"Then you're the dumbass who's going to blow his shot because he's too proud to accept help."
The bluntness of Tommy’s response catches me off guard. And when I glare at him, he holds my gaze, his expression unmoving, like he’s daring me to push back.
“Fine. What’s the plan?”
Tommy straightens, his shoulders squaring as his expression shifts to something more stern. “First, I need you to drop the attitude. I’m not one of your coaches, and I’m not here to coddle you. My job is to get your hand working as well as it can, and I don’t have time for bullshit.”
A muscle twitches under my eye, and I exhale sharply through my nose as I give him a curt nod. “Got it.”
“Good.” He gestures to the chair in front of Coach’s desk with a flick of his hand. “Sit.”
I drop into the chair, my fingers drumming against the armrest, while Tommy picks a tablet and a stylus off the desk.
“Tell me about the numbness. When did it start?” He glances at me briefly before his eyes shift back to the tablet.
“After the surgeries.” My voice comes out flat, almost detached. “The doctors said it was nerve damage. Permanent.”
He scribbles something down, stylus tapping at the screen. “Where’s the numbness worst? Fingers? Palm?”
“Fingers. Sometimes it spreads to the palm.”
“And grip strength, fine motor skills?”
“Not great.” I flex my fingers, brows furrowing. “It’s worse in the mornings. Takes a while to loosen up.”
“What about pain?”
“More like pressure but not. It’s a dull sensation.”
He sets the tablet down on the desk. “I’ll need to do a physical assessment. See what we’re working with. Then we’ll develop a regimen to strengthen the hand, improve dexterity, and manage the numbness. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be quick, but if you’re willing to put in the work, I’ll get you there.”
My eyes narrow. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because my brother asked me to. And because I’ve seen what it’s like for athletes when their bodies betray them.” Tommy briefly glances at Coach before his eyes snap back to me. “But you’re lucky. You still have a chance.”
That’s right.
Coach was forced to retire after his back surgery.
“Thank you.” The words feel foreign, stiff, and unnatural. But I mean them.
Tommy nods, his expression still hard. “We’ll start tomorrow before practice.”
Coach’s gaze locks with mine. "Don’t make me regret this, Zach."
“I won’t.”
Pushing myself to my feet, I nod once, muttering another thank you as I step toward the door. This isn’t going to fix everything. My brain damage isn’t going away, and I’ll never process things like a normal person.
But for the first time in a while, my NHL dreams aren’t slipping through my numb fingers.
Chapter 18
Merci
Waking up alone a few days ago sucked. Like, I get it—Zach had an early practice or whatever, but would it have killed him to leave a note? Or maybe shoot me a text? Even a "Hey, thanks for letting me wreck your throat" would've been better than radio silence.
Not that I'm obsessing over it or anything, and I’m not sure he even has my phone number. I definitely haven’t given it to him.
