I nod mechanically. Ten minutes. A third of my normal ice time. Babysitting minutes.
“Let’s go, boys!” McDavid shouts, and we tap our sticks on the ice in unison.
The starting lineup takes the ice. I’m not among them—another concession to my recovery. I sit on the bench, eyes fixed on the face-off circle, trying not to let my gaze drift to where Sydney stands with her cameraperson.
The puck drops.
Hockey at this level is violence and grace in equal measure, chaos and strategy locked in constant battle. The Blizzards come out flying, their forwards pressing deep into our zone. Our defense bends but doesn’t break. The crowd surges and ebbs with each rush, a living, breathing entity feeding off the action.
Five minutes in, Coach taps my shoulder. “Third line, next shift.”
My heart rate doubles as I stand, moving to the gate, waiting for the whistle. When it comes, I hop over the boards, my skates hitting the ice with a familiar crunch. Time slows. My vision narrows to the play developing in front of me. For all my doubts, for all my fears, my body remembers what to do.
I settle into the flow of the game, making simple plays, smart passes. My first few shifts are uneventful—exactly what the doctor ordered, exactly what Coach wants. But it’s not what the crowd paid to see. It’s not what I need to prove to myself.
The Blizzards’ top line comes onto the ice,and with them, Jonah. We haven’t faced each other professionally since last year, long before my injury. But some rivalries are eternal, friendship be damned.
He catches my eye as we line up for the face-off, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Taking it easy, King?” he taunts, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Saving my energy to make you look bad.” The familiar banter settles something in me.
The puck drops. Jonah wins the draw, pushing it back to his defenseman. They cycle it around, probing for weaknesses. I stay in position, conserving energy, playing the system. This is the smart approach. The safe approach.
But hockey isn’t about being safe.
Jonah gets the puck at the half-boards, dangles past our defenseman, and speeds toward the net. The move is pure Jonah—explosive, confident, a bit flashy. Before I can close the gap, he fires a wrist shot that pings off the post and in.
1-0 Denver.
The arena falls silent for a beat, then erupts in groans and frustrated shouts. I slam my stick against the ice, cursing under my breath. Across the rink, Jonah celebrates with his teammates, deliberately not looking my way. He knows scoring on my watch is a special kind of torture.
As I skate back to the bench, I catch Sydney’s expression—professional neutrality masking what I know is disappointment. She’s an Idaho girl at heart. And her brother just scored against her hometown boys.
“Not your fault,” Coach says as I slump onto the bench. “Defense lost containment.”
But it feels like my fault. Everything does lately.
The first period ends with us down 2-0. The locker room is quiet during intermission, guys staring at the floor, the walls, anywhere but at each other. Coach gives his adjustments, his voice measured but urgent. We’re better than this. We need to dig deeper. All the usual clichés that somehow work because they tap into that primal hockey player instinct—to battle, to prove yourself, to be worthy of the jersey.
As we head back to the ice for the second period, my resolve hardens. Playing it safe isn’t working. It isn’t helping the team, and it sure as hell isn’t answering the question burning in my gut: Do I still belong here?
The second period starts with more intensity. We push back, generating chances, forcing Denver’s goalie to make saves. The crowd responds, the energy in the building shifting from anxious to hopeful. I feel it too, that current of possibility.
My minutes start to increase as Coach sees I’m holding up. Each shift, I push a little harder, test my limits a little more. The shoulder holds. The fear recedes.
Midway through the period, I spot an opportunity—a Denver defenseman telegraphing a cross-ice pass. I read it all the way, my body moving before my brain fully processes the risk. I intercept the pass and suddenly I’m free, nothing between me and the goalie but open ice.
Time slows again, but differently now. Not the tentative caution of my first shift, but the hyper-awareness of being in the zone. I can feel the Denver players closing in behind me, can sense their desperation. The crowd rises to its feet, a wall of noise urging me forward.
The goalie comes out to challenge, cutting down the angle. I fake a shot, then pull the puck to my backhand—a move I’ve practiced ten thousand times, a move that shouldn’t be possible with my injured shoulder. Pain flares, but it’s distant, unimportant. I flip the puck toward the top corner.
The goalie’s glove flashes. For a heartbeat, I think he’s got it. Then the arena erupts, and I know.
Goal.
My teammates mob me, their shouts of celebration drowning out the arena’s roar. McDavid thumps my helmet, shouting something I can’t hear. The bench empties, gloves tapping my back, my chest, my helmet. For this one perfect moment, I’m not the fragile, damaged goods. I’m doing what I was born to do.
As I skate past the press area during the celebration, I allow myself one glance at Sydney. Her professional mask has slipped completely, a genuine smile lighting up her face. Our eyes lock for the briefest moment, and despite everything between us, I see it there—pride. Maybe something more.
