I settle back onto the couch, watching this unfold. Tanner handles it better than I would have expected, though I can tell he’s overwhelmed.
But even while my dad is quizzing him about his save percentage, Tanner keeps a close eye on me. Checking on me.
He notices I’m wincing and subtly nudges the water glass closer to my good hand. He adjusts the pillow behind my neck when no one’s paying attention to us, and my heart does another one of those fluttery things in my chest.
It’s quiet care. It’s the exact opposite of my family’s loud love, but god, I appreciate it.
I catch Caley watching us. She’s looking at Tanner, then at me, with that analytical expression she gets when she’s diagnosing a complex case.
“I should get going,” Tanner says eventually, looking like he’s survived a combat mission. “I’ll let you guys catch up.”
“I’m sure we’ll see you again before we head back,” Mom says, hugging him goodbye.
“I’ll try,” Tanner says. He shoots me a small, private smile that does weird things to my gut.
I walk him to the door, moving slower than necessary and wishing I could walk him down the hall to my bedroom instead.
“So, good luck tomorrow,” he says. “I’m sure it’ll go great.”
I grimace, not wanting to think about going under the knife.
“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll survive,” I say. “Good luck to you too. Vancouver tomorrow night, eh?”
He nods, looking at the floor and chewing on his bottom lip. “Yeah.”
“Sinc,” I say, using my commanding voice and waiting until his eyes meet mine. “They’re a decent team, but they’re not great, and their best scorer’s still out with an ankle sprain. You got this. Trust yourself.” I reach out and squeeze his bicep.
He sucks in a deep breath and nods again, summoning more confidence. “Yeah, I got it. You focus on healing.”
After the door closes behind him, the condo feels oddly quiet despite my family, Ry, and Jamie still being there.
“He seems like a nice boy,” Mom says.
“He’s a talented kid,” Rylan says from where he’s sitting across from her at my small dining table.
And when I glance over at Caley, she’s still wearing that thoughtful expression.
The world is made of cotton balls and warm water. That’s the only way I can explain it. My living room has turned into a soft, hazy aquarium, and I’m floating here on the couch with my busted arm strapped tightly to my chest. The pain is there, but it’s distant, more like a dull, rhythmic thumping in the background, rather than a full-on concert happening right in front of me.
My family finally tapped out a while ago, so the condo is quiet. Mom and Dad are in the guest room, and Caley’s in the den on the Murphy bed. I should be asleep too. My eyelids feel likethey’ve got weights on them, but I’m fighting the good fight to keep them open.
I need to see the game.
The TV is turned down low, the blue-white glow casting an eerie glow in my living room. It’s late in the third, and the Sasquatch are up by a goal against the Kodiak.
Usually, when I watch hockey, I spend the whole time analyzing. I try to track the angles, read the forecheck, and pick apart what the goaltender’s doing, but tonight, everything’s way too fuzzy for that. Tonight, I’m just watching. Specifically, I’m watching Tanner Sinclair.
He looks smaller than normal in the net. He’s not a small guy, obviously; he’s nearly as tall as me, but his posture is tight. He's jumpy.
A shot rings off the post behind him, and he flinches.
“Sinclair looks a little shaky in the crease tonight, Jim,” the announcer says, his voice grating even with the sound turned way down. “He’s fighting the puck. That last rebound was a juicy one.”
“Shut up,” I mumble at the screen. My tongue feels too big for my mouth. “He’s doin’ fine.”
But even through my fuzzy brain, I know what they mean. Heisfighting it. Every save looks like a battle. He’s not in the flow of the game; he’s reacting. I can practically hear the gears in his head grinding from here, the overthinking that turns simple saves into advanced geometry problems.
Just play, Rookie. Get out of your brain.
