Sophie doesn’t seem to notice; she’s narrating girls’ night between whistles—how Erin made brownies, how Maya insists on a dramatic bow after every song, how Charlotte laughed so hard she almost missed her cue.
Charlotte. The way Sophie says her name—easy, like she’s already part of our orbit—does something warm and dangerous in my chest.
First period’s tight, every puck battle a coin flip. Our goalie bails us out twice, and I can feel the pulse in my jaw by the time the horn blows.
Second’s no easier—trading chances both ways, nothing clean breaking through.
The period ends 1–1. The scoreboard graphic flashes on the screen at intermission—exactly the kind of tight game that chews at your nerves.
Sophie stands to refill her drink. “Maya texted. Sleepover Friday?” she asks over her shoulder, like it’s already decided.
“Yeah,” I say. “Text Erin and make sure.”
“Done.” She plops back down, stealing a handful of my popcorn. “And next time we do karaoke, you’re coming.”
“Hard pass.”
She snorts.
The third starts, and I fix my eyes on the ice, like that’s enough to hold everything else in place.
It’s a grind. The Wranglers are heavy on every shift, punishing along the boards. Torres takes a hard hit on the forecheck, pops right back up, and the bench roars. Tyler’s line buzzes every shift, hemming their defense in, but the puck won’t bounce our way.
My grip tightens on the crutch propped against the couch. Every rush feels like I’m skating it myself—lungs burning, legs heavy—even from here.
The last five minutes are chaos—swallowed whistles, scrums along the boards, every dump-in chased like it’s sudden death. With under a minute left, Tyler threads a pass through traffic, and Torres buries it. The building on TV shakes like I can feel it through the floorboards. Sophie’s popcorn goes flying as she leaps up, screaming.
I can’t help it—I’m on my feet too, braced leg and all, fist clenched tight around my crutch as if I’d scored it myself.
Final horn. We take it. First game of the series in the books, the guys mobbing each other on the ice while the Dallas crowd boos them off.
Ice Foxes take Game 1.
Pride is sharp and real, but right behind it sits a hollow ache—them fighting without me, Tyler rallying the bench, Torres playing like he’s been here a decade instead of a season.
Later, after Sophie heads upstairs, I sit in the dim light of the living room, highlights looping on the screen. Every cheer feels like it’s happening in a room I can see but never step into. My phone lights up, buzzing with notifications. Messages from the group thread—guys hyped, trading gifs, tagging me like I’m still there.
I scroll through the gifs and chirps, thumb hovering. I type something captain-like:
Hell of a win. Keep it rolling.
The sting hits as soon as I send it, because saying it from the couch isn’t the same as standing in that room.
My phone buzzes. A text lights the screen:
Congrats on the win. You must be proud of the guys.
It’s Charlotte.
Just a simple text, but it sits heavier than it should. I tell myself not to read into it, not to want more, but the truth is I do.
After a second, I type back:
Proud as hell. They earned it.
The next couple of days blur into the routine—PT in the mornings, Sophie in the evenings, me trying not to crawl out of my skin in between.
Charlie keeps her sessions sharp but optimistic, tossing out lines like“You’re ahead of schedule, Captain”with a smile that almost makes me believe her. I tell her she’s too cheerful for her own good, and she just shrugs, unbothered.
