"There's something else," I say, and her hand stills on the pendant. "The hospital's offering a settlement. Half a million dollars in exchange for you agreeing not to sue them."
Her eyes widen. "Half a million?"
"Tax-free. Plus, they'll seal all the records: your name, the case, everything."
"That's hush money."
"I know."
"They're trying to buy my silence so they don't look bad."
"Probably. But it's also a lot of money."
The weight of the decision is written all over her face. Take the money and move on, or fight for something that might never bring real justice.
"Do I have to decide now?"
"End of the week. But Maya..." I crouch in front of her chair so we're eye level. "Whatever you decide, I support it. If you want to take the money, take it. If you want to fight them in court, we'll fight."
"I don't know what I want." She looks at me, vulnerability written all over her face. "What would you do?"
"I'd want to burn the whole hospital down. But I'm also not the one who has to live with the decision."
We sit in silence. From down the hall, we can hear the NICU monitors beeping, the quiet conversations of nurses and doctors, and the sound of tiny babies fighting to survive. It reminds me of how fragile everything is, how quickly life can change.
"The team wants you back?" she asks finally.
"Yeah. Coach said the suspension's lifted once the legal stuff is finalized, I can practice with the team starting next week."
"That's good. You need hockey, you've been miserable without it."
She's right. Hockey's been my identity for so long that losing it felt like losing myself.
"First practice is Monday," I say. "Want to come watch?"
"Maybe. Depends on how Sofia's doing."
She's gaining weight slowly, still on respiratory support but improving every day. The doctors are cautiously optimistic she'll go home around her due date.
We head back to the NICU together, our shoulders brushing as we walk. Emma's there with Sofia, hand through the porthole, talking to her daughter about everything and nothing. Chase is beside her, watching the monitors.
"Any changes?" Maya asks, slipping effortlessly into nurse mode.
"Oxygen sats are up," Emma says without looking away, her voice full of cautious hope. "Ninety-three percent. Dr. Stone said that's excellent for her age."
Maya checks the monitors and nods her approval. "She's doing great. Look at her, she's fighting."
I watch Maya with Sofia, explaining medical terms to Emma and Chase, reading lab results, translating doctor-speak into a language they can understand. She's in her element, this is who she's supposed to be, and seeing her like this makes me fall in love with her all over again.
I return to practice without Chase for the first time in weeks.
I wasn't supposed to be here until Monday. That was the plan—Monday would be my first official day back, give me the weekend to settle in, get my head straight. But when Chase mentioned the team had a late practice tonight, something pulled at me. I wanted to surprise them. Show up when they weren't expecting it.
The rink feels like coming home. The cold air, the sound of skates on ice, the smell of sweat and equipment. All of it is familiar and grounding. Through the glass, I can see my teammates already on the ice, running drills under Coach's watchful eye. None of them knows I'm here yet.
I take my time getting my gear on, listening to the muffled sounds of practice through the wall. My hands know the routine. Laces tight, straps secure, helmet snug. When I'm finally ready, I grab my stick and push through the door to the ice.
The cold hits me first, then the sound. Blades cutting, pucks snapping, Coach's voice barking instructions. I step onto the ice, and everything goes quiet.
