I blink it off, blaming adrenaline. Or maybe dehydration. I’ve barely touched water all night.
Back in the bench area, I wrap an ice bag, jot a quick note, and push through the dizzy spell tightening behind my eyes. Everything around me feels just a fraction too loud, too bright.
By the second period, my pulse finally steadies, but something still feels off. My stomach’s unsettled, and a strange heaviness settles low in my belly. I tell myself it’s just exhaustion—toomany flights, too little sleep, too much coffee—but the thought doesn’t quite stick.
Declan catches my eye at one point. He doesn’t say anything, just gives that quiet, assessing look he always has when he senses something’s wrong. I shake my head, a small reassurance. He goes back to the game, but I know he can tell something’s off.
I tighten the strap on my medical bag and focus on the ice. One period at a time.
When the final horn sounds, the scoreboard burns: Vegas 3, us 1. Another loss. The kind that lands heavy, not from lack of effort but from knowing how close it could’ve been.
The hallway outside the locker room hums with low frustration—sticks clattering, muted curses, the dull thud of gear hitting the floor. Vic handles the postgame checks inside while I clean up the visiting training room—wiping down tables, packing the last of the ice wraps and tape, making sure everything’s ready to travel in the morning. My legs ache from standing all evening, but it’s the nausea that won’t go away.
As I wrap up and step into the hallway, Declan passes behind me, brushing a hand along my shoulder as he heads out with McCarthy. For a second, it grounds me. Then the hum of the arena fills the space again.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, it’s close to midnight. The room feels unnaturally quiet after hours of noise. I drop my bag, sink onto the edge of the bed, and press my hands to my face.My stomach rolls again, and for a second I wonder if I’m coming down with something.
God, not now. Not during playoffs.
My vision wavers a little when I stand to grab my charger. “Just exhaustion,” I murmur to the empty room. “Nothing a real night’s sleep won’t fix.”
But when I finally lie down, sleep doesn’t come easy. Something in me still feels off, like my body’s trying to tell me something I’m too tired to hear.
The flight home is mercifully quiet. Most of the players crash the second we hit cruising altitude: hoods up, earbuds in, half-asleep against the windows. I spend the first hour finishing treatment notes, then give up and rest my head against the headrest.
It’s not real sleep, just that in-between kind where time blurs. Every sound feels amplified: the engines, someone shifting two rows back, the low murmur of McCarthy and Vic a few seats over. I can’t shut my brain off long enough to rest.
By the time we land, dawn’s breaking over Colorado. Everyone’s moving slow, bleary and sore. I grab my duffel from the luggage pile, wave goodbye to Vic, and drive home in silence, windows cracked just enough to let the cold air keep me awake.
The second I step inside my duplex, the quiet hits different. The air smells like laundry detergent and faint lavender from the diffuser on the shelf. Familiar. Still.
I drop my bag, lean against the counter, and breathe for what feels like the first time in days. My stomach rolls again, light but insistent, and I mutter to myself, “Travel stomach,” even though I know it’s more than bad plane coffee.
The plan for the day is simple: laundry, sleep, and pretending I’m not bone-deep exhausted. But even after a shower, I still feel wrong—tired in a way that coffee doesn’t touch.
My phone buzzes while I’m folding towels.
Kristy:Welcome home. Still alive?
I laugh as I type back:Barely. I might sleep for a week.
Kristy:This Sunday. Dinner and drinks. No excuses.
Smiling, I type a thumbs-up, then toss my phone on the couch and curl up beside it. The fatigue settles heavier now, pressing behind my ribs. I tell myself it’s just catching up—long trip, no real rest, too many hotel breakfasts.
But as I close my eyes, one thought won’t let go:
If this is just exhaustion, why does it feel like something else?
Chapter Thirty-Six
DECLAN
“Don’t hover,” Sophie says without looking back. “I’ve got this.”
The house smells like burnt toast and ambition.
She’s at the stove, one earbud in, flipping pancakes with way more confidence than skill. There’s batter on her wrist and a streak of flour across her cheek.
