Page 56 of For Pucking Ever

The second shot, a little higher, I flinch but don't duck. The puck glances off my shoulder pad.

Third shot. My glove snaps up, catching it clean. A murmur of approval from the bench.

Fourth shot. This one's harder, faster. I see Maxwell's hesitation before he fires, like he's holding back. It ignites something in me, anger, pride, I'm not sure which.

"Don't baby me," I call out, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Full strength, damn it."

Maxwell's eyes widen, then narrow with determination. He nods once.

The final shot screams toward me, high glove side, exactly where the infamous shot hit me months ago. Time slows. I see every rotation of the puck, feel my muscles coiling, ready to spring.

For a split second, memory overlays reality, the roar of the Stanley Cup crowd, the flash of cameras, the weight of expectation. The fear rises, choking.

This time, I don't duck. I rise to meet it, glove extending, tracking the puck all the way into the leather with a satisfying thwack.

Silence. Then a cheer erupts from the bench. Willis's whistle cuts through the celebration.

"Again," he calls. "Five more."

We repeat the drill. Then again, and again. By the twentieth shot, I'm drenched in sweat, my arm aching, but something has shifted. The fear hasn't disappeared, but it's no longer in control.

When Willis finally calls an end to practice, Maxwell skates over, stick extended for a fist bump.

"You looked good out there," he says, eyes meeting mine directly for the first time.

"Thanks." I tap his stick with mine, a simple gesture that feels monumental. "For not holding back."

A smile ghosts across his face. "I never will again."

As the team files off the ice, Bast lingers, waiting for me. He doesn't say anything, just falls into step beside me as we head to the locker room. His shoulder brushes mine, a silent show of support that warms me more than words could.

It's not a victory. Not yet. It's a step forward and for now, it feels like a win.

TWENTY-TWO

DERRICK

Isit slumped on Dr. Sloan's couch, wearing my Vipers hoodie and jeans, damp hair curling slightly from the cold post-practice shower. My legs bounce with leftover adrenaline. My hands, clenched too tight, placed on my thighs. Across from me, Dr. Sloan doesn't say anything at first. She waits, so patient this woman. She's a saint, cool, composed, pen poised but unmoving.

"You want to talk about what happened out there?" she asks gently.

I let out a sharp breath, eyes fixed on the floor. "Which part?"

She doesn't answer, just waits again. That's her thing. The silence is never accidental. Eventually, I cave.

"I flinched. Again. But then I didn't. Willis threw me into one-on-ones with Maxwell." My voice catches on the name. "I got through it."

"I saw." She leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees. "That was a big moment."

"Yeah, and it still feels like I'm hanging by a thread." I rub the back of my neck. "Like if that puck had been an inch higher⁠—"

"But it wasn't." She interrupts softly. "And you caught it. You didn't just survive it, Derrick. You faced it head-on."

I drag a hand down my face, frustration still simmering under my skin. "So why do I still feel like shit?"

"Because the fear doesn't disappear just because you prove it wrong once." Her voice is calm, steady. "Your brain still remembers the trauma. The body still holds it. Today was a win, but it wasn't a cure. There's no switch we flip that makes you who you were before."

That hits harder than I expect. "Then what's the point?"