Monitors beep and hum all around me, their lights blinking in the semidarkness. The IV in my arm itches like crazy. I want to scratch at it, but that will likely work it loose. Again. I already did it once tonight, which annoyed the nurses.
Yeah, I’m a terrible fucking patient.
And I hate hospitals even more than I hate airplanes.
I spent half my life in one as a kid, watching my dad fight a slow losing battle with cancer. It’s hard to unpack the trauma associated with a place that gives life as often as it takes it away. For the longest time, I just had the memories of a grieving nine-year-old to inform my impressions. Time and distance have lessened my sense of primal fear, but there are some memories that embed themselves deep within the DNA.
Like the fact that all hospitals have the same smell. As soon as my stretcher rolled through the doors of the emergency room, I felt like that scared nine-year-old again. It’s the faintly metallic smell of medical-grade cleaner that lingers on every surface. Mix in the scent of starched hospital sheets, add in a whiff of stale coffee, a whisper of drying paint, and you’ve got the hospital bouquet.
It’s noxious.
Stifling.
Triggering.
I have to get the fuck out of here.
I look down at my left knee. It’s wrapped up in a brace and propped from below by a pillow. My right leg is hidden under the thin hospital blankets. The bare toes of my left foot stick up, pointing to the ceiling. Apparently, I’m supposed to sleep like this, lying on my back with the brace on. I never sleep on my back. I don’t even know if I can sleep on my back.
This night is gonna suck.
At least they’ve assured me I’ll be discharged in time to join the team on the return flight to Jax. I don’t want to be left behind. This night has been traumatic for me beyond the knee injury. I don’t want to be alone.
As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, there’s a knock at my door and Sully enters.
“Hey, there he is,” he says with a wide smile. “How you feeling, man?” He steps around my bed to drop down into the empty chair.
“Whoa, you look like shit,” Morrow says from the door, following him in. His words are teasing, but his eyes are hardened, his mouth set in a frown rather than his usual smile. He’s still blaming himself for the bad pass that got me clipped.
“I’m fine,” I reply to Sully’s question, looking at Morrow. “Tired but fine.”
Jake comes through the door last, my backpack slung on his shoulder and my overnight bag in his other hand. “My darling wife sent me with gifts,” he says, holding up both bags. “Jeez, you look like shit, man. Probably smell like it too. Want your deodorant?”
He doesn’t even wait for me to say ‘yeah’ before he’s dropping both bags onto the other empty chair. He goes digging through my backpack, pulling out my Old Spice and tossing it over to me. I freshen up my pits as Sully helps himself to the pitcher of water on my bedside table.
“How’s the leggo?” says Sully, gesturing to my swollen, aching knee.
“Doc says I have a second-degree sprain of my MCL,” I reply.
Jake helps himself to a seat at the end of my bed. “What does that mean exactly?”
“How long are you off the ice?” Sully rephrases.
I shrug. “Doc says I’m looking at about four weeks of RICE. We don’t want the tear to get any fucking worse.”
We’ve each had enough injuries between us to know the RICE regimen: rest, ice, compression, elevation. I have to control the swelling. The rest is just pain management while the body heals itself. Doc walked me through it all twice before she left, which I appreciated since they slipped me some good pain killers down in the ER.
Sully gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Four weeks is nothing, man. Easy time.”
“Yeah, we’ll hardly even get the chance to miss you,” Morrow adds, the relief etched on his face. “The rookies will be at your beck and call. And you know the WAGs will fix you up with enough meals to last you through the rest of the season. It’ll be like a vacation—”
“Wait, doesn’t your place have like a shit ton of stairs?” says Sully.
I just shrug. “I mean, yeah. But I’ve managed on crutches before. It’s really not a big deal.”
“Dude, that dump you rent is a split-level,” adds Jake. “There are stairs fucking everywhere. It’s a death trap. You’re not staying there.”
“Guys, I’m fine. Four weeks, remember? And nothing’s even broken—”
“Maybe a rookie can just take him in?” Sully says over me at Jake. “Walsh?”
“Walsh rents a one-room apartment and has a live-in girlfriend,” I reply.
“Perry, then,” Jake offers.
“Or Dave-O,” counters Sully.
“Surely times aren’t that desperate,” says Morrow with a scoff. Then he sighs, shaking his head. “I mean…I guess you could stay with me. It’s only four weeks, right?”
Both Sully and Jake turn to him with matching frowns.
“Wow. Heartfelt,” Jake deadpans.
“Yeah, you had about as much enthusiasm as if you just offered to let him jizz in your shampoo bottle,” says Sully.
I snort a laugh. “Thanks, but no thanks, Coley. I can only guess what kind of weirdness you and Novy get up to over there.”
“Nov is moving out,” he mutters, crossing his arms.
We all turn to him.
“Wait—what happened?” says Jake, eyes wide. “Did you guys break up?”
Sully chokes on a laugh.
“Shut up, asshole,” Morrow snaps. “It’s none of your business.”
“Wait…did you?” Sully presses. “Like…are you two secretly a thing?”
“No way,” Jake cries. “Hey, Cay and I aren’t the only ones.” He raises a hand like he’s seeking a high five, but Morrow just groans.
“It’s not like that, assholes. It was always meant to be temporary. You know, while they did the renos on his house,” he adds with a shrug.
Novy bought a big bachelor pad of a beach house a few blocks down the street from Jake. They both have multi-year contracts with no-trade clauses. They can afford to put down roots and invest in things like kitchen renovations.
We all wait for Morrow to say more but he just glares. “It’s just—look, this is about Langley’s problem.” He gestures back at me lying in the hospital bed. “He’s the one who needs a place to stay.”
“Oh god,” Jake laughs, smacking his forehead. “I’m such an idiot.”
“What?” asks Sully.
Jake looks to me. “I’ve got the perfect place you can stay. Furnished, close to the practice arena, and not a single stair.”
“Where?” I say.
He slips his hand into his pocket and takes out his keys, working one off the ring. “Here, man.”
I shift forward, taking the silver key from his hand. “What’s this?”
“Key to Mars’s house,” he replies.
The three of us stare down at the key like it’s a rare, unearthed treasure.
“I’ve never been to Mars’s house,” Morrow says, his tone almost reverent.
“Me either,” says Sully. “I don’t even know where it is. How do you have that?” he adds, eyes wide as he takes in Jake, like he’s suddenly recalculating him and his potential.
Jake just laughs, then frowns. “Wait—are you assholes serious?” When none of us respond, he huffs again. “We got married, remember? In L.A.? You were all fucking there?”
“But…I thought it was like a ‘Doc in the middle’ kind of thing,” Morrow says.
“Yeah, we didn’t know you had a key to his place for…you know, just like…just you,” Sully adds.
Jake scoffs. “You guys really need to brush up on your polyamory. I’m not fucking Mars, alright? And he’s not fucking me,” he adds, pointing a finger at Morrow who swallows his retort. “He’s my metaphor.”
Sully and I share a quick glance. “Your what?” I say.
“My metaphor,” Jake repeats. “It’s a polyam term.”
“I really don’t think it is,” Sully says, trying to contain his smile.
I’m doing the same. I drop my gaze to my knee, which sobers me right up.
Jake crosses his arms over his broad chest. “I think I should know what I call Mars in our own marriage.”
“Dude, a metaphor is like a figure of speech,” Sully says. “Like ‘life is a highway’ or ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat an elephant.’”
The corner of Jake’s mouth quirks. “You’re bullshitting me right now.”
“Nah, man. I’m pretty sure that’s right,” says Morrow.
With a glare, Jake pulls out his phone. His thumb taps the screen, and we soon hear a dial tone as he puts the call on speaker.
“Fuck—what?” comes Sanford’s voice. “I was asleep.”
“Hey, solve something for us really quick. What’s a metaphor?” Jake asks.
Sanford grunts, and there’s a rustling sound like he’s sitting up in his hotel bed. “What?”
“A metaphor.” Jake enunciates each syllable. “I’m sitting here with Langers and the guys at the hospital tryna tell them Mars is my metaphor, and they don’t believe me that it’s a real polyam thing so…”
There’s a pause so pregnant you could feel it kick the air between us.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sanford says at last. “Babe, a metaphor is a figure of speech like…fuck, I don’t know… ‘life is a highway’—”
Sully and I choke on our fists, trying to quiet our laughter, as Jake launches off the bed, taking the phone off speaker. “Well, then, what the fuck is Mars?”
It’s all we can do to hold it together as Jake paces from my bed to the door. I don’t dare look at the other guys. I just focus on my busted knee.
“Uh-huh,” says Jake into his phone. “Yeah, alright, fine—okay, will you just chill? I’m on my way back, jeez.” He drops the phone from his ear and hangs up. “Such a bossy asshole,” he says under his breath. With a sigh, he glances up and looks between us. “So uhh…it’s metamour. Not metaphor. Mars is my metamour.”
“That’s cool,” says Sully. The man looks like he’s about to give himself appendicitis from how hard he’s trying not to laugh.
But Morrow has no such reserve. He just looks at Jake and shakes his head in stunned disbelief. “You must give the best fucking blowjobs of all time.”
That breaks us. Sully and I roar with laughter. I laugh so hard it gives me a headache worse than the one I already had. Pretty soon I’m groaning, a sharp pain stabbing me behind the eyes.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Jake says with a grin, taking it all in stride.
“Come on, Mr. Metamour,” says Sully, pushing himself up out of the chair and moving around the end of my bed. “You too, Coley. Let’s give Langers time to rest.”
“You can’t call me Mr. Metamour,” says Jake with a glare. “Only Mars gets to call me that.”
“I have a feeling hell will freeze over before Mars Kinnunen calls you Mr. Metamour,” Morrow says with a laugh, scooping his soccer ball up off the floor.
“It’s Mars Price, asshole,” says Jake, punching Morrow’s shoulder hard.
“Ouch—fuck—” Morrow turns on him, ready to take his own swing. The defensemen are always more physical with each other than us forwards.
“Easy,” says Sully, stepping between them. “Save it for the ice, guys.”
“Hey, what am I supposed to do with this key,” I call to Jake’s retreating form.
“Use it,” he replies. “Until you’re back on your feet.”
“I’ll have Shelbs alert the WAGs,” Sully adds. As team captain, his wife Shelby is queen of the wives and girlfriends. I’m about to be buried under a mountain of homemade soups, cookies, and casseroles.
“But I don’t even know where Mars lives,” I call as Jake pulls open the door. “What’s the address?”
Jake glances over his shoulder. “1006 Harbor Road. Oh, and he’s got this awesome sauna thing out on the patio. Might help you loosen up that knee,” he adds with a nod to my leg.
“See you tomorrow,” Morrow calls, walking out the door first.
“Get some sleep, man,” adds Sully. “We’ll come bust you out of here first thing in the morning.”
Get some sleep. Right. Lying on my back in a fucking hospital? With a sigh, I stretch out over the side of my bed and reach for my backpack. Pulling it onto my lap, I dig in the front pocket and take out my Nintendo Switch.
It’s gonna be a long fucking night.
