My heart dropped like a stone. “A few months. That means I can’t play for months.”
“Yes.” He met my gaze directly, steadily. “But odds are good that you will be able to play again.”
“What if I wait?”
“You could wait until the season’s over. Depending on when that is for you, you might be able to resume play in the fall in time for training camp. I guess it depends on your pain tolerance.” His eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And your tolerance for how you’re playing.”
“Will I do further damage to it?”
“It’s possible that you could completely rupture the ligament.”
Shit. “What about another cortisone shot?” I already knew what he was going to say, but I had to ask.
“You’ve had four shots in the last”—he peered at my chart—“five months.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t recommend any more. You run the risk of—”
“I know, I know.” I rubbed my face.
“At some point it’s just masking the problem.”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess I have to think about that.”
“Your decision,” he agreed. “We can schedule the surgery fairly quickly if you want to go ahead with it.”
I left the clinic with my head in a sort of fog. I was conflicted. I wanted this pain gone. I wanted to be able to turn a doorknob without pain shooting up my arm. I wanted to take a slap shot without dreading that it was going to hurt like fucking hell. I wanted to get out on the ice with all the confidence I used to feel, knowing I was capable of goddamn anything. I hated the way I felt, what I’d become. I wanted to live up to the hope the team and the fans had in me.
But I didn’t want to let the team down now. I wanted to play. I wanted to help the team in the playoffs and be with them when we tried to win the Cup. We had a shot this year, an actual, realistic shot. Now, with all the damn injuries, I felt like I had to be there to help the team. And I didn’t want to be sitting in the press box when the team won the Stanley Cup—I wanted to be on the ice with them.
I loved hockey. What would I do without it?
Then again, the feeling of dread that filled me before every game, before every shot, the hesitancy I felt when going into a corner, mixing things up…that wasn’t serving anyone well, not me, not the team. I’d learned to compensate in some ways, avoiding movements I knew would hurt, but that slowed me down, made me too tentative. It was eating away at me inside, making me question everything.
I wished Jordyn was with me. I’d almost thought of asking her to come, but that felt pretty pathetic. I was a grown man; I could handle this on my own.
Just would’ve been nice to have someone to talk things through with.
But I could go back to Chicago and talk to her there.
The visceral need I felt for her right then was burning, urgent. And that was terrifying in itself. I couldn’t need someone that much when there was every chance she would reject me if I couldn’t play or be pissed off at me because I wasn’t going to have the surgery right away.
So when I got back to Chicago, I called Brick. And we went out and got drunk.
Chapter 20
Jordyn
Chase had come over a couple of times this week, briefly, but I felt like I hadn’t seen much of him. He’d been so busy with a trip to Winnipeg and Buffalo, and then three home games in a row, every other day, with practices and meetings in between. He’d been putting in extra time on the ice, working on some things with the assistant coach. But tonight, Friday night, he was coming over for dinner and an evening in, catching up and relaxing.
I’d been busy too. My writing was going well. In fact, I was excited about it.
It gave me hope. Optimism. A belief that everything would be okay. I was getting better, and I’d be able to sing again. Chase was finally going to the Mayo Clinic and they’d figure out what was wrong with his wrist and fix it.
It was all going to work out, and I’d even been thinking a lot about Chase and me.
I was falling in love with him. Eh, forget that, I wasn’t falling. I was in love with him, all the way in, in a heart careening, blood singing, joyous kind of way. I missed him when we were apart, couldn’t wait to see him again. I cared about him so much.
It probably started on our very first date, when he took me bowling. No, actually it probably started even before that, when we’d flirted on Twitter and he made me laugh and made my heart flutter even though he was thousands of miles away.
It was the day at the hospital that I realized that my feelings for Chase were deepening. He was so kind to those kids, so caring…I just got lost in it, lost in my admiration and affection and appreciation of him.
I organized the food for dinner—not that I’d cooked, let’s not be crazy—penne with vodka sauce, a salad, and garlic bread on my counter, ready to heat things up and toss the salad when Chase arrived. I also had a bottle of Barolo that had been highly recommended at the store.
Not only had I been writing and daydreaming about Chase, I’d been dreaming about other things. I was supposed to fly back to Los Angeles next week for my appointment with Dr. V. I wanted to go, anxious to know how my throat was healing and if I could start singing. But I also didn’t want to go.
I didn’t want to leave Chase.
The last few months, despite the challenges we were both facing, had been magical.
Why couldn’t I record my album in Chicago? My musicians were spread all over the country right now. With technology these days and multitrack recording, we could probably do it here in my apartment. I smiled at that thought as I pulled two wineglasses out of a cabinet.
Chicago was a big city with some excellent recording studios. I’d done some research and had talked to Joe Ryston, one of the senior mixing and mastering engineers at Tempo Studio. He’d worked with some of the biggest names in the business. Then I’d run the idea past Aaron. He was taken aback, I think, but he was willing to fly in and meet with Joe and his team, and do whatever we had to, to make it happen. I didn’t have to live in L.A. Sure, I’d have to go back there sometimes, and I’d go on tour again, but travel was part of the business. Tonight I was going to talk to Chase about this.
I thought he had feelings for me too. He’d said he didn’t do relationships because he was too selfish, but he wasn’t selfish. I’d seen him with those kids. I’d seen him with his friends. And with me…He’d shown me so many times—in bed, with his generosity and desire to learn what made me feel good and give that to me, but also out of bed, with every date he arranged, every considerate gesture like making sure I was okay with candles on the table, every thoughtful act like bringing me pizza and champagne to watch the Grammys.
The doorman called up to announce Chase and I opened my condo door to let him in. I smiled when I saw he was also carrying a bottle of wine. “Hey, babe.” He wrapped an arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss.
I sank into it, the cool evening air he’d carried in with him dissipating, his mouth warm and hungry on mine. I love you.
“Mmm. Missed you.” He brushed his mouth over mine one more time.
“Me too. Come in.”
He handed me the wine.
“We’ll have lots to drink,” I said with a smile, turning toward my living room.
He was at home here now, hanging his jacket in the closet, following me through the living room to the kitchen.
“Which one should we open?” I held up both bottles.
He eyed them, then lifted a shoulder. “You choose.”
I decided to open the bottle he’d brought. I got out my new corkscrew.
I had a hard time opening bottles of wine, but the first time I’d given Chase a bottle to open, he’d tweaked his wrist. I’d felt terrible and he’d been frustrated, so I’d gone out and bought a fancy corkscrew with a lever that was so easy even I could do it. I poured a glass and handed it to him.
“Thanks.” He waited while I poured my glass, then held up his for a toast.
I touched the rim of my glass to his. “Cheers.” I sipped the wine. “Mmm. Nice.”