Sophie’s phone buzzes.
She squeals and holds up the phone for me to see. When I see it’s from Vanessa, I tense.
Can’t wait for your big musical!
I stare at it a second too long before forcing a smile and a nod.
She better not flake. Not this time.
Sophie hums a few bars of her solo as she heads upstairs, and for a moment the house feels easy—steady. Maybe even hopeful.
The other series is headed for Game 7. Once that’s done, we’ll know who we’re facing in the Conference Final. Until then, it’s rehab and rest.
At this rate, I might even make it back before the Conference Final’s done.
Chapter Thirty-One
CHARLOTTE
The rink hums with quiet chaos—music echoing from the locker room, sticks tapping, skate guards clacking on concrete.
Tonight is Game 1 of the Conference Final, and the buzz in the air feels different. Louder. Sharper.
The Ice Foxes against the Vegas Infernos. Everyone’s been talking about how brutal this matchup will be. Vegas plays heavy, fast, and mean.
Dan’s at the bench reviewing treatment notes with Vic while I double-check the warmup charts. The air smells like menthol and coffee, a mix that always means playoffs.
I’ve been through postseasons before, but never from this angle: professional mask on, heart fully involved.
Declan still isn’t cleared to join the main sheet. Vic’s running him through isolated on-ice mechanics on the smaller rink across the hall: controlled glides, edge holds, weight-transfer drills.
I can hear the low scrape of his blades each time the door opens. Still no crossovers, no full stride work. But it’s something.
From across the rink, Vic’s voice carries faintly through the open door. “Keep that edge steady, Cap.”
Declan adjusts his stance, focused, and I can tell from the way he’s moving he’s pushing closer to the line of what the brace will allow.
I tap a quick note on my tablet—within limits. “Barely,” I add under my breath.
Even from here, I can sense it—that tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps testing how far the brace will let him go. He’s too close to rush, too proud to coast.
Between player tapings, I slip over to check in—not to interfere, just to monitor. Vic’s got the lead now on the skating side, but I’m still responsible for his medical benchmarks and progress notes.
“Good control,” I say, stopping at the boards.
Vic glances over from center ice and gives a quick nod, like he knows I can’t quite help hovering.
Declan gives me a faint grin. “Trying to look like I still belong out here.”
“You do,” I say before I can stop myself, then soften it. “Just not yet at full speed.”
His eyes flicker—equal parts frustration and focus. “Playoffs don’t wait for anyone.”
“That’s why you’re going to be ready when it counts,” I tell him, voice even.
He nods, takes another slow push, and I check the time again, like it’s just another rep. But I feel it—his need to get back, my need to keep him patient.
By the time I step back into the main rink, the team’s circling at center ice, and the pre-game playlist has shifted to something thunderous. Cameras and photographers crowd the tunnel, flashes popping. Everyone’s talking about Vegas’s goaltending, about our top line being due for a breakout.
