Page 164 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

My thumb hovers over the contact information. Then Annette’s question returns. Does this truly need to be mine? Megan can send Liam. He will enjoy the attention, charm every guest in the room and probably convince someone to fund his next ridiculous locker-room poster.

I need to step back from next Thursday’s dinner while I complete rehabilitation. Liam will be an excellent team representative. I read my response twice. The words feel too formal. Too final. Too selfish. I send it anyway, and the appointment disappears from my calendar. The blank space left behind looks wrong.

I move to the radio interview. Postponed.

The extra foundation meeting can go to the executive director, who already understands the scholarship program better than I do. Delegated.

The youth banquet stays. I promised a group of twelve-year-olds I would answer questions about leadership, and that one feels like mine. It stays.

The rest begin to fall away. Not forever. Just for now. Each cancellation produces the same small jolt of guilt, followed by something I barely recognize. Relief.

When I finish, tomorrow’s calendar contains one appointment - rehabilitation.

The open afternoon beneath it seems almost irresponsible. I stare at the empty hours and hear Annette’s voice from weeks ago. It’s a beautiful habit. We’re just teaching you when to let someone help you.

I rest my head against the seat. “They’ll manage,” I say aloud. The words sound uncertain inside the truck. I say them again. “They’ll manage.”

This time, I almost believe it. My phone rings before I can start the engine. Coach.

I brace myself and answer. “Hey.”

“You canceled the sponsor dinner.”

No greeting. Straight to the point.

“I did.”

“And the interview.”

“Yes.”

“And handed the foundation meeting to Caroline.”

“She runs the program.”

“I’m aware.”

I wait for the criticism. It does not come. Instead, Coach says, “It’s about time.”

I straighten. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I thought you’d be upset.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m captain.”

“That title does not mean you personally attend every event within fifty miles of Frostholm.”

“It feels like it does.” “I know.” His voice loses its dry edge. “I made you captain because you know how to take care of people.” The compliment lands harder than expected. Then he adds, “I forgot to teach you how to take care of yourself.”

Neither of us speaks. Coach has never apologized to me for anything. He doesn’t need to now. Still, something inside me eases.

“You didn’t forget,” I say. “I wasn’t listening.”

A quiet laugh comes through the phone. “That sounds more likely.”