I lean against the counter anyway. “Pretty sure you said that right before almost setting off the smoke alarm last time.”
She groans. “That was grilled cheese, not pancakes. Totally different situation.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Forgot you graduated culinary school since then.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “You’re hilarious.”
A few minutes later she slides a plate toward me. It’s slightly uneven, maybe a little too brown on one side, but it works. “See? Nailed it.”
I take a bite and nod. “Best one yet.”
She smirks, proud but pretending not to care. “Told you.”
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Mom:Checking in before your big appointment tomorrow. You still on track?
Dad:Proud of you, son. Can’t wait to see you back where you belong.
I text back:All clear so far. Doctor signs off tomorrow.
When I look up, Sophie’s watching me, chin propped on her hand. “You’re really playing again soon?”
“Soon as I’m cleared,” I say. “Tomorrow morning.”
Her grin widens. “Good. Means tonight’s game will be the last one without you.”
She’s been buzzing ever since I told her she could go to the game. Erin’s picking her up in an hour. She’ll hang with Erin and Maya all day, then they’re heading to the game together. Sleepover after that. She’s already got her Foxes hoodie laid out by the door.
“Be careful. Make sure you listen to Erin,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving me off. “Don’t break the glass with your captain glare.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
Later that morning, the rink’s already humming: skate blades on ice, pucks echoing off glass, the low murmur of voices from down the tunnel.
Charlotte’s already in the training room when I walk in, hair pulled up, humming softly as she restocks her kit. She looks up, and that easy, familiar smile hits straight in the chest.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning.” I grin. “Big day.”
Her brows lift. “Tomorrow’s the official one.”
“Still feels like today counts,” I say, climbing onto the table. “Last PT session. Last time we have to keep our hands to ourselves in public.”
She laughs, bright and unguarded. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you love me anyway.”
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “God help me, I do.”
I never get used to hearing it. Every time she says it, I feel it settle deeper.
She starts the final round of checks: stability, flexion, strength. Every touch feels familiar now, but different too. Lighter. Like we’re both aware that after tomorrow morning, she won’t have to pretend I’m just another player.
“How’s it feel?” she asks.
