I can almost feel the entire room go silent as they lean in to hear my answer. Meanwhile, my head is full of chatter—the promise to my father, his and my mother’s failed relationship, and everything I’ve been led to believe because of that.
But a small voice, from deep inside, rises above the rest. “Yes.”
Lucian smiles approvingly. “I want you to look out at this crowd and tell me what you see.”
I scan the faces looking up at me—friends, strangers, couples holding hands, single people hoping for connection. And there along the wall, those green eyes are on me. The trench between his eyebrows isn’t stern exactly, but it’s far from the flirtatious expression he wore while we were dancing.
“I see people hoping for something impossible to happen,” I say honestly.
“Perfect. Now, Nina, I want you to focus on my voice and think about what’s possible in your life. Plausible. You mentioned something about baking.” He speaks smoothly, soothingly.
Suddenly unable to tear my gaze away from Lucian’s, I tell him that I run a bakery.
He says, “Now, keeping your focus on me, draw into your senses. Tell me what you hear, feel, smell.”
“I’m in a room full of people bathed in cologne and perfume—” But I occupy a quiet place inside where I sometimes hear something like Bibi’s encouragement, her rebukes, and answers to questions that are more complicated than what’ll happen to a chocolate cake recipe if I add coffee.
“Good. Remain here with that experience, the lived reality surrounding you. But now we’ll travel deep inside. Let yourself imagine what it would feel like if something truly impossible happened in your life. Something unexpected. Something that challenged everything you thought you knew about yourself.”
Lucian’s voice is tranquil, hypnotic in the most literal sense. The room seems to soften around the edges, like folding together the dry ingredients with the wet while making cake batter. The last thing I register clearly is those green eyes in the audience, and the strange thought that maybe believing in something unpredictable wouldn’t be the worst way to start a new year.
As Lucian continues to talk, the world goes foggy, and everything fades to golden warmth.
CHAPTER 3
I shouldn’t be here.
The thought hits me for the dozenth time as I lean against the back wall of the ballroom, watching the crowd of glittering party-goers pretend this is just another New Year’s Eve. But it’s not just another night for me. It was supposed to be my comeback appearance, the moment I showed the world that Lane Sheridan Junior wasn’t finished yet.
Instead, I was betrayed. Put on “waivers,” meaning I was at risk of dropping from the NHL to the AHL. During this time, any other coach could swoop in and grab me for their roster. If not, I got demoted.
It was a sudden and last-minute dismissal that I should’ve seen coming.
Technically, I was supposed to behereat the Toast, but with a different team. My team. The only one I’ve ever known. The buzzer is interminable in my mind. Game over.
Instead, I’m hiding in the shadows like a washed-up has-been who can’t handle being in public—and attached to another team.
I ought to be glad I’m still an NHL player, but still, it stings.
The irony isn’t lost on me either. Last spring, I was supposed to be celebrating a Stanley Cup win with my teammates. Tonight, I’m appreciating the fact that I can walk without limping and hold a stick without my shoulder screaming in protest. Progress became relative when I nearly lost everything.
“You look like a man contemplating the mysteries of the universe,” a familiar voice says behind me.
I turn to find Lou Chen, the Knights’ team psychologist, approaching. He’s one of the few people who know the real reason I’m in Vegas instead of on a tropical beach pretending my career isn’t hanging by a thread. During my first week on the team, Badaszek sent me to his office. I was told it’s protocol. Yeah, right. They were concerned about my standing. Want to make sure my head is in the game because hockey is as much a mental feat as it is a physical workout.
“Just wondering what I’m doing here,” I say vaguely. I don’t meanherespecifically, but in general.
“Same thing as everyone else. Pretending the turning of the calendar page to a new year means something different from the old one.”
Chen has a way of cutting straight to the heart of things. It’s probably why a quarter of the team sees him regularly, though not all of them admit it.
Because the man demands honesty, I add, “The general manager wanted me to make an appearance. Show my face, let people know I’m still breathing, still part of the organization.”
“Are you? Still part of it, I mean.”
He knows the literal answer to this question. But is my heart still in it? That’s also part of the mental, physical equation.
It’s also the multi-million-dollar question. Literally. My contract hinges on proving I can still play at an elite level. The shoulder surgery went well and the physical therapy exceeded expectations, but there’s a difference between being medically cleared and being game-ready in top form.
