Page 224 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

For several moments I simply hold it between my fingers, listening to the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. It strikes me that this notebook has witnessed every stage of my recovery. It has seen the worst days, the hopeful days, the frustrating days, and the ones when I couldn't see any progress at all. Through all of it, the questions never changed.

Today's Win.

Someone I Encouraged.

Something I'm Grateful For.

Coach had never intended them to be complicated. He simply wanted me to notice my life instead of letting it rush past me.

Tonight, though, the questions seem different. I write the first one across the page.

Today's Win

For a long time, I stare at the empty line beneath it. Nothing about today feels like a victory.

I argued with Annette. I walked out of the rehabilitation clinic before finishing my session. I spent an entire practice wondering whether I'd lost the most important person I'd met in years.

None of that feels like winning.

Then Coach's words return to me. Have you ever actually told her what you're feeling?

Slowly, I begin to write.

Today's Win: I finally admitted the truth to myself.

I read the sentence twice before moving on.

It isn't a victory because everything suddenly feels better. It's a victory because I finally stopped hiding from what I already knew.

The second question has always come more easily.

Someone I Encouraged

My first instinct is to write Ethan. The rookie grows more confident every week and watching him develop has become one of the unexpected joys of being captain.

The pen hovers over the page before I smile and shake my head.

That isn't today's answer. Today, I wasn't the one doing the learning.

I draw a single line through the heading—not hard enough to hide it, just enough to acknowledge the mistake—and write beneath it instead.

Someone Who Encouraged Me: Coach.

The notebook was never about pretending I had all the answers. It was about remembering that none of us becomes the person we're meant to be without someone willing to speak the truth when we need it most. Coach had done exactly that. The final question waits patiently at the bottom of the page.

Something I'm Grateful For

This time there is no hesitation, no searching for safer words, no hiding behind ordinary moments.

I don't write about peonies or quiet walks through Briar Cove or afternoons spent laughing over absolutely nothing. Instead, I write the one word that has been quietly filling every page of this notebook for months.

Annette.

I sit looking at her name for a long time.

No line crosses through it. No second thought tells me to replace it with something less revealing.

For the first time since I began writing in this notebook after surgery, I have written the truth exactly as it is. Surprisingly, it doesn't feel frightening. It feels like relief.