“You can’t feel the damage you’re doing,” she said. “So don’t get reckless out there. You aren’t fixed. You’re numb, which is dangerous for someone in your condition”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You say that so much it’s lost all meaning to me,” she replied, and pulled up a piece of tape from her desk. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. That’s all.”
I made the promise she needed to hear, and Reese got to taping me up. I felt none of the discomfort that was always there when she did it. The miracle juice had totally taken effect, and the relief that washed over me was euphoric.
“I didn’t mean to upset you the other night.”
She didn’t pause her movements. “Then congratulations. You get points for intention, I guess.”
“Reese—”
Her hands froze on me, and when they picked back up it was with more aggression than before. “I don’t want to talk about it. Your job is to play, and mine is to get you on the ice to do it. End of story.”
There wasn’t anything else to say. Not here. Not with her refusing to stand anywhere near what actually happened between us. I pulled my shirt back on, testing my arm again even though she shot me a warning look when I did.
As I reached the door, her voice lifted.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
Too late for that, I almost said.
Instead, I nodded once, kept it neutral, and stepped into the hallway with my shoulder feeling invincible. The pain wasn’t there. The weight of the season wasn’t crushing. After the conversation with Hunter, the media pressure, and the stretch Reese and I had survived together, everything felt possible.
I could make it. To the end of the season, maybe even to the Cup.
The Surge were out of the gates with everything on the line. But so was Dallas Stars.
I hit the ice and felt it immediately—no pain. Not a twitch, not a buzz, nada. My shoulder moved like it had before all the wreckage started, and it felt… fucking amazing. My arms, legs, everything was firing in sync. I leaned into the first corner, grabbed the puck, and slid it up to Mason, who was already cutting toward the net like he had a score to settle.
Shawn barreled past him on the right wing. “Clear a lane!” he yelled.
I skated back toward the crease, reading the Stars’ forward like a book, ready to stand my ground and cut anything off.
Hunter’s voice boomed across the ice. “Move it, Bouchard! Don’t freeze up on me now.”
“What are you getting so worked up about?” I shot back with a grin. “It’s just a game.”
He laughed, a high-pitched, cackling sound, and I joined in. My body felt like I’d been trapped in amber for months and someone finally thawed me back to civilization. I pivoted, juked a Stars forward sliding at me, shoulder steady, stick handling clean. The puck went sailing free and Grayson picked it up, Mason flanking. He faked left, handed it off faster than anyone could see, and Mason snapped a shot into the top corner. Net rippled and the fans went nuts.
“About time someone did something about that big fat egg on the scoreboard.” Tucker high-fived me. I’d given him my left hand out of habit, and felt a sinking disappointment that I’d missed the chance to feel what it felt like on the right.
I skated past the crease to meet the next attacker. Stars weren’t taking this lying down. Their forwards were like bullets on the ice. Tucker took two of them out of the running, and I went intothe one-on-one, full speed. I swiped at the puck, body angled, shoulder holding. The winger spun off, and I bolted up the ice, puck glued to my stick.
“Send her home, James,” Tucker called as he skated in for back-up.
I glanced up and found Grayson hanging easy in the slot.
“That’s Sir James, to you,” I grunted, and passed to Grayson just as a Stars defender shoved me into the boards. We grappled it out, and I broke free just as the buzzer went. Grayson had made the goal. Surge were 2–0 up.
“Don’t go getting cocky,” Hunter said as I skated back to the blue line. “I’m the hero in this story.”
“Yeah, yeah, save the theatrics,” I yelled, really laughing for the first time in forever. “It’s not my fault they’re not giving you any work to do.”
Second period, and that’s when Dallas decided to push. My line exploded into the corners, hitting, checking, slicing gaps. I grabbed a pass in the mid-neutral zone, turned, and fed it across ice to Shawn. He faked a defender, shot low—blocked. Mason swooped in to save the day, one motion, and top corner again. Two for Mason. The bench went wild, and the crowd went wilder.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I like it,” Mason said, slapping my helmet as he skated past.
