Secretly Sleeping With My Hockey Rival

MARCUS I f*****g hate Jamie Hartford. Standing across the ice from him during warm-ups, I listed all the reasons why I hated him. His hair that never shifts even when he's slammed into the boards. His Ivy League education that somehow surfaces in every post-game interview. The way he captains the New York Vipers like he was born wearing the C. His old money family, his pristine image, and his everything. Most of all, I hate how good he is. He is the best defenseman in the league, and here I am, a forward whose stats are tanking because my shoulder is destroyed and I'm too stubborn to admit it. Tonight's game is critical. Boston Griffins versus New York Vipers. The rivalry that sells out arenas. Blood on ice. We've hated each other for four years, since I checked him so hard in my rookie season that he had a concussion for two weeks. He's never forgiven me, and I've never apologized. The puck drops, and we're at war. The first period is brutal. Hartford is everywhere, blocking shots, breaking up plays, being the golden boy defenseman everyone says he is. Every time I try to get past him, he's always f*****g there. By second period, my shoulder is screaming. I took three painkillers before the game, the good ones, the ones I get from a doctor who doesn't ask too many questions but they're barely touching it anymore. Each shot sends lightning through my shoulder muscle. Every check makes me want to vomit, but I can't stop. This is my contract year if I perform poorly, if my stats stay low, I'm done, and my family back in Chicago, my mom with her MS treatments, my sister with her college tuition at Northwestern, they need my salary, and they need me to keep playing. So I play through the pain, through the nausea, through the growing certainty that I'm doing permanent damage to my body. Third period, we're down by one. Coach is screaming at us during the timeout, spittle flying, face red. "Kovač, what the hell is going on with you? You're supposed to be our scorer and you've got nothing tonight. NOTHING!" Coach yelled at me. "I'll get it done, Coach." I assured him. "You better, because right now you're playing like you belong in the minors." He said, and the words hit harder than they should because he's right. My shooting percentage has dropped fifteen points from last season. I'm slower on the ice, I'm becoming a liability and I’m replaceable. The puck drops for the third period, and I'm flying on pure adrenaline and spite. I've got the puck, racing down the ice, and there's an opening, a clear shot to the goal then Hartford appears out of nowhere. He checks me, clean hit, perfectly legal, textbook defensive play but when his shoulder connects with mine, something goes critically wrong. The pain is excruciating and something in my shoulder gives like a rope snapping and the agony that floods through me is unlike anything I've ever felt. I'm going down, ihe ice rushes up to meet me and I hit hard, gasping, trying not to scream because the cameras are on me and I can't show weakness. I can't let anyone know but f**k, it hurts. It hurts so bad I can't breathe. Through the haze of pain, I'm aware of the whistle blowing. Of skates surrounding me, and of voices asking if I can move, if I'm okay, what hurts and Hartford. Hartford is standing over me, and he should be skating away, should be smirking, maybe chirping some s**t about me being soft, about how I can't take a hit but instead, he's looking at me with concern. That can't be right. Jamie Hartford gives zero shits about me. "You okay?" His voice is low, quiet enough that the refs can't hear, that the mics won't pick up. I want to tell him to f**k off, I want to get up and shove him away and pretend I'm fine but my arm won't move right. When I try to push myself up with my right hand, my shoulder refuses to cooperate, and it hangs there, useless. Panic edges into the pain, this is bad… this is really f*****g bad. "Kovač?" Hartford says my name, and there's something in his blue eyes I've never seen before. Something that looks almost like worry. Why would he worry? We hate each other, that's the natural order of things. "I'm fine," I grit out through clenched teeth. "Get the f**k away from me, Hartford." He hesitates. For a second, maybe two, he just stands there looking at me with that strange expression. Then our team medic is pushing through, and Hartford skates away but he keeps looking back. The medic helps me off the ice. The crowd is a blur of noise, some cheering because a Griffins player went down, some booing because they think Hartford's hit was dirty, most just drunk and loud because it's Griffins versus Vipers and that's always a spectacle. In the tunnel, away from the cameras, I finally let myself react. My vision blurs, I'm breathing fast, shallow gasps that aren't getting enough oxygen. The medic is talking to me but I can't hear him over the roaring in my ear. "Marc. Marc, look at me. Can you lift your arm?" I try. I really f*****g try but my shoulder is useless, dead weight, and when I attempt to raise it even an inch, the pain makes my vision go white. "Okay, stop. Don't force it." Johnson the medic says as he probes my shoulder. Every touch is agony. "This needs medical attention. I think you might have a significant tear—" "No." The word comes out harsh, desperate. "No hospitals." "Marc, if this is what I think it is—" "Just tape it up. Give me something for the pain, I need to finish this game." Johnson looks at me like I've lost my mind, and maybe I have. "You can't play on this. You have got a rotator cuff tear, you could make this worse. You could cause permanent damage." "I don't care. Tape it up." I ordered. "Marc—" "Please." I hate how I sound. Pleading like I was broken. "I can't sit out, not now, and especially not in my contract year." Understanding flashes across Johnson's face. He knows that if I'm injured, if I need surgery, I'm f****d. Benched players don't get contracts. "This is a bad idea," he says as he reaches for the tape. "I know." He tapes my shoulder tight enough that I can barely move it. Gives me two more painkillers, and then hands me a small white pill I don't recognize. "What's this?" "Something to take the edge off. Don't ask questions." I dry-swallow it. The drugs hit my system fast. The pain doesn't disappear, nothing could make it disappear but it becomes distant and manageable. "You've got maybe one period in you," Johnson warns. "After that, your body is going to shut down whether you want it or not, and Marc, this is the last time I do this. After tonight, you see a real doctor or I report you to Coach myself." "Fair." I try to go back out, but Coach takes one look at me when I attempt to stand and benches me for the rest of the game. We lose 5-4. In the locker room after, Coach tears into us, into me specifically. "Kovač, what the hell was that? You go down from one check and suddenly you're useless? You're supposed to be our goal scorer and you're giving me nothing. Your shooting accuracy is s**t, your speed is down, and you're a liability out there." I take it, stand there and take the verbal beating because what else can I do? Tell him my shoulder is destroyed? That I've been hiding a serious injury for eight months? That I'm playing through pain that would sideline most players? "You need to figure out what's wrong with you," Coach continues. "Because right now, you're not worth the roster spot." The words land like physical blows and when Coach finally stops yelling and storms out, the locker room is silent. My teammates won't look at me. They're all thinking the same thing: Kovač is washed up, and maybe they're right. By the time everyone clears out, I'm alone. Sitting in front of my locker in my underwear and skates, staring at nothing, trying to figure out how I'm going to shower without letting anyone see how badly I'm shaking. My phone buzzes. Three missed calls from my mom and a text from my sister. Sasha: Hey, did you send this month's tuition payment yet? The bursar's office is asking. I checked my account and it was low. My sister needs tuition, my mom needs treatment, and I am drowning in debt and obligations and a body that's betraying me. I pull out the pill bottle from my locker, Oxycodone that I've taken six times today. It's barely touching it. I dry-swallow three more knowing it's too many, and dangerous but I don't care. The pills take the edge off just enough that I can move. I shower carefully, keeping my right arm mostly immobile, washing one-handed. Get dressed in sweats and a hoodie that I can pull on without raising my arm too much. Later that night, I'm at the mandatory league charity event because attendance is non-negotiable. Some fundraiser at a fancy Boston hotel, all the players in suits and ties, chatting with donors and pretending we're not exhausted and battered from the game. I don't want to be here. My shoulder is screaming despite the pills. I can feel my career slipping through my fingers, and I'm supposed to smile and make small talk with rich people who want to feel good about supporting hockey. I ditch the main event as soon as it's socially acceptable and find my way to the hotel bar. It's mostly empty this late, just the bartender and a couple of business travelers who clearly aren't here for the charity event. I slide onto a stool at the far end, and I order whiskey, drank it too fast , and ordered another. The bartender gives me a look, “Rough night?” “You could say that.” The bartender pours without comment. I down it again, and now I’m on my third drink. The amber liquid burns going down but does nothing to warm the cold spreading through my chest. My shoulder throbs in time with my pulse. The pills are wearing off, I'm riding the edge between numb and agony, between functional and falling apart. I stare into my glass, watching the whiskey catch the dim bar lights. "Is this seat taken?" That voice, I look up, Jamie Hartford is standing in front of me, and he's looking at me like he knows.