“You still doing your banded extensions?” she asks, adjusting the band around my ankle.
“Every night.”
“Good. That’s why the swelling’s down. You’re moving cleaner.”
Her voice is light, measured. It’s the same tone she uses with any other player, but the air between us feels anything but routine. Every time her hand steadies my brace or brushes my knee, something in me sharpens.
When we finish, she marks a note on her tablet. “Looks good. Keep the load low today. Tomorrow we’ll recheck your gait.”
I nod. “Thanks. For keeping me on track.”
She glances up, warmth flickering there. “It’s literally my job.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “And you’re damn good at it.”
For a second, something unspoken lingers between us.
Then she clears her throat and moves on to Torres, already calling out some chirpy reminder about tape limits, like the moment never happened.
And maybe that’s what gets me—the way she can make it look normal, even when it isn’t.
The meeting room smells like burnt coffee and dry-erase markers, the unofficial scent of playoff strategy.
Half the lights are dimmed, a frame from last night’s first-period shift glowing on the screen, the puck midair. Reed’s line is pressing high, just like we planned.
Coach McCarthy stands at the front with the clicker, pointing out transitions, spacing, small things only players notice. I sit off to the side with the staff—notebook open, pen in hand—trying not to fidget like a benched rookie.
Reed looks sharp in the clips. He’s seeing the ice well, talking through sequences like he’s been wearing the C his whole life. The kid’s confident. Calm. Good at it.
And that’s the problem.
I’m proud of him—I am—but every time he speaks up, something tightens in my chest.
It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s more like muscle memory: the instinct to lead, to speak, tobe out there. I keep my mouth shut and let him handle it, because that’s what he needs. That’s what the team needs.
McCarthy glances over. “Tremayne, anything to add?”
I clear my throat, flipping a page in my notebook. “When they’re chasing, they forecheck like hell. Stay connected through the neutral—no risky pinches. If they’re pressing again tomorrow, go short up the middle and live to fight the next shift. No hero stretch plays.”
Coach nods once. “Exactly. That’s what I want them seeing. Reed, make sure the guys have that in mind at morning skate.”
“Got it,” Reed says immediately, eyes flicking toward me with a nod.
McCarthy moves on to the next clip.
As I jot a few notes, I feel the faint buzz of my phone in my pocket. I look to see a rehab reminder for this afternoon.
By the time the lights come up, half the room’s already filing out. The energy’s good—focused, hopeful. We won Game 1, and everyone can feel the shift.
David catches up to me in the hallway, headset around his neck. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m not sure what that means anymore.
He gives me a look, the kind that used to call me out on my crap when we were younger.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re fine. I know it’s not easy watching from the side.”
I shrug. “I’ve been worse.”
