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Brow furrowed, Dad examines me. Then, he eases himself onto the edge of my hospital bed. “I love you, Michael, and I always have your best interests at heart. I hope you know that.”

I nod, swallowing thickly.

“I know you love your bike. I know you’ve always dreamed of having one, but this is the part where talent isn’t enough. You really are an investment to them, and, unfortunately, they have every right to be cautious. And they have the authority to dictate what you can and cannot do.”

I nod. I get it. This isn’t just about hockey. It’s about who I choose to be when everything is on the line.

Because being a pro athlete sometimes means giving up great things for even greater ones.

I didn’t get it three years ago, but it hits me full force now. Isla faced the same situation when she decided to follow Elena to Boston.

Two weeks later

“What is so important that you couldn’t wait till tomorrow to look for it?” I ask Asher as we walk across the mostly empty parking lot. “I’m tired as fuck, and I want to lie down.”

The team won their first game of the season yesterday. I sat on the bench watching them play, my heart in my throat the whole time. The Hawks won, but it wasn’t an easy win.

It came as no surprise that Coach called a team meeting instead of giving us the day off. He focused on positioning, the primary mistakes we made yesterday, and video review. He mentioned more than once how unhappy he was that I’m out till November. That definitely didn’t improve my mood. Now that I’m back on campus, he’s been harping on that point any chance he gets. I recovered at home with my family for a week and a half, cut off from everything hockey-related, but now that I’m back, I’m diving back in, even if I can’t play.

I haven’t been cleared to drive since my concussion, so Asher has been chauffeuring me around campus in my car. If he hadn’t been the one behind the wheel, I wouldn’t have bothered stopping here with him.

“You’re on edge.” He looks me up and down. “More than usual.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter, shaking off my irritation.

He snorts. “No, you’re not. You’re not riding. You’re not playing. Coach is breathing down your neck like you personally offended him by getting hurt. And you’re stuck watching instead of being on the ice with us.” He bumps my elbow with his. “Anyone would be pissed.”

I don’t answer. It’s pointless to argue. He’s right.

I’ve spent the last two weeks healing, replaying the accident, and, most importantly, reliving the moment Isla admitted she still cares about me.

I haven’t seen her since I returned to campus, though not because she’s avoiding me, thankfully. According to Ash, she flew to Boston a week ago for a training camp. He wasn’t sure when she’d be back.

“I know this is about more than hockey,” Ash adds carefully. “I get how much riding your bike helps with your mindset, and you’ve never been great at sitting with your thoughts.”

I huff out a dry laugh. “I lost my stress outlet. I lost my season momentum, and everyone on the internet is talking about how I don’t deserve a spot with the Phantoms. How I’ll never be like my dad, that I’m mediocre. That the only reason I have a career is because of my last name. And then, there’s Coach. He’s pissed, and he’s not afraid to remind me of that every damn day. I’m ready to fucking climb a wall.”

“Coach will lighten up. Give him time.” He claps me on my back. “And don’t listen to the haters. They have no idea what being a hockey player means.”

“Easier said than done.” I shake my head. “So what’s our plan?”

“How about I look in the locker room, and you check under the bench?” Asher opens the door and steps into the building.

I harrumph. “I still don’t know what the hell I’m looking for.”

“Oh? Really?” he asks, his brows jumping up to his hairline. “My…erm…hockey tape.”

I pull up short and gape. This is ridiculous, even for him.

“Stop looking at me like I’m an idiot.” He pushes me toward the doors of the rink. “If it’s not here, then I can check again tomorrow.”

Shaking my head, I walk away. I quickly check the team’s box, coming up empty. “Should’ve expected that.”

For a moment, I take in the details of the arena, allowing the familiar cold to seep its way into my skin. I’ve spent all my life watching hockey or playing it, so the sensation is a comforting one.

When a door bangs shut, I turn on my heel and head toward the exit. Did Ash seriously walk out without me after forcing me to come in and help him? I slip my phone from my pocket and check the time. It’s almost six, meaning the arena is about to close for the night. I better hurry up.

As I approach the door to the women’s locker room, it swings open, and Isla steps out. Her duffel bag hangs over her shoulder, and her hair is in a high ponytail. She’s wearing a beige sweater, a black miniskirt, and black ankle boots.