How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: Fake Date A Hockey Player Chapter 104

Crew's POV,

The hit came in the third period of a game against Calgary, with four minutes left and the Canucks up by one goal.

I was forechecking in their zone when their defenseman—a kid named Bennett, two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle—caught me with a shoulder to the boards. Clean hit, technically. Legal. But the angle was wrong and I went down hard.

My shoulder. The same shoulder I'd separated two years ago. The one that had never quite healed right.

I felt something pop. Then white-hot pain that made my vision blur.

I stayed down. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe through the pain.

The team doctor was on the ice within seconds. "Crew, where's the pain?"

"Shoulder. Right shoulder." I tried to move it. Couldn't. "Fuck."

They helped me off the ice. Crowd in Rogers Arena going silent as I skated to the tunnel with assistance, right arm hanging useless.

In the medical room, the doctor examined me carefully. Prodded the shoulder. Asked me to move it in different directions. Most of which I couldn't do.

"We need X-rays. Could be separation. Could be fracture. Could be rotator cuff. Won't know until we image it."

"How long until I can play again?"

"Crew, let's figure out what's wrong first."

They sent me to the hospital. Marcus came with me—team protocol, no one goes to the ER alone. We sat in the waiting room while the Canucks finished the game without me. Won 3-1. Clinched a playoff spot.

My phone was blowing up with texts. Harper: *Maya just told me you got hurt. What happened? Where are you? Are you okay?*

I called her. "I'm fine. At the hospital. Got hit. Shoulder's messed up. Waiting for X-rays."

"How bad?"

"Don't know yet. Hurts like hell but I can move my fingers so it's not catastrophic."

"I'm coming there."

"Harper, it's 10 PM. You're pregnant. Stay home. I'll call you after I know something."

"Crew—"

"Please. I'm fine. Marcus is here. I'll call you in an hour."

X-rays took forty minutes. The ER doctor pulled them up on a screen, showing me bone structures I didn't understand.

"Grade II shoulder separation. The ligaments are partially torn. No fracture, which is good news. But you're looking at four to six weeks recovery. Minimum."

"Four to six weeks? The playoffs start in ten days."

"Then you'll miss the first round. Maybe the second round too depending on how you heal." She pulled up another image. "Crew, this isn't your first shoulder injury. I can see evidence of previous trauma. You keep playing through this, you're going to do permanent damage. You might not be able to play at all."

Four to six weeks.

The playoffs lasted two months if you made it to the finals. Six weeks meant I'd miss most of it. Maybe all of it.

The team I'd fought all season to help get here. The playoff run I'd stayed sober for. Gone.

"What about pain management?" I asked carefully.

"We'll prescribe anti-inflammatories. Ice and rest for the first seventy-two hours. Then physical therapy to rebuild strength."

"No opioids?"

She looked at my chart. Saw the addiction history. "No opioids. We can manage this without them."

Relief. I'd been terrified she'd offer pills. Terrified I'd have to turn them down. Terrified I wouldn't have the strength to turn them down.

Marcus drove me home around midnight. My arm was in a sling, I had a prescription for high-dose ibuprofen, and I felt like I'd been hit by a truck.

Harper was waiting up, sitting on the couch in her pajamas, belly prominent at twenty-five weeks.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound more okay than I felt.

She took one look at me and started crying.

"I'm fine. It's not that bad."

"You're in a sling. You can barely move. How is that fine?"

"It's a separation. Four to six weeks. I'll be back before playoffs end."

"Crew, you're in pain. I can see it on your face."

She was right. The ibuprofen wasn't touching it. My shoulder felt like someone was driving nails into the joint.

"It's manageable. I've had worse."

"Did they offer you anything? For pain?"

"Anti-inflammatories. That's it." I sat on the couch, carefully. "Harper, I need you to be honest with me. If this gets worse—if the pain becomes unbearable—will you help me find alternatives? Non-narcotic pain management?"

"Of course. But Crew, if it gets that bad, you need to tell someone. Your doctor. David. Your therapist. Don't try to white-knuckle through it."

"I won't. I promise."

That night was hell. Couldn't sleep. Every position hurt. The ibuprofen did nothing. By 3 AM I was pacing the apartment, trying to find any angle that didn't make me want to scream.

Harper found me on the balcony at 3:30, sitting in the cold because at least the temperature distracted from the pain.

"This isn't working," she said. "The medication isn't enough."

"I'll adjust. Give it time."

"Crew, you need stronger pain management. There are options. Muscle relaxers. Nerve blocks. Physical therapy techniques. You don't have to suffer because you're scared of opioids."

"I'm not scared of opioids. I'm terrified of opioids. There's a difference."

She sat next to me, awkward with her pregnant belly. "Tomorrow morning, you're calling Dr. Okonkwo. And you're calling Harper's clinic. We're setting you up with proper pain management that doesn't involve pills."

"Your clinic? You're treating me?"

"James is treating you. I'm supervising. We're doing this together."

By morning, the pain had eased slightly. Enough that I could function. Enough that I didn't feel like I was crawling out of my skin.

Dr. Okonkwo had an emergency slot at 10 AM. I took it.

"Tell me what happened," she said after I'd explained the injury.

"Grade II shoulder separation. Four to six weeks recovery. I'm in constant pain and the anti-inflammatories aren't helping and I'm terrified I'm going to want something stronger."

"Do you want something stronger?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it. "No. But I want the pain to stop. And pills would make the pain stop. So yes? I don't know."

"That's honest. Good." She pulled out her notepad. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to see Harper's clinic for physical pain management—ice, heat, TENS unit, manual therapy. You're going to call me every day for the next week. Morning check-in. You're going to double your meetings—six times a week instead of three. And you're going to be brutally honest about what you're feeling. Deal?"

"Deal."

"And Crew? If the pain becomes unbearable—truly unbearable, not just uncomfortable—we'll find other options. Cortisone injections. Nerve blocks. There are ways to manage this without opioids. But you have to communicate. You can't suffer in silence."

At the clinic that afternoon, James examined my shoulder while Harper watched.

"This is pretty inflamed," James said. "We need to reduce swelling before we can work on mobility. Ice for the first forty-eight hours. Then heat and gentle range of motion exercises. TENS unit for pain management. And Harper will probably want to do some manual therapy once the acute phase passes."

"I'm not treating my husband," Harper said. "That's weird and unprofessional."

"I'm supervising you treating your husband. There's a difference."

They set me up with a TENS unit—electrodes attached to my shoulder, electrical pulses that somehow disrupted pain signals. It helped. Not completely. But enough that I could breathe.

Over the next week, I lived at the clinic. Daily sessions with James. Ice and heat cycles. Gentle stretching that hurt like hell but was apparently necessary. The TENS unit became my constant companion.

The Canucks started the playoffs without me. Game one against Seattle. They won 4-2.

I watched from home with Harper, feeling useless. My team was playing playoff hockey and I was on the couch in a sling eating takeout.

"You hate this," Harper observed.

"I don't hate it. I'm just frustrated."

"You hate being injured. You hate missing games. You hate feeling useless."

"Okay yes. I hate all of those things."

Game two was worse. They lost 3-1. Got outplayed in every zone. Needed my physical presence on the ice and didn't have it.

After the game, Marcus called.

"We miss you out there," he said. "Tyler's trying to fill your role but he's not you. We need your leadership."

"I can't play with a separated shoulder, Marcus. Trust me, I want to."

"I know. Just—heal fast, okay? We need you back."

By week three, the pain was manageable. Not gone. But controllable without medication that scared me. The TENS unit helped. Ice helped. James's treatments helped. The daily calls to Dr. Okonkwo helped.

And I didn't use. Not once. Not even when the pain was worst at 3 AM and I remembered exactly where I could get pills if I really wanted them.

I called David instead. Every time. Sometimes twice a day.

"Nine months sober," he reminded me during one particularly rough night. "You've come too far to throw it away over a shoulder injury."

"It's not just a shoulder injury. It's my career. It's playoff hockey. It's everything I worked for."

"And you can have all of that. Just not this minute. Be patient."

Patience wasn't my strong suit.

But staying sober was becoming one.

Week four, I started skating again. Gentle. No contact. Just movement to rebuild strength and range of motion.

The Canucks were down 3-2 in the series. One more loss and they were eliminated.

"I can play," I told the team doctor. "Not at 100% but I can help."

"You're at maybe 70%. You're a liability out there."

"I'm a veteran presence. They need me."

Coach made the call. I was active for game six. Limited minutes. Minimal contact. But on the ice.

We won 2-1. Forced game seven.

Game seven was in Vancouver. Home ice. Everything on the line.

I played twelve minutes. Fourth line. Defensive zone starts only. Couldn't take faceoffs because my shoulder wasn't strong enough. Couldn't fight because one hit would re-injure everything.

But I was there. Present. Contributing what I could.

We won 4-3 in overtime.

Advanced to the second round.

In the locker room after, Marcus pulled me aside.

"You're not right. Everyone can see it. You need more time."

"We're in the second round. I'll heal during the break."

"Crew, you're playing hurt. Badly hurt. One bad hit and you're done for the season. Maybe longer."

"Then I'll be careful."

Harper said the same thing that night.

"You're not healed. You're playing through injury. That's how you got addicted in the first place."

"I'm not taking pills. I'm managing pain properly. It's different."

"Is it? Or are you just using hockey instead of opioids to avoid dealing with the fact that you need rest?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

Because maybe she was right.