Body Check: Blades Hockey

by Luis, Maria

  Jackson fidgets under my touch. “Listen, Carl, I think it’s great that you’re a fan but—”

  “I asked the bartender if he could play us My Heart Will Go On.”

  Oh, oh this is too good.

  Conspiratorially, I lean toward Carl. “You mean, like karaoke?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man smile the way Carl does now. He positively lights up at the mere thought of rocking it out to some Celine with his athlete crush, Jackson. “That would be lovely!” he exclaims, hands already forming a fake mic and a stand. In pure mime fashion, he dips the invisible stand like he’s impersonating Elvis Presley, and even begins to tap one foot in beat to the rhythm playing in his head.

  “I think I need to piss.”

  “You’re fine,” I tell the terrified man beside me as he eyes the bathroom over the sea of heads. “You play in front of thousands of fans weekly. What’s one little song with a fan?”

  His dark eyes narrow to slits. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he grinds out, mouth next to my ear, “how about you find out with me?”

  I jerk back. “No way am I singing with y’all. No effing way.” Pointing at my chest, I feel my anxiety spark to life. “I’m the woman behind the camera, not the one in front of it.”

  Jackson quirks a brow. “Scared?”

  “Yes. Are you kidding me? Of course I’m scared.”

  “Great, I am too. Let’s go.” Jackson wraps a hand around mine. “Carl, you comin’? I’m doing this one time and one time only. You’re in or you’re out.”

  Carl chose to be in, which is how the three of us end up belting out My Heart Will Go On before all of our peers while we wait for the Getting Pucked episode to begin at the start of the hour. Much to my chagrin, Carl doesn’t take center stage, apparently more content to remain in the background and hum the melodies.

  Unfortunately, both Jackson and I are completely tone-deaf and only know half of the words.

  I try to make up for it by bringing in my old dance skills and prancing about the makeshift stage—we’re standing on a rug, literally—while all eyes are glued on us. Jackson, for all of his skills on the ice, might as well be a tree. He sways a little, mic close to his mouth, and watches the ceiling like he keeps hoping it’ll open up and drop down on him.

  His teammates are beside themselves.

  Beaumont throws dollar bills at us, hollering for Jackson to sing louder for the peeps in the back of the crowd.

  Hunt has Gwen, his wife and my publicist, clutched to him as he twirls her around.

  Even Coach Hall is laughing at his captain’s expense.

  “All for the fans,” Jackson had muttered before Celine came blasting over the loudspeakers.

  I dance up to him now, my free hand reaching out to clasp his. He stares at me, eyes round, no doubt trying to dissuade me from making this even more like hell for him.

  Too late.

  There’s nothing I love more than to see Jackson Carter lose control.

  “Love was when I love you,” I sing into the microphone, not even bothering to wince when my voice cracks. I’m no Celine Dion, folks, but I am Holly Carter, and I’m ready to make Jackson come undone. “One true time I hold tooooo!”

  The tense lines in his face break.

  I coast my palm over his chest, swinging my hips. My gaze meets his, and this time, I’m the one issuing the dare, the challenge. “Your turn, Cap. Sing to me.”

  He looks at me like he wouldn’t mind throwing me over his shoulder and tossing me out of The Box forever.

  He looks at me like I’m all he’s ever wanted, even when I’m hell-bent on driving him insane.

  And then, in front of everyone and their mother (literally), Jackson sings to me.

  It’s awful, maybe even as bad as his cooking. His husky pitch never climbs high enough to hit the notes and he stumbles his way through the chorus with red cheeks. When Weston Cain shouts at us to get a room, Jackson only flips him the bird and proceeds to throw his head back, one arm jabbing forward like he’s playing a set of drums. The grand finale comes with a crack in his voice and a dramatic wiggle of his hips.

  I laugh so hard that I have tears gathering in my eyes.

  I laugh so hard that when the bartender takes mercy on us all and switches the music off mid-word, cutting Jackson off, I double over and breathe through my nose before I pass out from sheer joy overload.

  A warm hand grazes my lower spine, flirting with the waistband of my skirt, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which person those fingers belong to. Jackson touches me like he owns me, body and soul, and I can’t deny anymore that he does.

  He tangles our fingers together, and then he’s bent over too and whispering in my ear, “Happy now?”

  I kiss the corner of his mouth. Then whisper back, “Always you.”

  His hand tightens reflexively around mine. “Fuck, Holly. You have no idea how much that—”

  “Carter!”

  We jerk upright, and my gaze flicks over the crowd. At my ninety degrees, I watch as the Blades’ on-hand doctor comes striding toward us.

  Jackson breaks our connection and shoves his hand through his hair. He blows out a heavy breath that sounds rife with sudden tension. “John, man, hey.” He reaches out a hand to shake the doctor’s. “How’s everything?”

  “Good.” John spares me a barely there glance. “Listen, you got a sec? I know the show’s about to start, but I got your voicemail and wanted to catch you before I head out on vacation on Monday.”

  For as many years as Jackson’s been with the Blades—or any NHL team—it’s never been a secret that the team doctor is persona non grata for the players. On a personal level, I’m sure none of them have a problem with John. He’s a good guy, has a great family whom I’ve met a few times, and who always wants the best for the team. Professionally, though, a meeting with John means that something is wrong.

  Until now, I didn’t realize that anything was wrong with Jackson, at all.

  I politely excuse myself to give them privacy to talk about whatever it is that Jackson left the voicemail about. My ex-husband sends me a quick, beseeching look over his shoulder that I can’t even begin to decipher. When John thumps a hand on Jackson’s back, the look turns to stone and he twists away.

  He’s wearing his gameday face. That stony expression is the same one that filters over his face like a mask the minute he steps on the ice and decimates his opponents.

  Unease slithers through my veins.

  I should wait for Jackson to tell me whatever it is that he’s keeping a secret. Eavesdropping on his conversation would hurt the trust we’re so desperately trying to rebuild. My hands curl in at my sides, and I’m surprised how physically torn I feel between walking away or stepping in close to overhear what’s going on.

  I’m a safe bet, he told me two weekends ago.

  The truth is, I love Jackson. I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving him. And I won’t stoop to listening in on his conversation to learn why his smile disappeared and he looked back at me like he was being led to the gallows.

  In the end, I pay the bartender for a glass of wine and then find an empty seat to watch the mid-season finale. He’ll tell me when he’s ready—and, whatever it is that’s troubling him, I’ll prove to him that we’ll face it together.

  33

  Jackson

  I don’t want to be alone.

  It’s the first thought that enters my mind when I pull into an empty spot at the Mass General parking lot on Monday morning. Quickly, I scan the digital clock on the dashboard.

  11:14.

  I have sixteen minutes until my appointment with Dr. Mebowitz.

  I’m dreading the hell out of it, especially now that I know all the issues I’ve been having aren’t related to any undiscovered spinal injuries. John, the team doctor, assured me that I looked in tip-top shape after reviewing all my scans.

  “Excuse the corniness, but you’re as healthy as an ox, Cap,” he’d told
me at the Getting Pucked mid-season finale watch-party. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary. Some swelling in the joints, that fissure in your patella that’s never really healed. But other than that? You’re solid and looking great for the season.”

  You’re solid and looking great for the season.

  The words felt like a punch to the gut. Wasn’t that the fucked-up truth? To the random onlooker, I don’t look ill. I don’t have any bones bursting through the skin or a lopsided gait thanks to a limp.

  I look just fine.

  If only my brain would get on the same playing field.

  Dragging in a fistful of air, I drop my forehead to the top of my steering wheel.

  For over a year, I’ve ignored the signs: the constant headaches, the regular fogginess, the sluggishness when I play hard on the ice, and the way my body has begun to feel like it’s always one step behind my brain.

  Without hockey, who am I?

  I don’t know. I don’t fucking know!

  Another glance at the clock reveals that time is ticking away from me.

  11:21.

  I need to go inside. I need to do something besides sit in my car and stress about factors that I can’t change. I can’t change that I’ve had concussions. I can’t change that I fell in love with a sport that has done damage to my body, in a way that remains invisible to everyone but me. I can’t change that I live for the sound of skates slashing over ice or the feeling of pride that I experience every time I pull on my Blades jersey.

  I’m no idiot. I’ve played in The Show for longer than many other players will ever have the chance to do. I’ve left my mark on the sport, both through my own successes and the work I’ve done with the rookies each year.

  Call me crazy but walking up to this appointment feels like I’m going through another divorce all over again.

  11:27.

  “Fuck.”

  Throwing the door open, I shoot out from the car and head for the entrance. My strides are quick, clipped, as I angle past doctors in white coats and patients as they’re shuffled from one room to another. Some of them look sick: jaundiced skin, thin bodies.

  Some, like myself, show no outward signs of having anything wrong.

  The Badass of Hockey isn’t feeling so badass today, I think, as I palm open a swinging door and wait for the elevator that’ll bring me to Dr. Mebowitz’s office. When it pings! I step inside, head down. Pull out my phone and check the time once more.

  11:33.

  I’m late. Well, at least I’m not a year late like the first time I showed up here.

  The elevator doors swing open and I step out, feeling like I might vomit. My stomach twists unpleasantly—to say nothing of the pounding coming to life in my head. And then I finally admit to myself what I haven’t wanted to for so long: I’m terrified. I’ve always been a man who takes what life throws at him with a grain of salt. I rule with confidence, strength, and control. But with this . . . with this, I’m scared fucking shitless.

  I don’t want to do this alone.

  My heart thuds erratically in my chest as I fumble for my phone.

  “Ah! You’re here, Mr. Carter. I was beginning to think that you were going to stand me up for yet another year.”

  I thumb through my contacts, praying to the cell-phone-service gods, until I come across her name. Stepping back, I mutter something unintelligible to the doctor before I give him my back and eye my phone’s screen for the little bars to shoot to full service.

  “C’mon,” I grind out, “c’mon, c’mon, you motherfucker—”

  There! Right there.

  I lock my feet in place, tap on Holly’s name, and wait.

  And wait.

  And fucking wait some more until—

  “Hello?” comes her sweet voice over the line, and my knees nearly collapse with relief. “Jackson?”

  My voice emerges as a rasp, “I need you.” I slam my lids shut and tilt my face up like I’m going to wish on a fake shooting star in the middle of a damn hospital. “I’m at Mass General. Dr. Mebowitz—he’s in neuropathology.”

  Her panicked gasp echoes in my ears, and I rush to add, “I’m okay. I mean, I’m not. But it’s not . . . it’s not an accident.” I swallow thickly, the emotions tangling in my throat as the anxiety latches onto my lungs. “I need you here with me, Holls. Fuck, I—I need you.”

  “I’m coming. Whatever it is, I’m there, okay?” There’s the sound of a door slamming shut and jangling keys. “I’ll be there in fifteen—in the car now. I love you, Jackson. I love you so damn much.”

  There’s the click of the line going dead.

  And then I turn around and walk into Dr. Mebowitz’s office, feeling like I’m walking into my execution.

  I love you, Jackson.

  My ass collides with the same chair I took last time, and I wait.

  For whatever news Dr. Mebowitz is about to hand over.

  For the woman I love more than life itself to get here and take my hand.

  For my life as a hockey player—as captain of the Blades—to come crashing to an end.

  34

  Holly

  I don’t remember the drive from my office to Mass General.

  In full honesty, I don’t remember much besides the tremble in my hands and Jackson’s words on repeat in my head: I need you here with me, Holls.

  He needs me.

  He needs me.

  He needs me.

  It’s on a constant loop, never lessening to anything else but a thunderous roar in my head.

  By some twist of fate, I spot Jackson’s car in the parking garage and pull my vehicle into the empty spot two down from his. I’d been on my way to a photo shoot with the Boston Celtics when he called, my backpack slung over one shoulder as I took the stairs down to my car.

  I cancelled the photo shoot via email, my brain so wired on Jackson that I didn’t even think to send my team there without me. No, my brain went to one thing only: Jackson was in trouble and nothing else mattered.

  I leave my backpack on the passenger’s seat where I tossed it haphazardly upon first getting in my car. If someone wants to be a jerk and steal it while I’m at a hospital, let them have it.

  With lightning-quick steps, I hustle out of my car and toward the hospital with only one destination in mind.

  I’m forced to ask for directions twice before I finally find Dr. Mebowitz’s office. My fist hammers on the closed door, matching the beat of my heart, before I hear two masculine voices talking.

  The door swings open.

  “Ah, Mrs. Carter.” The doctor staring down at me smiles widely. “I’m so pleased you could make it.” He steps to the side, gesturing for me to slip past him. “Come in, come in. Jackson has been waiting for you.”

  Seated in a chair before a behemoth-sized desk, Jackson props an arm on the back of the seat and twists his torso. Meets my gaze silently.

  We don’t need words, not in this moment. To anyone else, I’d have no doubt that they’d take one look at him and see the Jackson Carter he’s always portrayed to the world: formidable, unshakable, with confidence that borders the line of arrogance.

  But I know him, and what I read in his dark eyes shatters me.

  Oh, Jackson.

  “Coffee or tea?” Dr. Mebowitz asks me. “If you’d like either, I’ll have my secretary bring us some.”

  I shake my head. No, no coffee or tea.

  Silently, I take the empty seat next to Jackson’s. Without waiting for him to move first, I reach out and slip my hand through his. Squeeze his fingers once, just to let him know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

  We’re a family. We’re in this together, no matter what a slip of paper says.

  He’s utterly silent as he tugs our clasped hands up, up, up and presses a kiss to my knuckles. And then, so softly I almost don’t hear it, “Always you, sweetheart. Always you.”

  Everything in me goes taut at the whispered words, meant for my ears only. I won’t cry, not h
ere in an office in front of a doctor I don’t even know, but those are definitely pinpricks of tears blurring my vision right now.

  With nothing to wipe them dry with, I settle for accepting that this is who I am right now: a woman so in love with a man that she’ll drop everything, everything, to be his knight in shining armor. For the length of our marriage, Jackson was the one, out of the two of us, who remained completely unflappable. He rescued me, fed my high on him and on love.

  It’s my turn to return the favor—and I do.

  As Dr. Mebowitz explains to me about traumatic brain injuries and CTE and his early suspicions as to Jackson’s symptoms, I don’t cry. I don’t whimper, even when each word feels like a knife being dragged through my heart. I remain strong because Jackson needs me to be.

  Never once do I let go of his hand.

  “And these tests—when will they happen?” I ask.

  Dr. Mebowitz fingers through a calendar planner. “Sooner rather than later. They’ve been set up by my team, now that we’ve ruled out any possible skeletal possibilities.” As though realizing he’s given us a lot to digest, he presses a flat palm to the calendar. “This is not . . . this is not a short case study, Jackson. I’ve had players just like yourself walk in here with no memory to speak of, others who’ve lost the ability to walk. The longevity of which you’ve been experiencing all of your symptoms leads me to make the assessment that you do have TBI. And, perhaps, maybe, CTE—although that remains to be seen.”

  “But?” I push, when he trails off.

  “But, you are certainly an early case. That works in our benefit, to be sure.”

  “And hockey?”

  “I’ll need to quit.”

  My head jerks toward Jackson. “You don’t know if it’ll come to that. Tests first, right, Dr. Mebowitz? The season is—”

  “A month in.” Jackson tugs his hand from mine, elbows dropping to his thighs and his head falling into his upturned hands. He looks . . . broken. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hug him more. “You heard what he said. I could—I could forget everything. What kinda life is that to live, Holls? Me and you, say we have kids in two, three years. You want me forgetting things that they’ve done? Parts of our life that I no longer remember to tell them?”