She always sends the fox and cocoa—our little shorthand for the two of us. The fox for my team, the cocoa because it’s her favorite drink. It’s her way of keeping things light. Familiar. Steady.
My eyes drift to Sophie’s note still taped to the fridge—crooked paper, ladybug sticker in the corner.
Game-day pancakes?
We made them yesterday morning. Same recipe, same pan. She flipped one too early and laughed when it folded like an envelope. I gave her the messy one and told her it was extra lucky. She rolled her eyes but ate it anyway.
Neither of us knew what was coming.
Last night when Sophie called, I told her it was nothing. Just a bump, a tweak. Nothing she had to worry about.
But it’s not nothing.
I’m the captain. We’re holding the Wild Card spot by a thread. I’m the one who’s supposed to keep everyone steady, hold the room, set the tone.
And now, instead of being on the ice, I’m stuck in my kitchen, bracing against the counter like an old man while someone else schedules my rides. I can’t even handle a damn steering wheel.
Tyler Reed, our chirpy top-line winger, has been eyeing the captaincy all season. If I’m out too long, he’ll lean into it even harder.
The press is already circling like vultures. All it takes is one vague update on my status, and the headlines will light up: Is Tremayne headed for Long-Term Injured Reserve? Is the “C” up for grabs?
I know better. But optics don’t care about reality.
As if blowing out my knee last night wasn’t enough, Charlie Blake is now my physical therapist.
Can’t make this shit up.
Still can’t believe David didn’t tell me Charlie was joining the medical staff.
The hell was that about?
The last time I actually saw her was eleven years ago, at the Blakes’ backyard ribs night before she left for college. I showed up with David out of obligation—shoulder taped from offseason work, Sophie asleep in her carrier by the cooler—and spent most of the night calculating how fast I could slip out.
Charlie was all sunshine and energy, her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, helping her mom with lemonade pitchers and trying to talk me into letting her wrap my shoulder with KT tape because she’d just learned the spiral pattern.
I grunted a “no” in response and took the beer David handed me instead.
Before that, she was the rink kid with glitter on her cheeks and popsicle stains on her shirts, bouncing down the arena hallway like she hadtheme music.
She used to follow our high school team around with a neon clipboard, quizzing us on warmup drills like she was running her own coaching clinic.
She never stopped talking. Always asking questions. Always smiling like everything was going to turn out fine. Like she knew some secret happy ending the rest of us hadn’t been told about yet.
And now?
She’s the one planning my rehab timeline. Running my tests. Calling the shots until Patel gives the green light for me to skate again.
And she was all bright eyes and calm confidence, too. Still talks like she’s narrating a wellness podcast. Gave me that steady little nod like everything was fine. Like I wasn’t one MRI away from losing everything.
I don’t do well with pep talks. Or cheerfulness. Or anyone pretending this isn’t a goddamn mess.
She probably woke up smiling today. Bet she journaled about intentions or whatever before putting on her perfect little game face.
But she didn’t even flinch last night. Not when I gritted through the ligament test. Not when I pushed for tape-and-go. Not even when I looked her dead in the eye and demanded a timeline.
Even with that relentlessly upbeat tone, she gave it to me straight.
Rehab, sunshine edition, here we come.
