Page 112 of Slapshot Baby

Not today or this month. Wyatt told the joke on the same road trip from the fragment that caught me minutes ago.

He said it from the seat across the aisle and Cole choked on his gum. But Camden said, “That's the worst joke I've ever heard.”

The memory is whole. I can smell the diesel from the heating vent, feel the vibration of the highway under my seat.

My hands go still on my laces.

"What?" Wyatt's grin is fading.

"You told that joke on a road trip two years ago. You were sitting across from Cole and Camden was behind us."

The locker room goes quiet.

“What did I say after the punchline?” Wyatt asks carefully.

“You said, ‘Top five joke of all time, don’t fight me on this.’ And Cole said there was no way it cracked the top fifty.”

Wyatt stares at me. The freckles across his nose stand out against skin that's lost its color.

"That was the Colorado trip," he says. "We won in overtime."

"I know."

Theo sets down his protein bar slowly. "Kai. What else?"

I look at Theo and see the baby shower the team threw for Emma. He stood in front of a cake decorated with tiny hockey sticks, his hands trembling, his voice breaking when he thanked everyone for showing up.

I look at Jordan and see him blocking a shot with his face during a playoff game, coming to the bench with blood running from his eyebrow.

"It will hold," he said, when the trainer tried to pull him.

I look at Wyatt and see him crying in a hallway after a phone call from Minnesota. But he walked into the room a few minutes later wearing the grin nobody questioned.

I look at Easton and see the game analysis he emailed to me at midnight because he knew I'd be the only one awake to read them.

"I remember everything," I say.

Wyatt wraps me in a hug. "Finally. I was running out of ways to pretend the captain couldn't remember my best material."

Theo's eyes are wet behind his smile. He reaches into his bag, pulls out a strip of gum, and holds it out.

"Welcome back, Cap."

I take it. Mint. The taste floods me with more memories in the time it takes to chew.

I call Dr. Harold from the parking lot. She fits me in within the hour. The tests are thorough: verbal recall, visual prompts, timeline reconstruction.

I answer every question from lived memory, not guesswork.

She sets the tablet down.

"The four-year gap has substantially closed. Your autobiographical recall is showing robust recovery across all markers." A pause. "This is a very good result, Kai."

"You told me some people get it back."

"I also told you not to count on it."

"I heard you. I just disagreed."