"I can help you recover. But I can't guarantee you'll never get injured again. No one can." He straightens, his expression hardening. "One bad hit tonight, one awkward fall, and everything changes. That's the reality of the sport."
A growl rumbles low in my throat, my breaths coming faster. I can't identify if I'm angry or anxious or both—just that the pressure building inside feels unbearable. "What's your point?"
“I’ve seen what happens when athletes don’t have a backup plan. When a sport isn’t just their passion but their entire identity. My brother included.”
I slam the dumbbell onto the bench. "What do you want me to do? Quit before I even have a chance?"
"No." His tone becomes deeper, more domineering. "I want you to be smarter than that. What's your major?"
“Sports management.”
"Good. That gives you options—coaching, training, working with organizations. Even if you're not on the ice forever, you can still be in the game."
The tension in my body diminishes slightly. His words make logical sense. But logic doesn't drown out the doubt clawing at my mind.
If only he knew about the insular cortex damage, about how every weakness threatens to derail me, he'd understand why hockey is Plan A through Z.
There’s nothing else . . . except Merci.
He makes me want to be more, to understand the things I can't process, to feel the things I can't name. When he whispered those words last night, something shifted inside me—terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
And if I want to be someone worthy of hearing them again—someone capable of maybe saying them back—I need to be more than just a hockey player.
I need to be whole. So, having a backup plan might not be a bad idea.
Even if it feels like admitting defeat.
"The dexterity exercises," I say finally, the words feeling like gravel in my throat. "The ones you mentioned last time. Show them to me again."
"Now we're talking." He grabs a set of therapeutic putty from a nearby shelf. "Let's work on fine motor control."
I focus on the movements he demonstrates, committing each one to memory. The putty molds between my fingers as I mirror his motions, pushing through the discomfort.
My hand may never be perfect, but maybe it doesn't have to be.
And maybe I don't have to be either.
Chapter 25
Merci
The Titans dominated another fucking game, and I can't help bouncing in my seat as the crowd files out. My voice is shot from screaming—both cheering and cursing out those blind-ass refs because, seriously, how do you miss someone basically leg-sweeping Zach in the second period?
"That save was fucking insane!" I'm still high on adrenaline after watching Viktor do a full split to stop what should've been an easy goal. The words taste like betrayal coming out of my mouth, but I have to give credit where it's due. "Like, I hate to admit it, but damn. That was impressive."
Eli giggles beside me, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Did you just compliment Viktor?"
"Ugh, don't remind me." I slump back in my seat, crossing my arms. "I feel dirty. Like I need to wash my mouth out with soap."
"You're ridiculous." He bumps my shoulder with his. "But I'm glad you're finally becoming a hockey fan."
I am. Kind of. But every time someone slams into Zach, my heart lodges in my throat. Because I've done my research—thanks, obsessive late-night Googling—and the statistics on hockey injuries and concussions are fucking terrifying.
When he fell in the second period and stayed down for a few, my stomach dropped to the floor.
What if next time he doesn't get up?
Except when he skates, the way he moves, all raw power . . . it's like watching a predatory animal. Something dangerous and untamed. And the way his body becomes a perfect weapon when he delivers those bone-crushing checks?
