Every so often, one of them glances back. I just nod. Sometimes that’s enough. They don’t need me talking; they just need to know I’m still here, steady, watching.
When the final horn sounds, it’s a loss: tight, hard-fought, the kind that leaves a bruise deeper than any hit on the ice. The room’s quiet afterward, the sting fresh. Guys unlace in silence, the shuffle of skates, showers hissing in the back, gear hitting the floor in slow, tired rhythm.
I make my rounds: shoulder claps, quiet words, steady tone. They need to see calm, not frustration. But inside, it burns. Not the loss. The wait. The knowing I could’ve changed the outcome if I’d been on the ice.
When the last player heads out, I sit for a second by the bench door, brace creaking faintly as I shift. Through the glass, I spot her at the far end of the tunnel, packing up her kit with the same calm precision that keeps me steady. She glances up just once, and for a heartbeat, everything else fades—the noise, the ache, the loss.
Her look isn’t pity. It’s steady. Quiet. Like a promise that this won’t last much longer.
I take a slow breath, roll my shoulders, and push to my feet.
Six more days.
Then I’m done watching from the sidelines.
The hotel room’s dark except for the city bleeding neon through the curtains. Vegas never sleeps. I wish I could. The adrenaline’s still in my blood, too loud to rest, too quiet to escape.
My chest feels like it’s still back in that arena. Every game I sit out twists the same knife: the captain watching, not leading. I ice more out of habit than need, the cold seeping through the towel as I scroll mindlessly through my phone.
A message from Sophie pops up first:
Proud of you anyway, Dad. You’ll win the next one.
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my mouth. I type back:
Thanks, kiddo. Get some sleep.
No new messages from Charlotte, but I know why. We can’t risk it tonight. Cameras and eyes everywhere. Still, I picture her a few floors away, hair down, probably sitting on the edge of her bed writing notes for tomorrow.
I open our last thread, thumb hovering over the screen.
Counting down the days.
That’s what I told her last night, and I am. Not just to clearance, but to walking beside her without having to pretend.
I toss the ice pack aside and lean back against the headboard, the city’s glow catching on the silver of my watch.
I’ve been fighting to get back on the ice for months. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being only about the game.
It’s about the woman who made me believe I still had more to fight for.
Chapter Thirty-Five
CHARLOTTE
Tonight’s Game 4. The last one was only a few nights ago, but it feels like weeks. The travel, the hotel stays, the late nights. All of it’s starting to wear on me. My body’s heavy, my head foggy. The harsh overhead lights in the medical room only make it worse.
I tell myself it’s just exhaustion. Long days, too much caffeine, and not enough real food. I’ve been through worse stretches and held it together just fine.
I set up the treatment tables on autopilot: stocking ice wraps, laying out tape, checking supplies. The routine helps; it’s muscle memory. Vic cracks a half-hearted joke about how I could run this room blindfolded. I manage a smile, but it barely reaches.
Declan passes through the tunnel on his way to the bench area, suit jacket slung over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled and tie loosened. He brushes my elbow as he passes, quick and subtle, like a reflex. It’s nothing anyone else would notice, but for a heartbeat, it steadies me.
Then the noise rushes back. The clang of sticks, the buzz of radios, the low rumble of the crowd building above us. I take a slow breath and refocus on the task in front of me. Tonight’s another must-win, and whatever’s off in me will have to wait.
By the time the puck drops, the arena feels like it’s vibrating. Vegas is loud in a way that gets under your skin—music, chants, every hit magnified by the sound system. The energy is wild, but my focus keeps slipping.
Midway through the first, one of our defensemen takes a bad spill into the boards. Vic and I move in sync, crouching fast to assess him. It’s routine—neck clear, no red flags, no signs of concussion—but for a second, my vision swims.
