I linked my pinky with the screen like an idiot, not caring who saw me in the hallway.
"Now go," Serena commanded. "Show them your knee is just fine."
"Alright," I said, nodding.
Then she hung up on me. Actually hung up. Taking care of my kid and managing my anxiety from eight hundred miles away like she'd been doing it forever.
I stood in that sterile hotel hallway, phone dark in my hand, and realized I wasn't just falling anymore.
I'd already hit the ground.
That night I played like a man possessed.
First period, seven minutes in. Calgary's enforcer, Brennan—six-four, two-thirty, fists like cinder blocks—caught me against the boards. The hit should've crushed me. Should've tested every ligament in that repaired knee. Instead, I spun off him like water, leaving him kissing plexiglass while I carved toward the net. Their goalie, Morty, dropped into butterfly position, but I went five-hole—puck threading between his pads like it had eyes.
The goal light blazed.
"WILDER'S BACK!" Derek screamed, nearly taking me down with his celebration check.
My knee held.
Second period was war. Calgary's center, Michael, had clearly been given one job: destroy Brad Wilder. Every shift, he was on me—hooking, slashing, chirping about my "gimpy knee" and "babysitter girlfriend."
"Heard she's playing house," he hissed during a faceoff. "How's it feel, having another woman in your dead wife's bed?"
The rage that flooded me was nuclear. But instead of dropping gloves, I channeled it. Won the faceoff clean, streaked past him like he was standing still. Their defense collapsed on me, exactly what I wanted. I saucered a pass over two sticks to find my teammate, Yamamoto, alone in the slot. He one-timed it top shelf.
Assist number one.
"That's for Sarah, asshole," I muttered as I skated past Michael.
Third period. Score tied 2-2. My knee was screaming—not damaged, just weeks of rust being scraped off in real time. Four minutes left. Calgary pulled their goalie for an extra attacker, desperate for the win.
The puck squirted free in our zone. I grabbed it, skating backward, drawing two defenders. They thought they had me pinned. Thought the knee would make me hesitant.
They thought wrong.
I spun—a move that would've been impossible six weeks ago—and threaded between them. Open ice. Just me and the empty net, two hundred feet of pristine possibility.
But Morty was scrambling back, almost to the crease. Calgary's defense was gaining. My knee barked with each stride.
Fifty feet out, I wound up for the shot—
And passed instead.
The puck laser-guided to Theo's tape. He buried it with Morty still five feet from salvation. 3-2Avalanche.
Assist number two.
The Calgary crowd went silent. Our bench erupted.
Ninety seconds left. Calgary desperate, taking chances. Michael tried to bulldoze through our blue line. I stripped the puck clean, probably the prettiest defensive play of my career. Their bench was changing, tired legs heading off, fresh ones coming on—
That gap. That beautiful half-second of chaos.
I exploded through it. Breakaway. Morty set himself, learned from my first goal. He stayed tall, challenging me to make the perfect shot.
So I did.
