* CURRENTLY EDITING.*
Luke Madden is a NHL superstar. But when an injury sidelines him, he's required to undergo physical therapy. With a stable family and girlfriend, Luke has all the resources he needs. Or so he thinks. As it turns out, there are...
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Luke
My head is foggy. Ever since the hit, I feel like I'm stuck in limbo; awake but unconscious.
Which is ironic, considering I can't prevent myself from thinking about the hit. What I could've done to prevent it. How I could've avoided the injury. Everything leading up to my blackout has my head spinning.
Other times, I'm stuck thinking about waking up in the hospital after emergency surgery. Remembering what the drainage tube in my knee felt like makes my skin crawl. It served its purpose by draining blood that collected around my knee, but that doesn't make the remnants of the sensation comforting. The IVs feeding me nutrients and antibiotics and the compression stockings that kept my blood pumping aren't much better.
Just like when I woke up, I'm stuck.
Stuck in this fucking wheelchair.
It's killing my independent personality. For as long as I can remember, my faith has been in myself. Performing daily functions with aid from others is infuriating. Being unable to be independent or solve problems makes my head hurt. It also dampens my ambitiousness, which is a prominent reason I became captain of Calgary's NHL team. Why I've made it so far in the hockey world.
Hockey.
Sighing, I rub my temples while the wheels roll against the linoleum flooring. Thinking about hockey creates a stabbing sensation in my chest. My life revolves around hockey. Knowing I'll be watching my team on the screen for the rest of the season...
Fuck.
It's pure agony.
The wheelchair rolls through a doorway, and the man pushing me brings us to a halt. I inspect the room. It looks more like a bedroom than a rehab centre room. There's a gigantic bed in the middle, the headboard pushed against the wall. A flatscreen TV hangs above the waist-high dresser and a nightstand is beside the bed. There are no paintings or tacky wallpaper. Instead, the walls are painted a light grey. Above the bed is a window. Afternoon light streams in, casting a buttery glow across the furniture and the white quilt.
Although the space is... comforting, I long for my house in Calgary. Coming to Toronto, my hometown, was a unanimous vote by my family and Olivia, my girlfriend. They decided shipping me here would have a better outcome. When I argued, they insisted it was for my benefit. I think they were afraid. Afraid I would return to hockey too fast. Which is a shitty perspective on my character. I refuse to return to the ice until my body is better—no matter how much I hate this.
An employee clears their throat. "Rosa said she'll be here soon. Would you like to sit on the bed or...?"
"Sit in the wheelchair?" I drawl.
His curly blonde hair bobs as he nods.
A snarky comment sits on my tongue, but I grit my teeth. Taking out my frustrations on them is unfair and rude.
