And when I scan the room, I see it—their jaws set tighter, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. They still look to me. And that steadies something in my chest, even with my gear packed away.
Dalton’s leaning back against the wall, calm as ever. He’s been here more than a decade, the kind of veteran who steadies the room without having to say much. The younger guys watch him almost as much as they watch me.
David’s eyes catch mine and he gives me a quick nod. I return it, steady. We’ve been at this long enough that it says everything it needs to.
Coach gives his talk, short and sharp, and the guys rise in unison. Sticks in hand. Helmets under arms. They file out to the tunnel, and I trail behind, crutches thudding, a half step removed from the rhythm I’ve lived for years.
I take my usual seat in the press box, crutches propped against the wall, the crowd’s energy rumbling up through the glass. From here, I can see the bench, the tunnel, every shift unfolding like a film I should be in but can’t.
My chest tightens. Adrenaline still floods me like I’m about to take the first shift. But I’m not. Not tonight.
From up here, the whole arena looks alive—every seat filled, towels whipping, chants rolling in waves. I grip my crutchtighter, knee braced and throbbing, and try to breathe through the static under my skin.
My eyes track every shift, every line change, like I’m still out there on the ice.
The game’s a grind—fast, physical, the kind where every shift feels like a season in itself. Torres crashes the net in the second and somehow pokes one through traffic. Kid damn near falls over celebrating, and I can’t stop the grin tugging at my mouth. That’s what I want from him. Hungry. Relentless.
Penalty kill late in the third—Tyler’s the one shouting, clapping gloves, holding the line. The bench feeds off it, shoulders bumping, energy sparking. He’s stepping up, just like we need him to. I can’t resent him for it. But there’s a sharp pang in my chest all the same. That should be me.
Final horn. Ice Foxes win. Wild Card spot clinched. The building erupts—fans on their feet, players mobbing each other, sticks banging against the boards. I stay where I am, clapping my crutch against the floor, pride swelling hard and sharp in my chest—even from up here.
We’re in. My guys fought for this, earned it. And I couldn’t be prouder.
But the ache is right there, too—the empty space of knowing I wasn’t on the ice when it happened.
The locker room celebration still echoes in my head when I walk into the training room the next morning. We’re in. Wild Card spot clinched. Pride’s still there, sharp and solid. But so is the hollow ache—like I left a piece of myself on the bench last night.
Charlie greets me with her usual calm, tablet in hand, no trace of the chaos I feel inside. “Morning,” she says, like it’s any other day.
It isn’t—not for me. I need to move. To work. To claw my way back.
She pushes me harder this session—longer holds, tougher balance drills, adding resistance before I can even ask.
“Guess what? Bonus round. Don’t glare at me yet—you’ll thank me later,” she says with a quick grin.
Maybe she sees the restless energy in me. Maybe she’s just not afraid to push.
Halfway through, I stumble on a single-leg balance and she’s there instantly, one hand at my hip to steady me while I catch myself. Her touch is firm, clinical, nothing more, but my body doesn’t seem to know the difference. The world narrows to the warmth of her palm, the steadiness in her voice.
There’s a faint trace of her shampoo when she leans in—clean and sharp enough to cut through the sweat and the burn in my legs. It lingers even after she steps back.
Her gaze meets mine, steady and unbothered, but something in my chest jolts anyway. I look away first.
“Reset. You’ve got it.”
I bite back the frustration and go again, jaw clenched. My muscles burn, sweat prickles, but I don’t stop.
Because last night reminded me what I’m missing. And the thought of sitting out the Playoffs makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
My quads are shaking by the end of the balance drill; I can still feel the ghost of Charlie’s hand at my hip from where she steadied me. The frustration’s right there, burning under my skin—not at her, but at this whole damn situation. At being stuck watching while everyone else gets to play.
“Be honest,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “If I put in extra work at home… any chance we can shave a week off?”
I hate how desperate it sounds, but I can’t stop myself from asking.
She straightens, meeting my eyes without flinching. Calm. Professional.
“It doesn’t work like that. Your knee needs time. If you push too hard, you risk undoing everything we’ve worked for.”
