Worth The Wait

𝟎𝟒|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝚮 𝐓𝚮𝚬 𝐖𝚨𝐈𝐓

𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓

The game is intense, the ice slick and cold beneath my skates, the sound of blades carving through it ringing in my ears. The crowd is a low hum in the background, but all my focus is on the game, on my teammates, and on the puck that's moving too fast.
We're in the final minutes of the third period, the score tied. The energy in the arena is electric, and the tension is palpable. Every player is pushing themselves, fighting for every inch of ice, knowing that the next play could decide the game.
I feel the weight of it—the pressure that comes with being the leader of this team. I'm the one they turn to when things get tough, the one they count on when the game is on the line. It's a role I've embraced, even when the stakes are high, and tonight? Tonight feels like it's all on me.
The puck moves to the center ice, and I shift into position. My legs are burning, but it's the good kind of burn—the kind you get when you're on the verge of something big. My eyes scan the rink, watching for any openings, waiting for the perfect moment to make my move.
Kolton's got the puck now, gliding down the ice, and I'm already moving to support him. I can feel the rhythm of the game—this is where I excel, when everything slows down in my mind, and I can see the play unfold before it happens.
But the moment I've been waiting for doesn't come as planned. I shift to the right, trying to cut across the ice, but a defender—a large guy, someone I've been battling all night—cuts in front of me. I don't see him at first, not until it's too late.
He's got his head down, charging towards me with the intent to block me, to keep me from getting to the puck. It's a dangerous move, one where you don't hesitate. But the second I feel his stick jab into my leg, I know something's off.
I pivot quickly, trying to avoid the hit, but my skate catches an edge on the ice. There's a sickening twist in my knee—sharp and sudden—before the world goes blurry.
The pain hits before I can react. My leg feels like it's locked in place, and I know instantly that I can't move it.
The whistle blows, but it doesn't register. Not yet. Not when the world is spinning and the only thing I can focus on is the agony in my knee. I crumple to the ice, clutching at my leg, and the crowd's cheer fades to nothing. The rink, once full of energy, becomes eerily quiet in my ears.
"River!" Kolton's voice is the first to cut through the haze. He's at my side before I can even process, his hand on my shoulder, his voice frantic. "Shit, man, are you okay?"
I try to breathe, to push through the pain, but it's like nothing I've ever felt before. It's worse than any hit I've taken in the past, worse than any bruise or strain. I can't feel my leg properly. It's heavy, numb, but there's a sharpness to the pain that tells me it's more than just a knock.
"You need to stay still," Kolton says, his words an echo as I fight to keep my focus.
I know I should, but all I can think is: How bad is this?
The pain in my knee is unbearable. Every breath I take seems to make it worse, and I can't stop the wave of nausea that rolls through me. I try to push it down, to focus on something—anything—but all I can feel is the heavy, grinding pain in my leg.
"Stay with me, River," Kolton's voice breaks through again, pulling me back to the present. His hand is still on my shoulder, his grip tight. "We've got you, man. Just breathe."
I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. The sharp pain is still there, gnawing at me, but Kolton's voice is a steady anchor, reminding me to focus. I nod weakly, doing my best to take slow breaths, but it's hard. The world feels like it's spinning around me.
The team doctor is rushing over, followed by a couple of trainers. They kneel beside me, and I can feel their hands gently probing my knee, checking for any obvious signs of damage.
"River, talk to me," the doctor says, his voice firm but calm. "Where does it hurt the most?"
I try to respond, but my throat is dry, and all I can manage is a groan. The pain's too much to put into words. I'm barely even aware of the crowd anymore, their cheers replaced by the distant hum of my own pulse.
The trainer places a cold pack against my knee, but it does nothing to ease the fire burning inside it.
"We're going to help you up," the doctor says, and I brace myself as two of the trainers carefully help me to my feet. The second my weight shifts onto my injured leg, a searing pain shoots up my thigh, and I almost collapse again. Kolton's there to catch me, holding me steady, but I can't hide the grimace on my face.
"God, it hurts," I mutter, trying to regain my footing. But the pain keeps me rooted to the spot.
"We're getting you off the ice," the doctor says firmly, signaling to the trainers to help me off the rink. The last thing I want to do is leave the game. But I know there's no choice. This injury's bad. There's no denying it. As they help me slowly off the ice, I try not to let frustration and panic overtake me. When we finally get to the locker room, it is a blur. I'm seated, and the adrenaline slowly drains from my system, leaving nothing but a sharp, deep ache in my leg. The doctor's voice cuts through the haze of pain as he examines my knee further. "It's a severe sprain. It looks like a torn ligament, maybe more. There's no way you're skating again this season."
I can't help but lean back against the wall, staring at my leg, which feels foreign. The news hits me like a brick, but I can't process it fully. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure," the doctor replies, looking at me with the kind of sympathy I don't need. "We'll run some tests to get a clearer picture, but right now? You're done for the season, River."
The weight of his words crushes me. No more games. No more ice.
I can hear Kolton talking to coach in the background, but his words don't matter right now. The reality is too harsh, too real.
I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down. There's nothing I can do to change it. I'm out. And I'm unsure what comes next for the first time in my career.
The realization sets in like an anchor, dragging me under. My mind reels, trying to grasp anything to hold on to. But nothing makes sense in the face of what's happening. I should focus on the game, play, and winning—everything that has always driven me. But now, there's nothing left but this gnawing emptiness.
I look down at my knee again, my gaze almost accusatory, as if willing it to heal, to tell me that this is just a bad sprain, something easily fixed with a few weeks of rest. But the way the doctor spoke, the way the trainers' expressions had shifted, I knew it was far more serious than I wanted to believe. This isn't just a temporary setback.
I close my eyes again, blocking out everything, but that only overwhelms the feeling of defeat. I can't see a clear path forward for the first time in a long time. My entire future, my career, is suddenly uncertain.
Kolton walks back into the room, his face tight. He's trying to hide it, but I see the concern in his eyes. "Coach says to take it easy for the night, man. You'll have some time to process things."
I nod absently, but I don't know if I'll ever be ready to process this. To accept that a game I've given my life to might be over for me. I know I've been lucky to avoid major injuries up until now, but this? This is different. This could end everything. Fuck. I've been playing hockey since I could walk. Maybe I could become a coach? But I wasn't suppose to go out like this.
Kolton sits down next to me, looking like he wants to say something comforting but struggling to find the right words. "We're gonna get through this," he finally says, his voice quiet but firm. "You're not alone, River. You've got the team behind you."
I don't respond. It's not that I don't appreciate his support—it's just that I'm not sure it's enough right now. The doctor said I was done for the season, but it feels like so much more than that. It's not just a missed game—it's an entire year wiped out in the blink of an eye.
The thought of sitting on the sidelines for the next several months gnaws at me, and I can feel myself slipping into a dark place. The game, the thing that's always kept me grounded, is slipping away from me. And I don't know if I can face that.
"Hey," Kolton says gently, leaning closer, "you need to take care of yourself. And you'll come back stronger, I know it."
I look up at him, trying to meet his gaze, but it feels like I'm looking at someone from a different world. "I don't know if I can," I mutter, the words feeling foreign in my mouth. I've never doubted myself before, but right now, it's hard to see how I could come back from this.
Kolton doesn't push. He just stays quiet, his presence enough for now. It's comforting in a way, but it doesn't fix anything. Nothing can fix this right now.
The door to the locker room opens again, and Coach Bennett walks in, his face unreadable as he looks at me. I try to muster strength to stand up, but I can't. My body won't cooperate. I'm exhausted, both physically and mentally.
"River," Coach says, his voice low but steady, "I know this isn't easy. But we'll get through it. The team needs you, even if you're not on the ice."
I nod, but I can't quite look him in the eye. Does the team need me? How could they need me when I can't even help myself? How can I be a leader when I'm broken?
Coach doesn't wait for an answer. He walks over to me, sitting beside Kolton, his presence a heavy reminder of my responsibilities for so long. "The season's not over. It's just a bump in the road. You've worked too hard to let this be the end of the road for you."
I want to believe him. I really do. But right now, the weight of this injury feels like it's the end of everything I've worked for. The rink, the games, the hours of practice are all slipping away from me.
"We're going to get you the best treatment," Coach continues, his voice firm. "And you'll be back. I have no doubt about that. But you have to give yourself time. This isn't a race to heal; it's a process. And you'll get through it, one step at a time."
I nod, trying to take in his words. The reality of what he's saying is hard to swallow. I've always been driven, always been in control. But now, I'm at the mercy of my body, and that's a feeling I can't quite wrap my mind around.
Coach stands up, clapping me on the shoulder. "We've got your back, River. The team, the coaches—we're all here for you."
I manage a weak smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Thanks, Coach," I say, the words feeling hollow.
Kolton also stands up, offering me a final look before walking out with Coach. I'm left in the quiet of the locker room, the silence deafening now that they're gone.
I pull my leg up, resting it on a bench, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the stillness. But I can only feel the sharp reminder of what I've lost.
I don't know how to handle this. I don't know how to accept that my season is over and my future is uncertain.
But one thing's for sure: I can't give up. Even if I don't know how to move forward right now, I must. There's no other choice.
I look down at my knee, the swollen mess that will keep me sidelined for who knows how long. I don't know how long it'll take to heal or if I'll ever return to where I was. But if there's one thing hockey has taught me, it's that nothing is ever certain. And that, maybe, is the one thing I can hold on to.
I close my eyes, letting the silence settle around me. Tomorrow is a new day, and I'll face whatever comes next. But tonight, I have to accept the reality of what's happening—and try to find the strength to move through it. Because no matter how hard this is, I won't let it be the end.
The locker room door clicks shut behind Kolton and Coach, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The silence is oppressive, each second stretching longer than the last. I try to focus on my breathing, to center myself, but the pain in my knee is constant, throbbing like a drumbeat that won't stop. It's a reminder of everything I've lost in one cruel, swift motion.
I shift on the bench, testing the weight on my leg, but the pain makes me wince, forcing me to retreat back into stillness. My knee feels like a foreign object—heavy, swollen, and entirely useless. I try to picture myself back on the ice, gliding through the motions, leading my team to victory. But the image slips through my fingers like water.
The truth is, I don't know what's worse: the injury itself or the uncertainty of what comes next. Hockey has been my entire life. It's been my anchor, my purpose, and now that's been ripped away from me in an instant. I don't know who I am without the game.
I reach for my phone, my fingers stiff, and dial the one number I haven't called in a while. It rings, twice, and then my mother's voice crackles over the line.
"Hello?"
"Mom?" My voice cracks, and I swallow hard, trying to steady myself. "It's me. River."
"River?" She sounds a little confused at first, but then the recognition hits. "Oh, honey, I've been meaning to call you... How's everything? Are you okay?"
I can hear the quiet in the background—the soft, comforting hum of her voice, but there's something else in her tone, too. A gentle tremor I can't ignore. A part of me wonders if she even fully grasps what's happening.
"I... I don't know, Mom. It's bad. The injury. The doctor says it might be the end of my season. Maybe even longer." I struggle to keep my voice steady, but it's difficult when everything feels like it's crumbling.
There's a pause, and I imagine her sitting there, processing the words, trying to understand them. But the weight of this doesn't make sense to me, so how can I expect it to make sense to her?
"Oh, sweetheart..." she breathes. "I'm so sorry. But you're strong, River. You've gotten through so much already."
The warmth in her voice is a comfort, even if it doesn't change anything. The future is still a question mark, and I don't know how to face it. The game has always been everything to me, and now? Now I don't even know who I am without it.
"I just don't know what to do," I admit, feeling the lump in my throat grow. "I've been playing hockey since I could walk, Mom. What do I do when that's taken away?"
She doesn't immediately respond, but I can hear her breathing on the other end of the line, thinking.
"River," she finally says, her voice quiet but firm, "you're more than the game. You've always been. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but this is just one chapter. Whatever happens, we'll figure it out. Together."
I close my eyes, trying to let her words sink in, but the pain in my knee and the weight of everything else won't let go. "I don't know how to do it, Mom. I don't know who I am if I'm not on the ice."
She sighs softly. "You're still River Prescott, the same person I've always known. Hockey doesn't define you. It's part of you, yes, but there's more. You've always had so much heart, so much drive. That won't change."
I nod, even though she can't see me. She's right. But right now, it doesn't feel like enough.
"I just need time," I mutter, feeling like that's the only thing left to hold on to.
"You've got it. Take it one day at a time. And when you're ready to talk, I'll be here. Always."
"Thanks, Mom," I say, my voice cracking. It's the first time I've said those words to anyone in a while, and it feels like a weight has been lifted, even if just a little.
There's a pause, and then her voice comes back, softer, slower. "Who is this again? Are you my son?"
I freeze. My chest tightens, and I swallow back the surge of emotion that threatens to break through.
"It's me, Mom. River," I repeat, keeping my voice as steady as I can. "I'm your son."
"Oh... River," she murmurs, a little confused now, but she's trying. She's always tried. "I'm sorry, I don't... I don't know why I didn't remember..."
I take a deep breath, blinking away the sting in my eyes. "It's okay, Mom," I say softly, the words feeling hollow but somehow necessary. "It's okay."
She doesn't respond, and after a moment, I gently end the call. The silence is deafening, the echo of her forgetting me lingering in the air. It feels like a weight I'm not ready to carry, but I've been carrying it for a while now. I can't stop it.
I lean back, resting my head against the cool locker room wall, letting the quiet wash over me. Tomorrow will come, and with it, a chance to figure it out. But tonight, I'll just breathe. For now, that's all I can do.
The air in the locker room feels heavy, thick with everything unsaid. I stare at the phone in my hand, the screen dimming in front of me as if it's giving up too, like there's nothing left to hold onto. My mom's voice still echoes in my head, soft and uncertain, fading out with her confusion. I know it's the Alzheimer's, but that doesn't make it any easier. Every time I hear her forget who I am, it feels like another piece of me slips away.
The door creaks open again, and Kolton steps inside, his footsteps slow, deliberate. I don't look up right away. I can't, not with this hollow ache spreading in my chest. The knot in my stomach won't loosen, no matter how many times I try to breathe through it.
"River?" Kolton's voice breaks the silence, concern in his tone. "You okay?"
I push myself off the bench, standing up awkwardly, trying to shake off the wave of emotions threatening to crash over me. "Yeah, just... thinking."
Kolton doesn't buy it, not for a second. He steps closer, eyes scanning me with that familiar intensity. "You sure? You're not the same, man. Not since... since the injury."
I force a smile, but it's weak, a poor imitation of what it's supposed to be. "I'm fine. Just a little... a little too much time to think, you know?"
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze softening as he takes in my clenched fists and the way I stand too still. I can tell he wants to push, to ask what's really going on, but he knows better than to dig when I'm not ready. Still, he's here. He always shows up.
Kolton drops his bag to the floor with a heavy thud and leans against the lockers. "Look, I know you don't want to talk about it. But whatever you're going through, you don't have to do it alone, okay?"
I nod stiffly, but his words bounce off me. I appreciate him being here, but right now, no one can fix this. Not even him. Not even me.
"I've spent my whole life on the ice, Kolton," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "I don't know who I am without it. The game was everything. It still is... I just don't know what to do now."
Kolton sighs, his expression turning serious as he walks over to where I stand. He places a hand on my shoulder, steady, grounding. "You don't have to know right now. It's okay to not have it figured out. You're still River Prescott, whether you're on the ice or not."
"I don't feel like it," I mutter, looking down at the floor, feeling the weight of everything. "I don't feel like me anymore."
"You will," Kolton says firmly, his voice unwavering. "You just need time. You've always been someone who bounces back, man. You're gonna figure it out. I know you."
I try to believe him. I want to believe him. But the uncertainty gnaws at me. Hockey was always the constant, the one thing I could count on. And now it's gone, yanked away with no warning, leaving a void that I'm not sure I know how to fill.
"Thanks, Kolton," I say, my voice low, tight. "But I don't know if I can get back to it, to who I was. Not after this."
Kolton pats me on the back, hard enough to knock me out of my head for a second. "Don't think like that. Whatever happens, you're not gonna be alone in this. I'm here for you, no matter what." I look up at him, and for the first time since I sat down, the weight in my chest feels just a little bit lighter. I don't have answers. Hell, I don't even know where to start. But for the first time, I think I might have a little faith that I can figure it out. One day at a time.
"Thanks, man," I whisper, and this time, it feels real.
Kolton gives me a quick grin, before picking up his bag again. "Anytime, River. Anytime."
As he walks out, leaving me alone once more, the silence settles around me. It's not comforting, not like it used to be. But I'm still here, still breathing, still trying to figure it all out. Maybe that's enough for today. And tomorrow... tomorrow I'll try again. For now, though, I just need to sit in this, in the uncertainty, and let the quiet of the locker room wash over me.