The pace of a game shifts as quick as any play can be made, the speed it requires ranging from nonchalance to blistering, exhausting speed. Speed. Hoang’s heard that word a lot in his career. For the longest time, it seemed to be a hallmark of his game, some say it still is.
But he’s sitting in a doctor’s office after a battery of tests on nearly every joint, every muscle, every tendon and bone lower than his back, because he feels he’s just slowing down. Maybe it’s undetectable to his teammates and the fans, but when you feel you’re a step behind, that seems to occupy your mind.
Doctor’s offices. Hoang hasn’t been in them much beyond routine checkups. He doesn’t get sick, tends not to bruise much, never so much as a scraped knee as a kid has ailed him. But sitting on a table too uncomfortable to sprawl out on, too uncomfortable to simply sit on normally, he wishes that doctor’s office rooms could just be a bit more spacious. Anxious waits have always been assuaged by pacing.
The tension breaks as Dr. Foster enters. To all Monarchs young and old, Dr. Emery Foster of St. Paul General is the foremost authority on headaches, lack of sleep, bruises, and sprains. As most teams do, Minnesota has a perfect health record, and much of that effort is due to her.
“Results are in.” As it hangs in the air for a split second, Hoang’s breath gets a little lost from his chest to his throat. Always some anxiety in hearing that.
Foster sees the tension immediately. Tension’s not good for anybody, she supplies a remedy immediately. “It looks like you’ll be able to skip out of here just fine like always.”
It get a laugh from Hoang, he’s not made of stone. “Not sure I’ve done that in… who knows how long. I wasn’t the kind of kid who skips.”
Foster smiles. Hoang’s always been a nervous patient, but bubbly in conversation and never withholding of important information. A perfect patient to study on, so on many occasions medical students have been with her as she gives checkups to Hoang and most other Monarchs. Hockey players generally have the same personality. Cagey, but never hostile. Always pleasant.
“So what’s the conclusion? Anything to look out for?” Hoang pries.
“We’ve reached a few conclusions, but I can tell you that it’s not mental, what you’re feeling.” Foster immediately senses that using “tell” instead of “assure” sets off a warning sign for Hoang.
“We’ve done several scans, some x-rays, and all signs point to a flurry of activity in nearly every joint from your hips to your ankles.”
Words catch on Hoang’s throat, but the need for answers eventually forces out a “What do you mean?”. It’s hard to hide his anxiety now.
“You’re aware of the nanobots in our bodies and in the air that prevent injury, correct?” Foster takes a seat after taking, not before. She knows that’s a tell too far that it’s bad, bad news.
“Always have been.”
“Well, every so often, these nanobots can detect the likelihood of injury from someone and works overtime to keep vital things together. Tendons, joints. I’ve seen entire bones held together by the nanos.”
“Is that bad?” Hoang pries, he’s rubbing his thighs instinctively, anxiety taking a physical form.
“In the long term? Definitely not. The problem isn’t what’s happening inside you, it’s what’s happening everywhere else. Nanos have to respond to danger, and if that danger is say, making sure you don’t stumble because of your bad knee and take a spill in the dining room, that’s not as extreme as, say, someone breaking through a glass pane and falling 30 stories. That gets their attention. If you’ve seen video of that happening, it’s one of the only times you can see so many of them with your own eyes.”
Hoang raises an eyebrow. “I have seen them, It’s bizarre. But what does that have to do with my joints?”
Foster continues. “Well, it’s not just your joints. Hockey is a rough game, you end up with a lot of situations where injuries are possible. Frankly, I don’t think the nanos were designed for sports like that, but here we are. When you take a hip check or fall when a skate blade breaks, the nanos take care of your tendons, making sure they stay together, they help with your joints and hamstrings and all those things, but that takes up a lot of time and activity, and if you’re physically active, as you are, it means the nanos are working overtime.”
“So I’m overworking the nanos, is the problem? Should I take some time off in the offseason, try to rest?” Hoang hates the thought just as it leaves his mouth. He doesn’t like to lounge, and being stuck in his house just trying not to break things is not his idea of an offseason.
Foster points with her pen at his left knee. “It’s not a worry of what job they’re doing, but what’ll happen if they have to leave. Something could always happen that could call quite a few of them away from your body, and when that happens, you’re at risk of serious injury. A few always stick around to prevent concussions and other possibly fatal events, but it’s not enough to hold up a whole knee if someone wants to hit you low. Your nano count in your lower body is twice the normal peak. That’s concerning, especially for an athlete.”
It might as well be a bag of bricks falling on Hoang’s head, this kind of news can knock you cold with your eyes still open. Hoang can’t find anything to say.
Foster gives him a comfortable face before continuing. “You’re at risk, and beyond that, a quick exit, if it’s a serious emergency, could really be an issue.”
There’s a moment of silence. Both people in the room know what’s coming next, it’s just a matter of waiting.
Finally, Hoang spits it out. “What… uh. What’s next? What do I do?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but at the speed you play, I can tell why they think you’re a risk. So much of your game is physical, and it’s about speed, and when you operate at a high pace, you’re a higher risk for injury. It sounds crazy, but I mean this: The solution is slowing down.”
Hoang’s hands now shift to his face, almost a prayer, but no words or thoughts accompany the act. He’s wracking his brain for an alternative, but he knows that he’s not the person who will find it.
Foster sympathizes, but she understands, as anyone would, what saying the words Hoang must be thinking of, means to an athlete, professional or not.
“The only other alternative is to stop.”
Hoang leave the doctor’s office with a blank expression. Dazed, he unconsciously drives himself home, sits on his couch. The thoughts ping-ponging around in his head, simple repetition, slowly drawing weight on what the future holds.
eddiesnothere
