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“Yeah,” I said. “I’m nervous.”

“You’re going to be great tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Trust me.”

9:41 PM arrived right on schedule.

I’d done my stretches, iced my hip, and taken the photo with the instruction sheet visible in the frame because I knew she’d look for it. The ritual had become a lifeline I didn’t know how to let go of.

I sent the photo. Following doctor’s orders.

Good boy. I MEANT GOOD JOB. Autocorrect.

I grinned at my phone. Sure it was. I included a wry emoji.

Brashe Kedish, are you flirting with me?

I’ve been flirting with you since you started this job. Glad you finally noticed.

I’ve been noticing everything.

Like what?

Like how you take your coffee. How you arrive exactly 14 minutes early. How you fold the instruction sheet the same way every time. How you look at me when you think I’m not watching.

I stared at that message until my vision blurred. The whole time, she’d been paying attention to the things I did that I thought nobody saw.

How do I look at you? I asked.

Like I matter.

My hands shook typing the response. You’re the only thing that matters right now.

Silence stretched. I watched the screen, wondering if I’d said too much.

Words built in my throat, too big to swallow. What if I’m only good at being the weapon in the net? What if that’s all I am?

I sent it before I could delete it.

Her response came fast. You think the male who laminated an instruction sheet is just a weapon? You think the one who buys sandwiches for strangers is only equal to what he does for 60 minutes on ice? Brashe. Come on.

I stared at those words, trying to believe them.

I want to see you, I said. Not in the treatment room. Not at the arena. Just…you.

After the game?

After we win, I said.

Confident.

Terrified. I’m pretending I’m confident.

That’s very honest.

I’m trying to be. With you.