Power Play

Chapter 1-2

His legs, crushed. Thirty-two stitches in

one, twenty-three in the other. His right shin bone shattered into

a million pieces like his dream of playing pro one day—he’s off the

team for the rest of the semester, probably the rest of his college

career. The doctors assure him that he will walk one day, yes, and

maybe even skate, though not with the speed and surety that he had

before.

Four weeks in the hospital, three surgeries,

his left leg mending and his right still a twisted mockery of what

it once was. Physical therapy every other day, pain so intense he

doesn’t even feel the tears anymore, they burn his eyes and course

down his cheeks and he just blinks them away, keeps at it. At

nineteen, Ryan is nothing if not tenacious. He will skate

again, he’ll show them. He’ll come back better than ever, just wait

and see.

But he missed too many classes, missed too

many games. He has to withdraw from his courses—just for this

semester, his mother assures him, but he sees the haunted look in

her eyes and he knows she thinks he’s confined to this wheelchair

for life. When he’s released from the hospital, it’s back home

again, not the dorm for him, he’s not ready for that yet. His

parents have converted the den into a makeshift bedroom, it’s in

the back of the house and has its own entrance, private enough but

level, that’s the main thing. It’s on the first floor, no steps to

navigate, and the bathroom’s right there, perfect. His dad puts in

a steel ramp off the porch, Ryan sees it from the van as they pull

into the drive, his first time home from the hospital after the

accident. No one mentions it, but he can tell by his mother’s tight

smile that she’s waiting for his reaction. He’s supposed to love

it.

He doesn’t. He hates the way his wheelchair

sounds over the steel, he hates the slope, he hates the brace on

his right leg that keeps it immobile and he hates the fact that he

can’t walk into his own damn house anymore. He hates that he has to

sleep in the den with the hospital bed his parents purchased for

him, spared no expense, anything to help him heal faster. He hates

that he can’t go upstairs to his old room. He hates the bars that

have appeared in the bathroom as if by magic, they look like towel

racks but he knows better. He hates having to sit all the time,

everywhere, he’s always sitting anymore. He hates that.

The team sends him flowers. He expected as

much. The things from his dorm room are stacked neatly in one

corner of the den, waiting to be unpacked. When his mother moves

towards them, though, Ryan tells her, “Leave that. I’ll get

it.”

“But honey—”

He hates that tone of voice. “I’m not a

baby,” he says, angry. “I said I’ll get it.”

Before she can reply, his dad is there,

smoothing over the situation. “Sure you will, sport.” Sport,

as if he’s eight again. “You let us know if you need anything, you

hear?”

Ryan glances at the flowers that are on his

desk, a large vase of chrysanthemums and carnations. A card peeks

out from between the bushy petals—he can read the words Get Well

Soon on it from here. As if it’s that easy. There’s a balloon,

too, but it’s turned away from him so all he can see is the silvery

finish, and he doesn’t really care what’s written on the other

side.

Ashlin got off with a bruised kneecap and a

knot on his ass that made it uncomfortable to sit for long periods

of time. And Ryan? Well, they tell him he’ll walk again one day.

Until then, he has physical therapy three times a week, and a few

of his professors have agreed to let him audit classes via the web,

but it’s the middle of January and from the window above his desk

he can see ice frozen in his mother’s birdbath, a tiny skating

rink. He wheels over to the window, stares out at that ice,

imagines himself whole again and skating across the surface.

It’s his dream, he thinks. He can play it

out however he wants.