Week two of recovery, and I'm learning that physical pain has nothing on the psychological kind.
My body's healing—slowly, painfully, but healing. The shoulder's still a disaster, but Rita says I'm making progress. The problem is my brain won't shut up about everything I'm missing.
It's Tuesday morning, 6 AM, and I'm sitting in the rink watching the varsity team practice. I'm not supposed to be here. I should be in bed, resting, following doctor's orders. But sleep stopped working three days ago, and lying in the dark thinking about hockey is worse than actually watching hockey.
Or so I thought.
Matias is running drills with the first line, and he moves like water over ice—effortless, precise, impossible. I watch him take a pass, deke two defenders, and go bar-down from a bad angle. The goalie doesn't even react. By the time his glove moves, the puck's already in the net.
"You are here early."
I turn. Matias is skating toward me, practice apparently on break. His English has gotten better in the two weeks since we met, or maybe I'm just getting used to his accent.
"Couldn't sleep," I say.
He nods, like this makes perfect sense, and leans against the boards. Up close, he's even more intimidating—all sharp angles and focused intensity. "Your shoulder?"
"Among other things."
"Physical therapy is going okay?"
"Rita's trying to kill me, but yeah."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Good therapist always trying to kill you. This is how you know they care." He's quiet for a moment, watching his teammates skate. "I have injury before. In Finland. Knee. Out for four months."
"What was that like?"
"Terrible." He says it plainly, no drama. "Worst part is not the pain. Is watching everyone play without you. Thinking maybe they do not need you anymore."
"Yeah."
"But then you come back. And you are different. Stronger, maybe. More... hungry." He looks at me. "You will come back. I see this."
"How do you know?"
"Because you are here at 6 AM when you should be sleeping. This is not someone who gives up." He pushes off the boards. "When you are ready—really ready—we train together. I show you things. Make you better than before."
"Why would you do that?"
He shrugs. "Because talent is... rare thing. Would be waste to lose it." Then he skates away, back to drills, leaving me sitting there with something that almost feels like hope.
Classes are their own kind of nightmare.
I'm behind on everything. Between the injury, surgery, and recovery, I've missed two weeks of school. Two weeks doesn't sound like much until you realize it's basically a month in college time, where professors act like you should've read the entire textbook in the first week.
Professor Harland's Economics class is my first one back, and walking in feels like returning to a crime scene. Everyone stares. Some people whisper. One guy gives me a thumbs up.
I slide into my usual seat in the middle, trying to be invisible.
"Well, well," Harland's voice cuts through the room. "Mr. Ross. The prodigal student returns."
Everyone turns to look.
"Uh, hi," I manage.
"How's the shoulder?"
"Broken."
"Separated," he corrects. "Important distinction. One implies fracture, the other implies ligament damage. Accuracy matters in economics and in anatomy." He takes a sip from his flask—I'm 90% sure it's not coffee. "You've missed three lectures and two assignments."
"I know, I was in the hospital—"
"I'm aware. I'm also aware that you have access to the recorded lectures online and that assignments can be submitted electronically." His expression doesn't change. "I'm not unsympathetic to your situation, Mr. Ross. I'm simply saying that physics don't care about your injury, and neither does your GPA."
Someone in the back snickers.
"However," Harland continues, "you have until Friday to catch up. After that, no exceptions. Clear?"
"Yes sir."
"Good. Now, where were we..." He turns back to the board, and the attention finally shifts away from me.
After class, the girl who sits next to me—I think her name's Jessica—stops me in the hallway.
"That was harsh," she says.
"He's not wrong though."
"Still harsh." She adjusts her backpack. "If you need notes or anything, I'm pretty organized. Well, organized by college student standards, which means barely functional but better than chaos."
"Yeah, actually, that would be great."
She pulls out her phone. "What's your number?"
I give it to her and she sends me a Google Drive link. "Everything's in there. Fair warning—my handwriting's terrible, but the typed stuff should be readable."
"Thanks. I really appreciate it."
"No problem. Also..." She hesitates. "That goal in your first game? Before you got hurt? That was insane. My boyfriend plays for Riverside and he said you came out of nowhere."
"Your boyfriend's on Riverside?"
"Unfortunately. Makes for interesting game days." She grins. "Anyway, feel better. And don't let Harland get to you. He acts like he doesn't care, but he kept asking if anyone had heard from you."
She leaves, and I'm left standing there wondering if Harland actually has a heart under all that cynicism.
Lunch is in the dining hall with the usual crew, except now I need help carrying my tray because one-handed food transportation is harder than it looks.
"I got you," Sophie says, materializing next to me and grabbing my tray before I can protest.
"I can do it myself."
"Your lunch is actively sliding off the plate. You cannot do it yourself."
She's right. The mac and cheese is staging a coup.
We sit down with everyone else. Jax is eating approximately seven pounds of chicken breast, Ollie's doing homework on his phone under the table, Sam's reading a philosophy book while eating a salad, and Maya's observing everyone with her notebook out.
"He's back in classes," Maya announces, writing something down. "Day twelve of recovery. Emotional state: frustrated but hiding it. Physical state: worse than he's admitting."
"Can you not psychoanalyze me while I'm eating?"
"That's when you're most vulnerable. Best time for observation."
Lena appears with a tray and sits down. "Heard Harland called you out."
"News travels fast."
"It's a small school and everyone's obsessed with you now." She steals one of Jax's chicken pieces. He doesn't even notice. "How are you actually doing?"
The question catches me off guard. Not the words, but the way she asks—direct, no bullshit, actually wanting to know.
"Honestly? It sucks. Everything hurts, I'm behind on school, I can't play, and everyone keeps asking how I'm doing, which makes me think about how I'm doing, which makes me feel worse."
"Fair," Lena says. "Want people to stop asking?"
"Kind of, yeah."
"Cool. Everyone, stop asking Evan how he's doing."
"But—" Jax starts.
"Nope. New rule. If he wants to talk about it, he'll bring it up. Otherwise, we treat him like a normal person instead of an injured baby bird."
There's a moment of silence, then Sam nods. "I can respect that. Buddha teaches us to meet people where they are, not where we think they should be."
"Buddha did not say that," Ollie mutters, still on his phone.
"He would have if he'd been in a group chat."
Sophie's been quiet this whole time, but when I glance at her, she's smiling slightly. She catches me looking and mouths "thank you" at Lena, who just shrugs.
The conversation shifts to other things—Jax's gym drama, Ollie's conspiracy about the dining hall reusing pasta, Maya's latest research subject (some poor freshman who doesn't know he's being documented). It's normal. It's easy.
And for the first time in two weeks, I'm not thinking about my shoulder.
That afternoon, I have my second PT session with Rita, and she's brought a friend.
"Evan, this is Marcus," she says, gesturing to the team captain who's grinning like he knows something I don't.
"We've met," I say.
"Rita called me," Marcus explains. "Said you might need some... motivation."
"Oh god."
"Specifically, she said you've been holding back because you're afraid of the pain. Which is stupid, because PT is supposed to hurt."
"It's not stupid, it's self-preservation."
"Same thing." He crosses his arms. "Look, man, I get it. I separated my shoulder sophomore year. Same injury, same surgery, same hell. And I'm telling you right now—if you don't push through this part, you're going to regret it later."
Rita nods. "He's right. Your range of motion now determines your range of motion later. We need to get aggressive with the stretching."
"Define aggressive."
"You're going to want to punch me," she says cheerfully. "But you won't, because you only have one functional arm. Now lie down."
The next forty minutes are some of the worst of my life. Rita manipulates my shoulder through stretches that feel like she's trying to detach it completely. Marcus stands there offering what he probably thinks is encouragement but mostly sounds like a drill sergeant.
"Push through it!"
"I am pushing through it!"
"Push harder!"
"I'm going to kill you!"
"That's the spirit!"
By the end, I'm sweating, shaking, and want to cry. But my range of motion has improved by almost ten degrees.
"Good work," Rita says, making notes on her clipboard. "Same time Thursday. Bring your emotional support captain."
"I'm not his emotional support captain," Marcus protests.
"You literally just spent forty minutes yelling encouragement at him."
"That's different."
After we leave, Marcus walks with me back toward the dorms. The sun's starting to set, painting everything gold and orange.
"That was brutal," I say.
"Yeah, but you did it. That's what matters." He's quiet for a second. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why hockey?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you showed up out of nowhere, never played before, and suddenly you're this prodigy. Most people don't just... find their thing like that. So why do you think it was hockey?"
I think about it. "I don't know. It just felt right. Like my body knew what to do before my brain caught up."
"Muscle memory?"
"Maybe. Or maybe..." I trail off, not sure how to explain it. "Maybe I just needed something to be good at. Something that was mine."
Marcus nods slowly. "I get that. Hockey gave me structure when everything else was chaos. Freshman year, I was failing three classes, my parents were getting divorced, and I was losing my mind. Then I joined the team and suddenly I had purpose. Direction." He glances at me. "The injury took that away from you. But it's not gone forever. You just have to get it back."
"What if I can't?"
"Then you find something else. But I don't think you will. I think you're going to come back and be even better than before." He stops at the entrance to Webster Hall. "Just don't give up before you get there, alright?"
"Alright."
He heads off toward Roosevelt, and I'm left standing there thinking about purpose and direction and whether I'll ever feel like the Chosen One again.
That night, I'm attempting to do homework one-handed when someone knocks.
It's Sophie, holding a bag of takeout and looking guilty.
"I know you said you didn't want people checking on you," she says, "but I was getting food anyway and thought you might be hungry and also that's a lie, I specifically got food to bring to you because you looked miserable at lunch."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Come in."
She distributes the food—Thai, from that place off campus that everyone says is good but I've never tried. We eat on my bed because my desk is covered in failed homework attempts.
"How was PT?" she asks.
"Rita's a sadist and Marcus is her accomplice."
"That bad?"
"Worse. But my range of motion improved, so I guess torture works."
"That's the spirit." She takes a bite of pad thai. "I talked to coach today. For the women's team."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Told her about your injury, about the recovery timeline. She said if you need anything—ice time to skate when you're cleared, film to study, whatever—the women's team will help out."
"Why would she do that?"
Sophie shrugs. "Because that's what teams do. You helped me get through thermodynamics, I help you get back on the ice. It's reciprocal."
"I didn't help you with thermodynamics. You stress-ate chips while I watched."
"Emotional support counts as help." She's smiling, and there's something soft in her expression that makes my chest tight. "Besides, I have ulterior motives."
"Which are?"
"When you come back, I want to be able to say I helped train the guy who's going to be a legend." She says it lightly, joking, but there's something underneath that feels heavier.
"I'm not going to be a legend."
"Not with that attitude."
We finish eating and she helps me clean up—well, she cleans up while I protest that I can do it myself, which we both know is a lie. When she's at the door, about to leave, she turns back.
"Evan?"
"Yeah?"
"You're going to be okay. I know you don't believe that right now, but you will be."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've watched you fight through every PT session, every painful stretch, every moment where you wanted to quit. And you haven't quit yet." She pauses. "And also because I won't let you."
After she leaves, I sit there with her words echoing in my head.
I won't let you.
Something about that feels more important than everything else.
My phone buzzes. It's the group chat.
Maya: evan's emotional state improving
Maya: sophie visited with food
Maya: hypothesis: feelings are developing
Lena: maya stop documenting their relationship
Maya: it's for science
Jax: ITS FOR SCIENCE
Ollie: science is important
Sam: you're all terrible
Sam: but also yes evan do you like her
Me: goodnight everyone
Maya: THAT'S NOT A NO
I put my phone on silent and lie back, staring at the ceiling.
Do I like her?
The question feels too big for right now, when everything else is already overwhelming. But as I drift off to sleep, my brain unhelpfully supplies an answer in the form of a memory—Sophie's hand in mine in the hospital, her voice steady and sure, telling me I'm going to be okay.
Yeah.
I think I do.