It only takes a second to change the game.

And we have less than 120 of them left in this one.

Out of habit, I scan the crowd behind the boards as I skate around the face-off circle. This kid in a “DANIELS” jersey catches my eye. It’s Jordan—who’s probably a teenager by now—sitting next to his dad, Cody. I’ve talked to them at various season-ticket-holder events. They’ve been at every Aviators home game for ten years, and Jordan’s sported my jersey for the last three.

Fueled by an extra zap of pride, I skate around the face-off circle before stopping at the hash marks. Aleksandr Varenkov, the wing on my left side, yells two words. I nod, acknowledging that I understand.

A quick glance tells me my opponent is a lefty. A longer look confirms that I’m matched up against Dan Clausson, the Devils’ leading scorer, which is why the play calls for me to tie him up and try to kick the puck back to Grandy on defense.

We’re up 5–4 with less than two minutes left in the game. As a right-handed shooter, I have no real advantage against him, so I know why coach called the play. My job is to lock him up and secure possession so Grandy can clear the zone.

Sweat rolls off my nose and my knees shake as I bend over the face-off circle. I widen my stance and crouch low to the ice. The linesman holds the puck between us, and Clausson slides into the circle.

“Back up!” the linesman snaps at him.

Clausson gets back into position, crouching like I am, waiting for the puck to drop. My gaze doesn’t waiver from him. Normally, I’d be watching the puck, but that isn’t the play. All I need to see is the linesman’s hand out of the corner of my eye to know when to move.

When his wrist flicks to release the puck, I slam Clausson’s stick with mine and hold it as I spin into him. Then I sail the puck back to Grandy with my skate. Exactly as planned.

Clausson hacks me across the back of the legs as I skate away, but it doesn’t matter. I’d won the face off and we have possession.

I trust Grandy, one of our veteran guys, to sail the puck to safety, but instead he circles the back of the net and starts up the ice. Varenkov and I switch to offense quickly, crossing at center ice to get in position, but Grandy gets checked hard, loses possession and falls flat on his ass. The puck slides into the corner to the right of our goal.

“Shit,” I hiss, noticing Varenkov is tied up, so I hustle over, breathing hard and pushing every muscle possible to get to that puck first.

I’ve been playing hockey since I was three years old. In theory, I know I should have some awareness of the situation, like a quick glance up while digging to get the puck out of the corner. But I’ve got my head down, engrossed in clearing the zone.

Which means I don’t see him coming until it’s too late.

“Fuck!” The sound of crunching bones is louder than the thump of being slammed against the boards. I feel a snap when my head hits the ridge at the bottom of the glass. My legs buckle and I fall onto my side.

Someone has already come in and swept the puck away, but I want to get back into the play. I roll onto my knees, place one skate on the ice and heave myself onto both blades. When I bend down to grab my stick, my right arm won’t work. It hangs at my side despite my brain telling it to move.

What the fuck?

I lean over and snatch the twig with my left hand, then hustle to the bench.

Smithy, better known as Geoff Smith, Aviators athletic trainer, claps my shoulder. “What’s up, Capper?”

Some people think my nickname comes from the fact that I’ve been the captain on every team I’ve ever played for—most recently the Detroit Pilots before being called up to Charlotte. Nope.

The first time I got moved up to the Aviators, one of the guys mentioned that I look like a young Leonardo DiCaprio. Somehow “Capper” came out of that. I don’t think I look like the actor at all, but the name could be worse. I know I’ve given guys some shitty nicknames in my time.

Holding my left glove between my knees, I tug my hand out. Then I tap my right arm in various places, trying to stimulate some life into it. “My fucking arm’s all numb. I can’t even hold my stick.”

Smithy glances at the scoreboard. “I’ll get Dr. M. Come on back.”

I pause, reluctant to leave the bench with less than a minute left, even though my arm is tingling like it’s asleep.

“All right, Capper?” Coach Kingston yells to me.

I nod. Instead of following Smithy to the locker room to meet with Dr. Moore, one of our team physicians, I stay planted on the bench and say, “I can wait a minute, Smithy. It’s no big deal.”

No reason to say anything right now. My arm would come back to life in a few minutes. Nothing to worry about.

Three weeks have gone by since the game against the Devils, when my right arm went numb and tingly, and I still haven’t been able to fully use it. Which is why I’m in Ann Arbor waiting to meet with Dr. Aziz Patel, who is the third orthopedic surgeon I’ve met with about the injury.

Dr. Moore told me to meet with the first guy, who works with Carolina Medical Network, which is affiliated with the Aviators. Because of the of nature my injury, he immediately referred me to Dr. Cammarelli, the chief of spine service at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York. Cammarelli also serves as spine consultant for the NHL, which is the main reason both the team orthopedic surgeon and my agent urged me to see him.

When his grim prognosis pissed me off, I set an appointment with Dr. Patel at the University of Michigan, who is the surgeon the NHL Players Association always recommends. I’m hitting all the big dogs, hoping one of them will give me good news.

No such luck. Yet.

“Did you hear me, Luke?” Dr. Patel asks.

“It’s not that bad,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time since my injury. I rub the back of my neck out of habit, though it feels good on the swollen muscles underneath.

“A prolapsed cervical disc compressed onto your spinal cord. It’s a very serious injury. You’re going to need surgery.”

I smile and shake my head. A sore neck and some random numbness requires rest, not surgery. This isn’t my first injury—or my first interaction with a doctor who needs the money to pay for a secret apartment for his mistress.

“I get that.” I lean back, trying to get comfortable in the stiff, green leather chair across from the surgeon. “But it can wait until after the season ends, right?”

“I would advise you to have the surgery as soon as possible.”

Rolling my eyes and tapping my fingers against my knee, I zone out, thinking about everything I need to do when I get back to Charlotte this afternoon. We leave for a West Coast road trip tomorrow morning and I didn’t pack for it before I left for this appointment. I haven’t even run by the dry cleaner to pick up my favorite suit yet. Hope it’s open when I get back.

“Luke,” he says in a firm tone that makes me snap to attention. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. This is serious.”

“Worst-case scenario.” Absently, I rub my right bicep with my left hand, an attempt to stimulate life where it’s numb. It doesn’t work, yet I still try.

“Excuse me?”

“Give me the worst-case scenario, doc. Let’s say I keep playing and don’t get surgery right now. What’s the worst that can happen?” I stretch my legs out and cross them at my ankles. I’ve been skating since I was two, playing hockey since I was four, and training at a high level since before I hit adolescence. I can handle any rehab a physical therapist throws at me. Hard work doesn’t worry me, it motivates me.

“You want the worst-case scenario, Luke?” he asks. “You’ll wake up in a pile of your own shit because you have no feeling below the neck. How does that sound?”

“You’re just trying to scare me,” I say, though the words come out much softer than I intend. Or maybe they don’t seem loud because all I can hear is the sound of my heart thumping hard and fast.

It should scare me, since this is the second doctor to tell me that.

Dr. Cammarelli had said the same thing in a slightly different way—then asked me to leave his office after I chucked an empty water bottle across the room.

“You should be scared. The injury you have makes you very vulnerable, even in your everyday life. If you sleep on it wrong you could wake up paralyzed. Playing hockey is just plain stupid.”

The hair on my arms bristle at the attack on my intelligence. I pause to let his words sink in. The injury is worse than I’d ever admit. I’m used to playing through pain, but I’d never had a stiff neck that makes my right arm so numb I can’t fully grip my stick. This is completely out of my wheelhouse.

“Fine. I’ll have the surgery.” Even before I stepped into Dr. Patel’s office, I’d already resigned myself to the fact that surgery is the first step. “What kind of time frame am I looking at after? A month? Two?” I ask. “Will I be back for the playoffs?”

Dr. Patel’s lips slide from a frustrated scowl to a grim line. “You’ll most likely have to retire, Luke.”

“Fuck that!” The words fly out of my mouth without filter as I jump to my feet. “Doc, I’m only twenty-six.”

Dr. Cammarelli hadn’t mentioned retirement during my appointment. He talked about rehab and keeping a close eye on how the disc healed and how I felt during that time. Dr. Patel’s fearmonger approach is absolutely ridiculous. Retirement is out of the question.

No one in the Aviators organization has mentioned retirement. They’ve encouraged my rehab and helped me find the best doctors to meet with.

Dr. Patel stands, as well. “Surgery will alleviate the pain and bring back feeling in your limbs.” He glances at my arm as if he knows I haven’t told anyone the entire truth. “But it isn’t a cure. If you reinjure the disc, you could be paralyzed instantly. I’m sorry, Luke. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”

“Fuck this. Just clear me to play.” Sweat beads on my forehead and I make a scribbling motion with my hand. “Give me something to sign that says I understand everything you said, and I’ll take full responsibility for the consequences.”

“I can’t clear you to play with your injury,” he says firmly. “I won’t clear you.”

I lean forward and meet his gaze. “Well if you don’t, then I’ll find another doctor who will,” I threaten. My right arm tingles as my hands tighten into fists. “I’m not gonna sit out for a fucking stiff neck.”

“I know you’ve seen other doctors already, Luke.” Dr. Patel takes a deep breath and walks around his desk, stopping next to me. “And I know how hard this is to hear. As tough as our bodies are, they can also be very fragile. I encourage you to do what’s best for it now, so you can live a healthy, active life. Let’s start with surgery and see how it goes, okay?”

He pats my shoulder softly and moves toward the door. I don’t turn around, too angry to face him, although I’m not mad at him. I’m mad that a routine hit into the boards caused some fucking fluke injury that’s threatening to end my career.

“I’m going to have Lucy bring in some information. Take a look, talk to whoever you need to on the team. But I suggest getting it scheduled as soon as possible.”

When the door closes behind him, I collapse onto the ugly green chair and drop my face into my hands. Comprehension of what he’s actually saying crushes me. According to Dr. Patel, I may have already played my last hockey game. I can’t accept that. I can’t understand that. There’s no possible way a stupid stiff neck could be that bad. He’s got to be fucking kidding.

What am I going to do? I don’t know anything but hockey. I don’t want to know anything else. I don’t have a college degree. I don’t even have a fucking Stanley Cup yet.

Focus, Luke. Focus.

Think positive and come up with a solution. I’ll have the surgery, do any kind of physical therapy I need to get healthy and strong again, and get my ass back on the ice. There have to be stories of athletes who have come back from this type of injury.

For some reason, my thoughts flash back to juniors in the WHL, when I delivered a wicked check on a kid who was skating up the middle of the ice with his head down. It was clean, but, man, did I rock him. Probably saw constellations for the rest of the night. He had to be taken off the ice on a stretcher, which is never good to see. I followed up with our coach that night to make sure he was okay. Thankfully, their coach said the guy was fine.

Not sure what makes me think of that particular scenario. And I can’t think of the kid’s name for the life of me, or even what team he played for—maybe Spokane?

The office door opens behind me. “Hi, Luke. Dr. Patel sent me in here to go over this paperwork with you.”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, flushing out the fear as I exhale. “Let’s do it.”

Taking hold of the clipboard Lucy hands me, I start scribbling my information on the papers. I should probably weigh the pros and cons of choosing Dr. Patel over Dr. Cammarelli. They’re both consultants for the NHL, so I really can’t go wrong. For me, there’s really no question, since Dr. Patel is in Ann Arbor, which is about an hour from Detroit. That’s really what seals the deal. After playing in the Pilots organization for years, I feel better being close to people I know. Plus, there’s a girl here I used to hook up with who would drop everything to be my “nurse” over the next few weeks.

Retirement—the worst-case scenario—swirls around in my head, but I quickly shut those thoughts down. This isn’t the first challenge I’ve ever faced in my life.

It won’t be the last, either.