But something about the way she looked at me—like she actually saw me, not just the knee, not just the captain—it stuck.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
She’s David’s sister. She’s the damn team PT.
That’s the beginning and end of it.
Still, I catch myself thinking about the way her brow furrowed when I mentioned Sophie. How calm she stayed, even when I didn’t have the words.
I shake my head.
Focus on the rehab. On what I can control.
I spent the morning with Charlotte—physical therapy drills, same as usual, but I wasn’t exactly at my best.
Quiet. Distracted. Thinking too much about the game tonight.
And how I won’t be suiting up. Won’t be lacing up skates, tapping gloves, setting the pace.
I’ll just be watching.
She didn’t call me on it. Didn’t push.
Just adjusted the circuit, slowed the pace, gave me space I hadn’t asked for.
I don’t know if she sensed where my head was—or if she just knew I couldn’t handle another layer of pressure today.
Either way, I’m grateful.
And now, hours later, I still can’t shake the tension in my chest.
I hate this view.
Up in the press box, crutch leaned against the wall, I watch the guys grind it out below. Every shift, every puck battle, every dirty rebound chance—it’s loud and fast and relentless. They’refighting for that Wild Card spot like their lives depend on it. Like mine would’ve, if I were out there.
McCarthy said I could watch from the bench if I wanted—“good for morale”—but the last thing I need is to be down there and feel useless.
So now I’m in a suit, knee braced and throbbing, watching my team claw their way through the second period. We’re up by one. Crowd’s loud. Hits are harder tonight. Everyone’s playing like there’s no tomorrow.
I’ve got a clipboard in my lap, but it’s basically a prop—something to make me feel like I belong up here instead of being stuck in limbo.
Torres is buzzing. Kid throws himself into every shift like he’s got rocket fuel in his veins. Midway through the second, he eats a slapshot on the kill—drops to one knee, takes it square off the shin, and still manages to clear the puck. Crowd roars. The bench is up banging sticks. Raw, reckless, but promising. I feel a twitch of pride I can’t quite shake.
Reed’s vocal on the bench—maybe a little too much, but the guys are listening.
Still.
This is supposed to be my job.
Leading.
Driving the pace.
Making the room steady.
I shift in my seat, adjusting the brace. My whole body itches to move.
Instead, I grit my teeth as the ref misses another blatant trip.
