How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: Fake Date A Hockey Player Chapter 106

Crew's POV,

I slept in the guest room for three nights before Harper came in at 2 AM and said, "This is stupid. We're fighting while living in the same apartment. Come back to bed."

"You called me an addict."

"You are an addict. So am I—to control and fixing people and making myself small to keep everyone comfortable. We're both works in progress. Now come back to bed. I can't sleep without you and Rose keeps kicking my ribs."

I went back to bed.

We didn't talk about it. About the playoffs. About my shoulder. About the fact that she'd been right and I'd been too proud to admit it.

Surgery was Monday morning at 7 AM. Harper drove me to the hospital even though she was exhausted, even though she had clients scheduled, even though I'd told her she didn't need to come.

"I'm your wife. Of course I'm coming." She parked in the surgery center lot. "Plus someone needs to drive you home after. You're going to be high on anesthesia and useless."

"I'm not getting general anesthesia. Just a nerve block."

"Then you'll be high on nerve block drugs and useless. Same difference."

In pre-op, the anesthesiologist explained the procedure. Nerve block in my shoulder to numb everything from collarbone to fingertips. I'd be awake but sedated. Recovery would take three to four months. Physical therapy would be intensive.

"Any concerns?" he asked.

"I'm a recovering addict. Nine months sober. I can't have opioids for post-op pain."

He checked my chart. "Already noted. We'll use non-narcotic alternatives. Nerve block lasts about twenty-four hours. After that, high-dose anti-inflammatories and ice. If pain becomes unmanageable, we have other options."

Harper squeezed my hand. "You're going to be okay."

"You don't know that."

"I'm choosing to believe it anyway."

They wheeled me into surgery at 7:30. The last thing I remembered was the surgeon saying, "Let's fix this shoulder properly this time."

I woke up at 9:45 in recovery. Groggy. Confused. Right arm completely numb and immobilized in a sling.

Harper was there, reading a pregnancy book that looked older than both of us.

"Hey," I said. Voice rough from the breathing tube.

"Hey. You're alive. Surgery went well. Surgeon said the damage was worse than the MRI showed but he repaired everything. You'll be good as new in four months."

"Four months is forever."

"Four months is how long it takes to heal properly instead of playing through it and making it worse." She set down the book. "How do you feel?"

"Numb. Weird. My arm doesn't exist."

"That's the nerve block. It'll wear off in about twelve hours. Then you'll feel everything and wish you were numb again."

They discharged me at noon with instructions, pain medication (non-narcotic), physical therapy referrals, and stern warnings about not using my arm for anything.

At home, Harper set me up on the couch with ice, medications, water, and the remote.

"I'm going to the clinic for my afternoon clients. James will check on you in an hour. Maya's coming by at four. You're not allowed to be alone until the nerve block wears off."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"You're high on sedation drugs and can't use your dominant arm. You absolutely need a babysitter." She kissed my forehead. "Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

After she left, I lay on the couch staring at the ceiling, feeling sorry for myself.

Nine months sober. Eliminated from playoffs. Shoulder destroyed. Surgery completed. Four months of recovery ahead.

And a baby coming in eleven weeks.

I was going to be a father with one functional arm.

My phone rang. David.

"How'd the surgery go?"

"Fine. Surgeon fixed everything. Now I just have to heal for four months without losing my mind."

"That's the hard part. The waiting. The uselessness. The feeling like you're not contributing."

"I know. I've done this before. After my first surgery three years ago. That's when the pills started."

"This time is different. You're sober. You have support. You're not doing this alone."

"But what if I can't handle it? What if the pain gets too bad? What if four months of forced rest makes me want to use?"

"Then you call me. Every time. Multiple times a day if necessary. And Crew? You're allowed to struggle. You're allowed to hate this. You're allowed to be frustrated and angry and scared. You're just not allowed to use."

After we hung up, I dozed off. Woke up to James checking my vitals.

"How's the pain?"

"Non-existent. Nerve block is still working."

"Enjoy it while it lasts. Once it wears off, you're going to be miserable." He examined the surgical dressing. "Everything looks good. Keep it iced. Take the medication on schedule, not just when it hurts. And Crew? Don't try to use the arm. I know you're an athlete and athletes are terrible patients. But if you re-injure this, you might not play again."

"Noted."

Maya arrived at four with enough food to feed a small army. "I brought options. Thai, Italian, Chinese, Greek. I didn't know what you'd want so I got everything."

"Maya, this is too much."

"You had surgery. I brought food. That's what people do." She unpacked containers on the kitchen counter. "Also, how are you? How's the arm? How's sobriety? Are we worried about pain management?"

"I'm fine. Arm is numb. Sobriety is intact. We're monitoring pain carefully."

"Good. Because if you relapse, Harper will murder you and then I'll murder your corpse. So really think about whether pills are worth double murder."

"That's very supportive."

"I'm a realist, not a cheerleader."

She stayed until Harper got home at six. Helped set up dinner. Made sure I had everything I needed before leaving.

"You're lucky," she said at the door. "Harper. Maya. David. Marcus. All these people making sure you're okay. Don't take that for granted."

"I don't."

That night, the nerve block started wearing off around 10 PM.

The pain came back gradually. Uncomfortable at first. Then worse. Then significantly worse.

By midnight, it was bad. Really bad. Eight out of ten and climbing.

Harper woke up when I got out of bed. "Where are you going?"

"Bathroom. Can't sleep. Pain's getting worse."

"Did you take your medication?"

"Yeah. It's not helping."

She checked the prescription bottle. "You're due for another dose in two hours. Can you wait?"

"I'll try."

I went to the balcony. Cold air helped slightly. Focused on breathing through the pain instead of running from it.

Harper joined me, wrapped in a blanket despite being pregnant and uncomfortable herself.

"Talk to me," she said.

"About what?"

"About what you're feeling. The pain. The fear. Whatever's in your head right now."

"I'm scared. This pain is bad. Really bad. And I keep thinking—if I just had one pill, just one, it would stop. I wouldn't have to feel this."

"But you'd also be using again. And that's worse than pain."

"Is it? Right now it doesn't feel worse. It feels like relief."

"Then call David. Right now. Call him and tell him what you're thinking."

So I did. At midnight. Woke him up to say I was thinking about using.

"Where are the thoughts on a scale?" he asked. "One is passing thought. Ten is actively planning to obtain drugs."

"Maybe a six? I know where I could get them. I'm not going to. But I want to."

"That's honest. Good. Now tell me why you're not going to."

"Because I'm nine months sober. Because I have a daughter coming in eleven weeks. Because using would destroy everything I've built. Because Harper is standing next to me looking terrified and I can't do that to her."

"Those are all good reasons. Now give me one reason that's just about you."

I thought about it. "Because I want to be sober more than I want to be comfortable. Because four months of pain is better than three years of using. Because I deserve to heal properly instead of medicating."

"There it is. Hold onto that. When the pain gets bad—and it will get bad—remember that. You deserve to heal."

After we hung up, Harper said: "Six out of ten?"

"The wanting to use. Not the actual likelihood of using."

"Still too high."

"I know. But I'm not using. That's what matters."

We stayed on the balcony until 2 AM when my next dose of medication was due. Took it. Waited for it to kick in. Eventually the pain dulled to manageable.

Back in bed, Harper curled against my good side.

"You scared me tonight," she said.

"I scared myself."

"Are you going to be okay? For four months of this?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to try."

"That's all recovery is. Trying. Every day. Even when it's hard."

"When did you get so wise?"

"I married you. Had to compensate somehow."

The next week was brutal. Pain management became my full-time job. Ice every two hours. Medication on strict schedule. Physical therapy exercises that hurt worse than the injury. Constant vigilance against the thought that pills would make it easier.

I called David every day. Sometimes twice. Went to meetings six times in one week. Saw Dr. Okonkwo for an emergency session when the pain spiked to nine out of ten and I seriously considered calling my old dealer.

"What stopped you?" she asked.

"Harper. She was sleeping next to me. Twenty-nine weeks pregnant. And I thought—if I use, I lose her. I lose Rose. I lose everything. And no amount of pain relief is worth that."

"That's growth. Eighteen months ago, you would have used."

"Eighteen months ago I didn't have anything worth staying sober for."

"And now?"

"Now I have everything."

Week two was slightly better. Pain decreased from constant eight to manageable six. I could sleep more than three hours at a time. The urge to use went from constant to occasional.

Physical therapy started. James came to the apartment three times a week, putting me through exercises that made me want to scream.

"This is necessary," he kept saying. "If you don't rebuild strength properly, you'll have chronic instability."

"It hurts worse than the injury."

"That's how you know it's working."

Week three, Harper hit thirty weeks pregnant. We had a prenatal appointment. Everything was fine—Rose was growing perfectly, Harper was healthy despite being exhausted and uncomfortable.

"Ten more weeks," Dr. Yoon said. "Are you ready?"

"No," we said simultaneously.

"That's normal. Nobody's ready. You'll figure it out."

At home, Harper looked at the nursery. Fully set up now. Crib, changing table, dresser full of tiny clothes. Rocking chair by the window. Bookshelf waiting for books.

"Ten weeks," she said. "And you'll still be in recovery. You won't be able to hold her properly. You won't be able to help with night feedings. This wasn't the plan."

"Plans change. We adapt. We figure it out."

"I'm scared. About doing this alone while you heal. About whether we can handle it."

"We'll handle it. We don't have a choice."

"That's not comforting."

"It's realistic."

We stood in the nursery together, looking at the space where our daughter would sleep in ten weeks. Both of us terrified. Both of us knowing we'd figure it out anyway.

Because that's what you did when you became parents.