Page 41 of Slapshot Baby

8

KAI

Wrong Side of the Glass

Eleven people show up to watch me leave the hospital.

My parents, Mira, four teammates, two nurses who have been managing my medication schedule for weeks, a physical therapist who makes me promise to keep up my exercises, and Dr. Harold who shakes my hand and tells me to call if anything changes.

I scan the hallway twice before I catch myself doing it.

Ava isn't here.

I don't know why I expect her to be. She made herself clear last night.

My lips still feel the phantom pressure of her mouth, the sharp inhale she made when I pulled her against me, the way she kissed me back without restraint.

Then she shoved me away and left.

I don't want this.

She said that while her pulse was hammering against my fingertips. I felt it in her throat when my mouth was on her neck.

But she left. And she's not here now.

"Ready?" Dad asks, hand on my shoulder.

"Been ready for weeks."

Mira takes the bag of clothes. Mom takes my arm, which I don't need but don't refuse.

Wyatt carries the hockey-stick balloon, which has lost most of its helium and now drifts at waist height like a sad, deflated flag.

He holds the string solemnly. "We should retire this balloon's jersey."

"Put it in the trash," I say.

"Heartless."

The sunlight outside the hospital entrance is blinding. I haven't been outdoors for so long, the brightness hits me like a check I didn't see coming. I squint, steadying myself against the door frame.

Los Angeles smells different outside the hospital. Exhaust, warm asphalt, something flowering nearby. My lungs expand fully for the first time in weeks.

Dad drives. Mom sits in the back with me like I'm twelve and recovering from a fever. I let her.

My phone sits in my lap, screen dark.

No messages from Ava.

At the penthouse, Mira has already set up the guest room for herself.

There's food in the fridge, fresh towels in the bathroom, a stack of books on the nightstand that she picked based on what she thinks I'd like.

She's probably right. She knows me better than I currently know myself.

I stand in the living room, looking at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the furniture. Everything is familiar and foreign at the same time.

"Dr. Harold's discharge notes," Mira says from beside me. "No skating for at least three more weeks. Light cardio only. No contact, no high-intensity anything. Follow up in ten days."