One

Jeremy

June

Jeremy, are you even listening?” My mom’s eyes burn into the side of my face.

There’s no anger hidden in her voice; it’s mainly sadness.

“Son,” my dad’s hand drops on my shoulder, “Dr. Franklin is talking to you, not us.”

I glance at my dad’s hand, resting on my shoulder, and then meet Dr. Franklin’s eyes.

They’re acting like we haven’t already talked about this. They’re acting as if I’ve already forgotten the conversation we had this morning.

“Jeremy,” Dr. Franklin begins, “this is all just to test your cognitive abilities. You were in—”

“A coma for three weeks,” I cut him off. “I know. Trust me, I fucking know.”

“Jeremy.” My mom reaches for my arm, but I know it’s her way of telling me to compose myself.

But how am I supposed to pull myself together?

How am I supposed to sit here and act like everything is okay? Act as if I didn’t just lose everything I’ve worked my whole life for.

Do they really think I’d be fucking losing my mind if I didn’t have every right to be losing my mind?

“It’s okay.” Dr. Franklin reassures my mom. “Honestly, his reaction is tamer than we’re used to.”

“When can I get out of here?” My brows furrow as I study Dr. Franklin’s face.

“We still have quite the road ahead of us, Jeremy.”

“Okay, and I’m looking for a fucking timeline.”

What I really want to know is how long it will be before I can get back on the ice.

I’m expected to be at training camp with the Florida Panthers this September. I can’t just tell them I’m ready to become a Panther and then tell them I actually need more time.

These three weeks have already put me behind. I can’t take any more time in this fucking hospital, with these stupid beeping machines, and these white walls.

I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours, and I already can’t deal with it, let alone for another few weeks.

“I wish I could give you one.” He sits at the bottom of my bed. “Trust me, Jeremy. I wish I could tell you that you’d be out of here by Friday, but you know I can’t do that.”

I’ve known Dr. Franklin since my back surgery during my first year of college, and he hasn’t changed one bit. It’s annoying. I wish he’d lie to me every once in a while. Tell me something because he knows it’s what I want to hear.

“Why?”

“You know why.” He places his hand on my leg, reminding me of why I can’t get out of here today… or tomorrow…

I stare at his hand. I see it resting on my leg. I know it’s there—

But I can’t feel it.

God, I wish I could feel it.

I wish I could look at my legs long enough to force them to feel something. Force them into moving.

But I can’t.

“Jeremy, I know this is hard, okay? I know that there’s only one thing you want right now, and that’s to be on the ice playing hockey, but you need to see this as a win.”

I want to punch him in the face.

My hands still work, so I could.

What does he mean by ‘I need to see this as a win’?

I’ve worked my whole life to make it into the NHL, and in one night, that was taken from me.

“If you weren’t in the shape you were in, you would’ve died. Hell, even in the shape you’re in, the fact that you’re lying here in front of me, alive, is a fucking miracle.”

I don’t know how they don’t see it, how they haven’t realized that this isn’t a miracle. I wish I had died that night.

I’ve only wanted one thing my whole life, there’s only one thing that’s made me who I am—

Hockey.

Without that, I don’t know who I am. I don’t have anything worth living for.

“The guys wanted to stop by.” My mom scoots her chair forward. “They were so excited when we told them you were awake yesterday, but we didn’t want to overwhelm you with guests.”

“I don’t want to see them right now.”

“Jeremy,” my dad sighs, “it’ll be good for you.”

“I said I don’t want to see them right now. Tell them I’m tired.”

“Okay.” She gives in.

I guess you can’t exactly argue with your son who’s lying in a hospital bed, paralyzed from the waist down.

“You do have to speak to the police, Son. Sooner rather than later.”

I don’t remember anything from the accident, so I don’t exactly know what I’d tell the cops. All I know is what I was told when I woke up yesterday, which told me nothing about the accident, and everything about how I shouldn’t be here right now.

The last thing I remember from that night was leaving the training facility. I had been skating for three hours, trying to figure out how to tell the guys I wouldn’t be playing hockey with them in our senior year. I was going to go pro because I was worried the longer I waited, the less likely I was to make it to the NHL.

I left around 1:30 in the morning, and then I woke up in this hospital bed yesterday.

When they told me I’d been in a coma for three weeks, I felt my whole body get numb. Then they told me that I had injured my back pretty badly in the accident, so badly that they didn’t know if I’d be able to walk again.

They still don’t know.

I guess I got lucky, though, because an older man on his way home from work saw my tire tracks leaving the road.

He called 9-1-1, and they found me and rushed me to the hospital.

That was nearly two and a half hours after I would’ve initially been run off the road.

He told the cops he never took that way home, but for some reason, he decided to take the long way home.

His taking the long way saved my life.

It was two days after my accident that cops realized I wasn’t alone on the road that night.

I don’t remember anything, though, again, just what I’ve been told.

Dr. Franklin told me that if I had been found earlier, I might not be in my current situation. He said that the strain of my seatbelt dangling me from my car when I flipped, put more strain on my back.

I wish he had never told me that, but as I said, Dr. Franklin is the most honest doctor I’ve ever had.

“We will have a physical therapist from the hospital come in here in the upcoming days to—”

“To what?” I scoff. “I can’t move my legs, or did you forget that already?”

“We’re going to do everything we can to get you walking again, Jeremy. It may not work, but we’re sure as hell going to try. And that starts with someone coming in here to work with you. And not just on your legs, but getting your body stronger too.”

“And hockey?”

Dr. Franklin looks away.

He’s dodged the question since I woke up yesterday, but I already know the answer. I’m looking at it.

My bare feet are staring back at me, mocking me.

“Let’s take this one day at a time, okay?”

“Will I ever be able to play again?” I beg. “Please, I just—”

“No,” I asked for this. I asked for this knife straight through my heart. “We might be able to get your legs functioning enough that you’ll be able to walk again, maybe even skate one day.”

I want to throw something. Punch something.

I don’t know.

I want out of here, but I can’t leave for multiple reasons.

“Even if you healed up nicely, it’d be too risky, Jeremy. You were already playing hockey on borrowed time. I never thought you’d get back on the ice when you hurt your back over three years ago. And you did. And you were a hell of a hockey player, kid.”

He stands up and taps the frame of the foot of my bed. “But your days of playing hockey are over.”