How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: Fake Date A Hockey Player Chapter 105

Harper's POV,

I knew something was wrong when Crew came home from game three of the second round and went straight to the bathroom without saying hello.

Twenty-seven weeks pregnant, I'd been waiting up even though it was past midnight. Heard him come in. Heard the bathroom door close. Heard water running for a long time.

When he finally emerged, his face was gray with pain.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Just sore. Normal game soreness."

"Crew, you look like you're about to pass out."

"I'm fine. Just need sleep." He climbed into bed without changing, still in his suit, arm cradled against his chest.

I turned on the light. "Show me your shoulder."

"Harper—"

"Show me."

He sat up slowly, unbuttoned his shirt with his left hand. The right arm wouldn't move properly. When he finally got the shirt off, I saw it.

His shoulder was swollen. Visibly larger than the left. Bruised purple and black. Hot to the touch when I carefully pressed my fingers against it.

"You re-injured it."

"It's just inflammation. I'll ice it."

"This isn't inflammation. This is a re-injury. Possibly worse than the original." I grabbed my phone. "I'm calling James. You need to be examined properly."

"It's midnight. Don't wake him."

"Then you're going to the ER."

"I'm not going to the ER for a sore shoulder."

"Crew Lawson, you are either letting me call James or I'm driving you to the hospital myself. Those are your options."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then nodded.

James answered on the third ring, groggy. "Harper? Everything okay? Is it the baby?"

"It's Crew. He re-injured his shoulder. Badly. Can you come over? I know it's late but—"

"Give me twenty minutes."

While we waited, I got ice. Made Crew elevate his arm. Watched him try not to wince every time he moved.

"How long has it been this bad?" I asked.

"Since game one of the second round. Took a hit. Felt something tear. Played through it."

"That was five days ago. You've been playing on a torn shoulder for five days?"

"We're in the playoffs. I can't just sit out."

"You can if you're injured. Crew, this is exactly what you did before. Playing through pain. Ignoring injuries. This is how you got addicted."

"I'm not using pills. I'm managing it."

"You're destroying your body. There's a difference."

James arrived with his portable examination kit. Checked Crew's range of motion—which was severely limited. Palpated the joint carefully. Asked about pain levels.

"Scale of one to ten, what's your pain right now?"

"Six. Maybe seven."

"And during games?"

Crew was quiet.

"Crew," James said firmly. "During games, what's your pain level?"

"Nine. Sometimes ten. But it's manageable with adrenaline."

"Jesus Christ." James sat back. "You're playing professional hockey with level nine pain. That's not manageable. That's insane."

"I need to be on the ice. My team needs me."

"Your team needs you healthy. Not destroying yourself to play twelve minutes a game." James pulled out his phone, started typing. "I'm writing an email to the team doctor. You need an MRI tomorrow. And you need to be honest about your pain levels."

"James, don't—"

"Crew, I'm Harper's employee. But I'm also a licensed physical therapist. If I know you're playing with a serious injury and I don't report it, I'm liable. You're getting an MRI. Period."

After James left, Crew and I lay in bed not talking. He was angry. I was angry. Both of us too tired to fight.

Finally, he said: "I can't sit out the playoffs. This is what I've been working for all season."

"And if you permanently damage your shoulder? If you tear something that requires surgery? If you end your career because you were too stubborn to rest?"

"Then at least I went down fighting."

"That's not noble. That's stupid." I turned to face him. "Crew, you spent three years destroying yourself with pills because you were too proud to admit you were hurt. And now you're doing the same thing, just without the medication. You're still choosing hockey over your health."

"It's not the same."

"It's exactly the same. The substance changed. The behavior didn't."

He was quiet for a long time. Then: "If I sit out, we lose. We're barely hanging on. Down 2-1 in the series. One more loss and we're eliminated."

"So you're willing to sacrifice your long-term health for a playoff run that might end next game anyway?"

"Yes. Because that's what athletes do. We play hurt. We sacrifice. We give everything for the team."

"Even when it costs you everything?"

"Even then."

I put my hand on my belly, where Rose was kicking. "And what about her? What about being healthy enough to be her father? What about choosing your family over hockey?"

"That's not fair."

"It's completely fair. You're making a choice. Hockey over health. Team over family. Pain over recovery. Those are your choices. Own them."

"I'm nine months sober. I'm doing the work. I'm not using. Doesn't that count for something?"

"It counts for everything. But Crew, staying sober while destroying your body isn't recovery. It's just substituting one self-destructive behavior for another."

We fell asleep angry. Both of us right. Both of us wrong. Both of us too stubborn to admit it.

\---

The MRI the next morning confirmed what James suspected. Grade III shoulder separation now. Complete ligament tear. The joint was unstable. Playing hockey was actively dangerous.

"You need surgery," the orthopedic surgeon said, showing Crew the images. "The ligaments won't heal on their own at this severity. We can schedule you for next week. Recovery time is three to four months."

"Three to four months puts me into next season."

"Yes. But if you keep playing on this, you risk permanent nerve damage. Chronic instability. You might not play at all."

Crew stared at the MRI images. His shoulder, torn apart, held together by nothing but stubborn will.

"What if I finish the playoffs first? Then have surgery?"

"Then you'll be in significantly more pain. The tear will worsen. And recovery might take longer. But technically, you could play. With extensive bracing and pain management."

"Non-narcotic pain management?"

The surgeon checked Crew's chart. Saw the addiction history. "We can try nerve blocks. Cortisone injections. But Crew, I'm advising against playing. The risk outweighs the benefit."

"Noted. But if I choose to play anyway?"

"Then I'll document that I advised against it. And I'll set you up with the best pain management we can provide without opioids."

In the car afterward, Crew said: "I'm playing. I know you don't agree. But I'm playing."

"I know. I'm not going to stop you. But I'm also not going to pretend this is a good decision."

"It's the only decision. I can't abandon my team."

"You're not abandoning them. You're prioritizing your health. There's a difference."

"Not to me."

That afternoon, Crew got a cortisone injection directly into the shoulder joint. The relief was immediate. Not complete, but significant.

"This will last about two weeks," the doctor said. "Maybe less with the physical stress you're putting on it. After that, the pain comes back worse than before."

"Two weeks gets me through this series. Maybe into the conference finals."

"And then what?"

"Then I'll deal with it."

Game four was that night. Crew played fifteen minutes. Got an assist. We won 3-2, tied the series.

After the game, he could barely move his right arm. The cortisone was wearing off faster than expected.

Game five was two days later. Another injection before the game. Crew played twenty minutes. Scored a goal. We won 4-1, took the series lead.

He came home unable to dress himself. I had to help him out of his suit, into the shower, into bed.

"This is killing you," I said, watching him try not to cry from pain.

"Just two more games. Maybe three if we make the conference finals. I can survive two more games."

"And what about after? What about surgery? Recovery? Being able to hold your daughter when she's born?"

"I'll heal. People heal."

"Not always. Not when they keep re-injuring the same area. Crew, you could permanently damage this. You know that, right?"

"I know. But I'm doing it anyway."

Game six, we lost 5-2. Back to Calgary for game seven. Everything on the line.

Crew got another cortisone injection. Third one in six days. The doctor warned him this was the last—more than that risked tissue damage.

"One more game," Crew said. "Just get me through one more game."

I didn't go to Calgary for game seven. Twenty-eight weeks pregnant, too uncomfortable to travel, too angry to watch Crew destroy himself in person.

I watched from home with Maya and Simone. Watched Crew play eighteen minutes. Watched him take hits. Watched him fight through pain that was visible even on television.

We lost 4-3 in overtime.

Eliminated from the playoffs.

Season over.

Crew came home at 2 AM. I was still awake, lying in bed, feeling Rose kick.

He walked in looking hollowed out. Not just from the loss. From everything.

"It's over," he said.

"I know. I watched."

"I gave everything. It wasn't enough."

"You gave too much. You destroyed your shoulder for a playoff run that ended anyway."

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Don't. Please. Not tonight. I just lost everything. Don't make me feel worse about it."

"I'm not trying to make you feel worse. I'm trying to make you understand that you sacrificed your health for nothing."

"It wasn't for nothing. It was for my team. For the sport I love. For—"

"For an addiction. That's what this is, Crew. You're addicted to hockey the same way you were addicted to pills. You'll sacrifice anything—your health, your family, your future—for one more game."

"That's not fair."

"It's completely fair. And you know it." I sat up, awkward with my belly. "Surgery is scheduled for Monday. You're having it. You're going to recover properly. And you're going to figure out why you keep choosing self-destruction over self-care."

"I'm nine months sober."

"And you're still an addict. Just in a different way."

The words hung between us like a physical thing.

He stood up. "I need to be alone. I'm going to the guest room."

"Crew—"

"Harper, I love you. But right now, I can't be around you. I can't hear how I'm failing. I just need space."

He left. I heard the guest room door close.

And I lay there alone, twenty-eight weeks pregnant, crying because my husband was destroying himself and I couldn't stop him.

Because he was right—he was nine months sober.

But he was also right where he'd been three years ago.

Choosing pain over healing.

Choosing sport over family.

Choosing everything except himself.

And I didn't know how to help someone who didn't want to be helped.

I didn't know how to save someone who was convinced destruction was the same as dedication.

So I just lay there.

Feeling Rose kick.

Hoping Crew would eventually choose us over the thing that was killing him.

Even if that thing wasn't pills anymore.

Even if it was the ice itself.