Page 28 of The Goalie in Room 1

“No. Expected isn’t the same as all that.”

Hope came roaring back to his eyes, lighting them up like a carnival in the dark of night. This beautiful, eager boy’s face filled me with happiness and fear. I wanted what he wanted. I wanted to give him the word. Stupid, considering we’d just met, but sometimes you just knew. Like I’d known Chelly and I weren’t a great fit, even though I tried to force our relationship to work.

“I could play again,” he said. His voice was soft and wistful, his face still wreathed in a bright smile.

I shook my head and warned, “That’s not what I said, Cash.”

“Doc, you just said it wasn’t impossible.”

“No. I said it wouldn’t be the expected outcome. I can’t tell you it’s impossible. There’s a difference,” I explained.

“What’s the difference? Explain it to me.”

I leaned forward and mimicked his posture by bracing my forearms against my thighs. “The path from this surgery is a clear, straight shot to the back of the net—if the back of the net is you coming out of surgery with a significantly better knee. The percentage of that outcome is high enough that I’m recommending the surgery.”

“Okay, but what about hockey?”

With a deep breath, I scratched the back of my head. Trying to come up with an explanation that wouldn’t get his hopes up. “There is a path.”

His whole demeanor changed. If I thought he was happy before…I’d been sorely mistaken. A grin stretched his face wide, and he sat up.

“Cash, you have to listen to the rest. You have to hear me, okay?”

“There’s a path. That’s what you said.”

“Yes. But that path is nearly nonexistent and so freaking narrow.”

“But there is one.”

“Yes,” I said hesitantly. “Given your age and the reports from the doctors and therapists about your compliance with treatment, I believe there is a sliver of a chance.”

“Then why the fuck are we still sitting here talking about this? Let’s schedule this shit, Doc.”

“Because surgery is only the first step⁠—”

“Doc, you’ve seen the records. I know this. You know I know this.”

“Yes. Because surgery is only the first step. It has to go well. You have to heal. The knee has to tolerate rehabilitation, which, according to your records, it didn’t previously. Then, if by some miraculous chance it does tolerate rehab this time, you have to regain your strength and range of motion. Then it has to tolerate skating. Then goalie-specific movement. Deep flexion. Rotation. Repeated butterflies and lateral recovery. Practice-level workload. And after all of that, it has to tolerate doing it again the next day. And the next. And the next.”

“Thad. I understand. I can do all that.”

“But, kid, you don’t know that. You can’t know that.”

“And neither can you, Doc.”

A deep, heaving breath echoed between us as we stared at each other. “No, I don’t.”

Cash smirked, and I shook my head. I could’ve lied. It would have made this easier, but Cash deserved the truth. Even when the truth gave him what would probably end up being a rope of false hope just long enough to hang from.

“Medicine isn’t an exact science. So, no, I cannot know that for a fact. I can’t sit here and tell you there is absolutely no possibility you’ll ever play professional hockey again. You’re a twenty-three-year-old elite athlete. You’ve already demonstrated that you’ll work your ass off.”

“Damn straight I have, and I will again.”

I knew he would. That’s what scared me. “But…Cash…if you were to ask me whether or not I thought…believed professional goal-tending was a likely outcome, I would say no.”

Anger flared to life and his jaw popped as he gritted his teeth. “How unlikely?”

My eyes locked on his. The worst part of my job was robbing the athletes who came to me of hope. “Cash.”