Kane (Arizona Vengeance 8)

As our backup goalie, it would have been easy for him to be taciturn over his position on the team. Not a lot of opportunity for ice time, and no matter how brightly he shone when he did step out there to help our team, he was always going to play second fiddle to the primary goalie, Legend Bay.

But Baden wasn’t like that. He was like the spirit of the team. The rousing cheerleader who kept us all pumped up, no matter how dire the circumstances. He was simply one of those men who accepted his position. While he surely had loftier ambitions—like to be the number-one goalie someday—he never let it impair his loyalty to the team as a whole.

But honestly, visiting Baden has almost become a chore lately. There’s no doubt he has sunk into a deep depression over his disabilities as a result of the attack. And not one person can hold it against him. Not one of us wouldn’t spiral downward if our hockey career was taken away from us in a flash.

Knowing that and empathizing with it doesn’t make it any easier to see him. And yet, none of the Arizona Vengeance is going to give up on him. Whether he likes it or not, we’ve worked out a routine to ensure he gets a steady stream of visitors on an almost daily basis.

I’m flying out to California tomorrow with Mollie to visit her parents. Although I saw Baden not long ago, I wanted to get another visit in before I left. I’m hoping there’s going to be one day I walk into his room and see his big goofy smile. Hopefully, because he’s happy to see me.

He’s only been in this rehab hospital on the outskirts of Phoenix for a few weeks. As I traverse the halls toward his room, I nod at a few people I’ve met. Baden will be here for at least a month more, so I’m sure I’ll meet many of the other doctors, nurses, and therapists as time goes on. After all, Baden is the hospital’s most famous resident. Everyone has a vested interest in getting him back on his feet, all striving for that miracle of miracles that could possibly return him to the ice.

Baden’s door is closed when I arrive, unlike many of the other residents who keep theirs open to wave and greet people who pass by. It’s a definite sign he has chosen to remove himself from the camaraderie within this rehab facility, and he prefers to be on his own. While at Coach’s party, I heard from Dominik that Baden has made the decision to stay in Phoenix throughout his rehabilitation. That had been sort of up in the air. He’d been considering returning home to Montréal to be near his parents. While we are all thrilled he has decided to stay here, there is a certain level of sadness, too, since he asked his parents to remain at home. I know he’s close to them, so I can’t quite figure out why he wouldn’t want them here unless he just doesn’t want them, or anyone, to push him toward something he may have decided deep in his heart he’ll never have.

Bottom line… I don’t think Baden has much faith he’ll ever play hockey again. I’m not even sure he believes he has the ability to walk.

Whatever is going on inside his head, he is clearly in a dark place. It makes it more imperative than ever that the team rally behind him to do whatever we can to push him back toward his normal self. The man who, only last season, believed more than any of us that we could win the Cup championship.

I knock on the door, but I don’t wait for him to answer. Pushing it open, I find him sitting in a chair by the window. I can only imagine what it took to get him there. Probably two male aides to lift his considerable frame out of the bed and carry him. Knowing Baden, it was probably humiliating to him. Just as it would be to me.

His head swings my way, his hair having grown a few inches over the past couple of months. He hasn’t shaved. His beard is thick and full, but in desperate need of trimming. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants, but it doesn’t hide the fact he’s lost muscle in his lower extremities. They look thin under the plush cotton, his knees sticking out like knobs.

“What’s up, man?” I ask.

Baden lifts his chin in greeting. “Not much. Sick of watching TV. Sick of reading. Thought I’d watch the traffic down below for a change of pace.”

I want to wince over those words, but I keep a pleasant smile plastered on my face. There’s a chair opposite him, sitting at an angle, and I move to take it. “Heard you decided to stay in Phoenix for the course of your rehab.”