The surgery happens on Monday.
They knock me out at 7 AM and I wake up at noon with my shoulder wrapped in so much gauze and tape that I look like a mummy. My mouth tastes like I licked a battery and my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton.
"Hey."
Sophie's sitting in the chair next to my bed, textbook open in her lap. She looks tired—like she hasn't slept in days. Her hair's in a messy bun and she's wearing the same Northwood hoodie from the game.
"You stayed?" My voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper.
"Obviously." She closes the book. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck."
"You basically did." She stands up and pours water from a pitcher into a small cup. "The surgeon said it went well. Three hours, but no complications."
I take the water with my good hand and drink. It's the best thing I've ever tasted. "Three hours?"
"Yeah. They had to reconstruct the ligaments, reattach everything. Dr. Patel came by earlier—she said you'll be in the sling for at least six weeks, then physical therapy starts." Sophie sits back down, and there's something careful in how she's looking at me. "Evan, she also said... the recovery's going to suck. Like, really suck."
"Great."
"I'm serious. She said most people underestimate how hard it is. The pain, the frustration, the—" She stops herself. "Sorry. You just woke up. I shouldn't be dumping this on you."
"It's fine." I shift in the bed and immediately regret it. Pain shoots through my shoulder like lightning. "Fuck."
"Don't move." She's up again, pressing the call button. "You're supposed to stay still."
A nurse comes in, checks my vitals, adjusts my pain medication. The world goes soft around the edges and I sink back into the pillows.
"Better?" Sophie asks.
"Yeah." The pain's still there but distant now, like it's happening to someone else. "You really didn't have to stay."
"I know."
"So why did you?"
She looks at me for a long moment, and there's something in her expression I can't quite read. "Because you would've done the same for me."
Would I? I want to believe that's true, but we've only known each other two weeks. Less than two weeks, actually. Eight days.
But she's here. And she looks like she's been here the whole time
"The guys came by yesterday," she says, changing the subject. "While you were still out from the anesthesia. Jax cried again."
"Again?"
"Yeah. Ollie brought his laptop and tried to set up a whole streaming setup in your room so you could 'participate in life remotely.' The nurses shut that down real quick. Sam brought crystals—I don't know if they're doing anything, but they're on the windowsill if you want them. And Maya..." She pauses. "Maya didn't bring her notebook."
"That's actually concerning."
"Right? Even Lena seemed worried." Sophie pulls out her phone. "They made a group chat. Called it 'Evan's Recovery Support Squad.' There's already like two hundred messages."
She shows me the screen. I scroll through with my good hand—memes, encouragement, Jax sending photos of himself at the gym with captions like "getting strong so I can carry u around bro," Ollie sharing conspiracy theories about shoulder injuries, Sam posting meditation guides.
And then there's one from Maya, just three words: We miss you.
My throat gets tight.
"They're good people," I manage to say.
"Yeah," Sophie agrees softly. "They really are."
I get discharged Wednesday afternoon with a bottle of pain pills, a physical therapy schedule that looks like a part-time job, and instructions that basically amount to "don't do anything fun for six months."
Sophie drives me back to campus in her beat-up Honda Civic that smells like coffee and determination. My shoulder's throbbing despite the meds, and every bump in the road makes me want to scream.
"Sorry," she says for the fifth time, hitting another pothole. "This car's suspension is shit."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You just made a noise like a dying animal."
"Did not."
"You literally whimpered."
When we get to Webster Hall, the entire third floor is waiting. And I mean the entire floor—people I've never even spoken to are standing in the hallway with a banner that says "WELCOME BACK CHOSEN ONE."
"Oh my god," I mutter.
"They've been planning this since yesterday," Sophie says, looking amused. "Marcus organized it."
Marcus pushes through the crowd, grinning. "There's our superstar! How you feeling, man?"
"Like I got hit by a—"
"A truck, yeah, we know. You've said that like forty times." He pats my good shoulder carefully. "Listen, we know you're out for the season, but you're still part of the team. Still family. Got it?"
Something in my chest cracks a little. "Yeah. Got it."
"Good. Now get some rest. We're playing Friday and we're dedicating the game to you."
"You don't have to do that."
"Too late, already told the announcer." He grins and heads back down the hall.
The crowd disperses slowly, people offering encouragement, fist bumps, careful hugs. When we finally get to my room, Ollie and Sam are inside, and they've completely rearranged everything.
My bed's been moved closer to the window. There's a mini fridge I definitely didn't own before. Someone's set up a small TV on my desk with what looks like every streaming service known to man already logged in.
"What is all this?"
"Recovery station," Ollie says proudly. "You can't really move around much, so we brought everything to you. Fridge has food, TV has entertainment, and—" He points to a robot vacuum in the corner. "I programmed that to bring you stuff."
"You programmed a Roomba to be a delivery service?"
"It's called innovation, Evan."
Sam hands me a smoothie. "It's got protein, antioxidants, and healing energy."
"Does healing energy have a nutritional value?"
"Not scientifically, but spiritually? Absolutely." She smiles. "It's good to have you back."
Sophie helps me get settled on the bed, propping pillows behind me at angles that don't make my shoulder scream. She's careful, methodical, like she's done this before.
"You're really good at this," I say.
"My older brother played football in high school. Torn ACL junior year." She adjusts the final pillow. "I got pretty good at the caretaker thing."
"Is he okay now?"
"Yeah. Plays in college now, actually. Division III, but still." She sits on the edge of my bed. "He said the recovery was the hardest thing he ever did. Harder than the injury itself."
"That's comforting."
"I'm not trying to comfort you. I'm trying to prepare you." Her expression goes serious. "It's going to suck, Evan. Some days you're going to want to quit. Some days you're going to wonder if it's even worth it. But you've got people who are going to make sure you don't give up. Okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Okay," she repeats, softer. Then she stands. "I should let you rest. But text me if you need anything. And I mean anything—food, homework help, someone to complain to. I'm here."
"Sophie—"
"Yeah?"
I want to say something meaningful, something that captures how grateful I am, how much her being here means. But my brain's foggy from the meds and the pain and the exhaustion, and all that comes out is, "Thank you."
She smiles, and it's the kind of smile that makes my chest feel warm despite everything. "Anytime, Ross."
After she leaves, Ollie pulls up a chair. "So. You like her."
"What?"
"Sophie. You like her."
"We're friends."
"Evan, she practically moved into the hospital. Sam and I visited, like, twice. Sophie didn't leave."
"She's just... she's a good friend."
"Right. And I'm just casually into technology." He crosses his arms. "Look, I'm not trying to push you into anything, especially not while you're recovering from major surgery. But for what it's worth? She likes you too."
"You don't know that."
"Everyone knows that. Literally everyone except you, apparently." He stands up. "Just... think about it. When you're feeling better. When your brain isn't 60% pain medication."
He leaves me alone with my thoughts, and that's somehow worse than the conversation.
The next days blur together.
Physical therapy starts on Friday, and it's exactly as terrible as promised. The therapist—a woman named Rita who looks like she could benchpress me—puts me through exercises that make me want to cry.
"You're doing great," she says while I'm definitely not doing great.
"This is torture."
"This is healing." She guides my arm through another stretch and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming. "I know it hurts. But if you don't do this now, you'll regret it later."
After the session, I'm exhausted and angry and in so much pain that the pills barely touch it. Sophie picks me up—she's somehow become my unofficial chauffeur—and doesn't say anything when I slam the car door too hard.
"Want to talk about it?" she asks after a few minutes.
"Not really."
"Okay."
We drive in silence for a bit, and then I break. "I fucking hate this. I hate that I can't play. I hate that everyone else is moving on without me. I hate that my body feels like it's betraying me."
"That's valid."
"I hate that Rita keeps saying it'll get better when it clearly won't. I hate that I found something I'm good at and it got taken away after one game. One fucking game, Sophie."
"I know."
"And I hate that everyone keeps telling me to be patient, to trust the process, to stay positive, when all I want to do is punch something except I can't even do that because my shoulder's fucked."
I'm breathing hard, on the edge of something that feels like crying but angrier.
Sophie pulls into a parking lot—not campus, somewhere else—and turns off the car. Then she looks at me.
"You're allowed to be angry," she says quietly. "You're allowed to hate this. You're allowed to grieve what you lost. Nobody's asking you to be positive all the time."
"Everyone keeps saying—"
"I don't care what everyone keeps saying. I'm telling you it's okay to not be okay." She reaches over and takes my good hand. "But you're not doing this alone. You've got me, you've got the guys, you've got the team. And when you're ready—not now, but when you're ready—we're going to help you come back stronger."
"What if I can't come back?"
"Then we'll figure out what's next. Together." She squeezes my hand. "But I don't think that's going to happen. You're too stubborn to let this beat you."
I look down at our hands, hers warm and steady around mine. "Why are you doing this? Why do you care so much?"
She's quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is softer. "Because I see something in you that you don't see in yourself yet. And I'm not going to let you give up before you find it."
We sit there in the parking lot, hands linked, and something shifts between us. Something I'm not ready to name yet, but I can feel it—the way the air changes before a storm.
"Come on," she says eventually, pulling back and starting the car. "Let's get you home."
Friday night, the team plays without me.
I'm in the stands with Sophie, Jax, Ollie, and Sam. Maya and Lena are there too, and for once Maya's notebook stays closed. We watch as the announcer introduces the starting lineup, and when they get to right wing—my position—they announce it differently.
"And on right wing, playing in honor of the Chosen One... number twenty-three, DEREK CHEN!"
The crowd cheers, but it's subdued. They know. Everyone knows.
I should be down there.
The game starts and I can barely watch. Every play, every shot, every hit—I'm analyzing it, seeing where I would've been, what I would've done differently. It's torture.
"You okay?" Sophie asks during the first intermission.
"No."
"Want to leave?"
"No."
She doesn't push. Just sits next to me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch.
We win 5-2. Marcus gets a hat trick. Matias has four assists. The team's celebrating on the ice, and I'm up here feeling like a ghost.
After the game, Marcus finds me in the hallway. "Hey. You watched?"
"Yeah."
"What'd you think?"
I want to lie, to say they were great, that I'm proud. But what comes out is, "I should've been down there."
Marcus's expression softens. "I know, man. But you will be. This isn't the end of your story, it's just a shitty chapter."
"Feels like the end."
"It's not." He claps my good shoulder carefully. "Trust me. You're going to come back from this. And when you do, you're going to be fucking unstoppable."
I wish I believed him.
That night, lying in bed, unable to sleep because my shoulder's killing me and my brain won't shut up, my phone buzzes.
Sophie: you awake?
Me: unfortunately
Sophie: same
Sophie: recovery's hard
Sophie: watching everyone else move on is harder
Sophie: but you're going to get through this
Sophie: and i'm going to make sure you do
Me: why
Sophie: because someone has to
Sophie: and it might as well be me
Me: sophie
Sophie: yeah?
Me: thank you
Me: for everything
Sophie: you don't have to thank me
Sophie: just get better
Sophie: the team needs their chosen one back
Me: what if i'm not actually chosen
Me: what if it was just luck
Sophie: luck doesn't work that hard in practice
Sophie: luck doesn't push through pain
Sophie: you're not lucky evan
Sophie: you're talented
Sophie: and you're stubborn
Sophie: and you're going to prove everyone wrong who thinks this injury defines you
Me: you have a lot of faith in someone you barely know
Sophie: maybe
Sophie: or maybe i just see something worth having faith in
I stare at that message for a long time, reading it over and over.
Eventually I text back.
Me: same time tomorrow? for PT?
Sophie: 4:45 AM
Sophie: i'll be there
And somehow, knowing she'll be there makes everything feel a little less impossible.