Page 133 of The Goalie in Room 1

“Then you’ll decide what comes next. If it’s the peer-support position, great. We always need people who can help athletes work through the non-medical side of things. Or you can find something else. Whatever it is you want to do, I’ll be there beside you,” I said.

His fingers tightened in my shirt. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“No speech about realistic expectations?”

“It’s Nelly Anderson’s job to give you those now. She’s your doctor.”

A smile slowly spread across his face. “Firing you might be the best decision I ever made.”

“Keep talking, and you’ll be sleeping in the guest room.”

“You’d last twenty minutes.”

He wasn’t wrong.

June

The first time Cash stepped onto the ice, every part of me wanted to follow him. Instead, I stayed behind the glass, leaving Nelly…Dr. Anderson the space near the bench with Matteo while Cash tested his weight over his skates. No goalie pads. No stick. No net waiting for him. Just a helmet and the dark practice gear he’d pulled from one of the boxes that had spent months in my garage.

His peer-support binder sat on the seat beside me, packed into the bag he carried to the clinic every day. Cash had completed the first courses, survived Davina’s confidentiality training, and started shadowing approved sessions. Eli still trusted him more than anyone else, though he expressed that trust by telling Cash to fuck off at least twice per appointment.

Cash had built something there. And not with just Eli. Several players in a variety of sports trusted Cash to help them through the maze of emotions they faced during rehabilitation.

Despite all he built at the clinic and at Halo House as a volunteer, Cash still stared at the ice like it was the only place he had ever belonged.

Matteo opened the gate.

Cash pushed through it.

His first glide was short and cautious. His hands lifted slightly from his sides before he caught his balance. My fingers curled around the edge of the seat.

Don’t diagnose him.

Don’t count the degrees of flexion.

Don’t watch the knee.

All that was harder said than done.

Cash pushed again.

The second glide carried him farther. He turned carefully near the blue line, crossed to the other side, then came back. Nothing fast. Nothing resembling a butterfly or the violent lateral movements his position demanded.

It was skating.

For today, that would have to be enough.

Cash completed another slow lap. When he passed the glass, his head turned toward me.

Even through the helmet, I saw his grin.

I smiled back.

Matteo made him stop before he wanted to. That hadn’t changed. Cash argued with him at the bench, gesturing toward the ice as if another five minutes were a constitutional right.

Dr. Anderson said something.