Page 54 of For Pucking Ever

"Your mom?" he asks, gesturing to my phone.

I nod, taking a sip. Perfect, with just the right amount of cream. "She wants to meet you."

Something flickers across his face. Is he nervous? Then he smiles at me. "I'd like that."

Twenty minutes later, we're heading out the door together. Bast's hand finds the small of my back as we walk to the car, a subtle gesture that feels significant. The morning sun is bright, and I slip on my sunglasses, unable to keep the smile off my face.

As we pull out of the driveway, it occurs to me that for the first time since my injury, I'm not just going through the motions. This driving to the arena with Bast, practicing with a team that believes in me, feeling my strength return day by day feels real. It feels like a beginning.

I'm not ready for this dream to end.

By the time we get to the rink, the warmth of the morning fades under the fluorescent buzz of the locker room lights. I suit up without thinking, slipping into pads, lacing my skates, pulling on the mask like muscle memory. It should feel familiar. It doesn't.

The moment I step onto the ice, something shifts. The sounds hit too hard, painfully so, pucks slapping against the boards like gunshots, blades cutting ice like razors scraping across my nerves, and Coach Willis's whistle shrieking like a war cry that pierces straight through my skull. The lights overhead are too bright, merciless, and my vision edges with static for a heartbeat before I blink it away, trying to ground myself in the cold beneath my skates.

Focus. Breathe. Get your head in the game. My mantra feels hollow today, echoing in my mind without sticking.

We're running glove-side reaction drills. Tobias, Ridley and Maxwell take turns firing pucks at me from varying angles. Quick snaps, rapid fire shots that give me no time to think. I catch the first one, feeling a small surge of confidence. Then miss the second as it whistles past my shoulder. I manage to deflect the third with the edge of my blocker. The fourth flies past me completely, and I hear the distinctive thunk as it hits the back of the net.

"Reset!" Willis barks, his skates carving harsh lines as he crosses the blue line toward me. His face is set in that familiar scowl, disappointment radiating from every pore. "You're late, Shaw. Again. Your reaction time is garbage today."

I clench my jaw behind the mask, teeth grinding together, and drop back into stance, legs spread, glove ready. The next puck slams into my blocker with a force that vibrates up my arm. The one after that grazes the net by inches, yet another failure.

The rhythm is off. My timing's off. Everything about me is off, like I'm playing in a body I don't recognize anymore.

I glance up between reps, trying to catch my breath, and spot her. Dr. Sloan. Seated in the stands with her clipboard pressed against her knee, her expression carefully neutral, professionally unreadable. She's probably noting every slip, every flinch, every hesitation. Documenting every failure for our next session later today. Another reason why I'm not ready.

Another puck comes flying. Missed. Again.

"Eyes on the puck, not the gallery!" Willis snaps. "This isn't art class!"

Laughter echoes from somewhere on the bench. I know it's Devan, probably telling a joke that has nothing to do with me. But it feels like a slap.

I grit my teeth, but my hands are shaking. I can feel it. The tremor that creeps in when I'm over-tired and overwhelmed. A parting gift from the injury that keeps on giving. The subtle vibration in my fingertips that betrays everything I'm trying to hide. My glove feels heavier than it should, my blocker clumsy and uncoordinated. The ice beneath me, once my sanctuary now feels like a battlefield I'm losing.

Bast skates by during the reset, tapping the top of my helmet with the flat of his blade. "You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. "Let your body take over." His eyes meet mine briefly, steady and certain in a way I used to be.

I try. I really do. I force my shoulders to relax, try to find that place where instinct takes over and the mind goes quiet. The place where I lived before the accident—before the fear—but the next drill goes worse. Maxwell winds up from the point, the puck sailing high, and I duck on a high shot. Pure instinct. My body reacting before I can stop it, betraying me in front of everyone. The rubber disc whistles over my head, hitting the back of the net with a sound that feels like ultimate betrayal of my abilities. I hear the whistle blow, sharp and immediate, cutting through the sudden silence on the ice.

"Off the ice, Shaw!" Willis shouts, his face flushed with frustration. "Cool down. Clear your head." His voice echoes across the rink, and I feel the weight of every pair of eyes on me. My teammates, coaching staff, Dr. Sloan with her clipboard, all watch me crumble.

The world narrows. Everything beyond my immediate space fades into a blur of colors and noise.

I rip off my mask before I've even hit the tunnel. I can't breathe. I can't think. Everything is too loud, too close. The scrape of blades on ice, the murmur of voices, the lights overhead, it all crashes against my senses in overwhelming waves. I feel the burn of tears threatening and force them back with a clenched jaw and burning throat, swallowing hard against the knot forming there.

Bast catches up with me near the tunnel, his skates come to a stop beside me. "Hey. Hey—" His voice is gentle, concerned, nothing like the gruff exterior he shows everyone else.

"I'm fine," I snap. Too loud. Too fast. The words echo in the concrete corridor.

"Derrick—" He reaches for my arm, his face a complicated mix of worry and something softer.

"I said I'm fine!" I shove past him, trying to will my skates to move faster as I storm toward the locker room door, the sting in my eyes finally breaking free as I slam through the entrance and yank off my gloves with trembling hands. The heavy door bangs shut behind me, the sound reverberating in the empty room.

I sit on the bench, helmet in my lap, unable to breathe properly. My pulse is racing. My skin is too tight. Sweat drips down my back, cold now against my overheated skin. It's not just the drills. It's not just the mistakes. It's everything.

It's the silence with Bast. The lingering glances. The maybe-something we are, dancing around each other that feels both too small and too vast. The fact that I'm still living in a house that isn't mine, surrounded by trophies and achievements that aren't mine. The lingering concussion symptoms that the doctors swear are getting better but still wake me in the middle of the night. The game I might never get back. The person I was, slipping further away every time I flinch at a shot, every time I hesitate when I used to be fearless.

The tears come before I can stop them. Quiet, but hot, rolling down my cheek unbidden. I curl forward, bracing my elbows on my knees and press the heel of my hands into my eyes like I can shove the feelings back inside. The pressure makes stars burst behind my eyelids, but it doesn't stop the wetness from seeping between my fingers.