood on his hand.
It starts to come back to me, and with it comes the pain.
He’s on his cell when I pass out again.
*
I wake up in a white room, which means I’m in one of only two places—a hospital, or a mental institution. As my eyes start to adjust, I’m wishing it was the institution.
A blonde-haired doctor stands beside my bed. “Welcome back, Mr. White.”
It’s déjà fucking vu.
The pain starts to flare. My mouth is dry, my tongue sandpaper. “I fucked it up again, didn’t I?”
The doctor nods. “If you’re referring to your knee, I’m afraid so.”
“How bad?”
“Specifically, you—”
I put my hand up. “Save me the specifics. When can I get back on the ice?”
The doctor looks to the other side of the room where Steve is waiting. “I’m afraid your hockey days are over, Mr. White.”
I slam my head back against the pillow. “Don’t even start with that shit again.”
“The damage,” says the doctor, “is extensive. It was a time bomb waiting to happen, really. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”
Worse? What could be worse?
“Fuck that,” I yell, thrashing in the bed, thrashing until the pain becomes too much.
Steve comes over, tapping the doctor on the shoulder. “Do you mind if we have a moment, Doc?”
The doctor smiles and leaves, thankful to get away.
Steve closes the door before sitting on the bed.
“Where’s Wren?” I ask, scanning the room for her. Everything is pressing down on me. It’s hard to breathe.
“She doesn’t know yet, but I’ll go and get her right away, okay? In the meantime, you have to relax, listen to the doctor.”
I shake my head. “Fuck him. Fuck them all. I’ll play again.”
Steve exhales. “I wish I could sugarcoat this, friend, glitter it up, but it’s a turd of a thing. You’re done—plain and simple. You have to accept that. Accept it and move on.”
My temples start to beat. “I won’t. I can’t.”
“Then you’re a fucking idiot, because that knee ain’t going to magically make itself new. I know you were looking forward to getting back into the game, seeing your name in lights again. Hell, I wish I was still playing sometimes, but life is a bitch, Crusher. You’ve got to take the hands you’re dealt and take the loss like a man if and when it arises.”
“I don’t need clichés.”
Steve nods. “You’re right, but if you’re not going to think about yourself, at least consider your girl. You told me yourself. She’s been through enough. She doesn’t care you’re not going to be a big NHL star again. She’ll probably be thankful for it.”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Steve, and I thank you for helping me out back there at the rink, but this, whatever it is, I’m going to deal with it. I’m going to deal with it in my own way.”
He nods one more time, taking his keys out of his pocket and standing. “Whatever you say, Crusher. Whatever you say.”
*
I sit in front of the fire three days later, who knows how much metal in my knee. I feel like a fucking invalid, a waste of space.
Wren flitters around me, making me soup and coffee, trying to sound upbeat even though we both know what this really is. My dreams are gone.
You still have her.
I want to believe it’s enough, but I can’t be sure any more.
Days pass slowly. I ignore all calls.
I pop painkillers instead. Back after my first injury, I’d mix these little blue boys with whatever I had on hand—vodka, gin, coke, but without any of that on hand I swallow them down dry.
I see the concern mounting on Wren’s face, but the last thing I want is a nurse.
By day seven things have healed enough for me to get back behind the wheel. I stop by The Dirty Duck first, following it up with a trip to the liquor store around the corner, stashing the booze around the house while Wren is in the tub.
We haven’t had sex in almost a week. I know she wants to, maybe I do too. It’s not like I was incapable; the doctor said I could, but I always play it off, pretend to be sleeping or in too much pain.
And that’s the problem. The pain’s far deeper than the knee itself this time.
Because you’re a fucking coward. Because you are weak.
It’s managed to wrap itself around the very thing that had been carrying me along, squeezing the life from it.
But there’s a bigger problem.
This pain. I’m starting to remember it.
I’m starting to remember why I liked it.