GARRICK:Call me. Team needs an update on your return timeline.
Return timeline. As if it’s just a matter of scheduling. As if I haven’t spent the past month waking up in cold sweats, reliving that hit over and over again. Believe me, I’m pushing myself so hard in rehab my doctor made me slow things down. I know I need to get back on the ice. Iwantto get back on the ice.
I toss the phone onto the bed and turn back to the dresser, fumbling for the prescription bottle tucked behind my deodorant. The orange plastic is becoming too familiar in my palm, the white pills inside a promise of temporary relief. Two should do it. Or maybe three for tonight. The party. Meema’s birthday. Playing the doting grandson and Sydney’s besotted boyfriend while Jonah watches with raging disappointment.
The pills are bitter, but I swallow them dry. The doctor said to take them with food, but what does it matter? Just one more rule to break in a life that’s rapidly spinning out of my control.
I roll my shoulder experimentally, feeling the tight pull of damaged tissue. It’s better than it was a month ago, but nowhere near game-ready.
Fifty-fifty chance of returning to pre-injury form—a coin flip odds on my entire career, my identity, the only thing I’ve ever been truly good at.
The thing is, the ice used to feel like home, the arena like a sanctuary. Now? It feels like walking into a firing squad. The crowd noise that once energized me now sets my teeth on edge. The speed that used to exhilarate me now terrifies me. What if it happens again? What if next time it’s worse?
I just have to suck it up and get past it, that’s all.
A soft knock at the door startles me.
“Brooks?” Sydney’s voice, hesitant. “You almost ready? Meema’s getting antsy downstairs.”
My heart does this stupid little skip-jump thing it has no business doing. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “Yeah. Five minutes.”
“Okay.” A pause. “Everything all right in there? You’ve been up here for almost an hour.”
Has it been that long? I glance at the clock—4:15. The party starts at 5, but we’re supposed to be there early to help set up.Shit.
“Fine,” I call back. “Just... struggling with buttons.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Need help?”
The thought of Sydney’s fingers working the buttons of my shirt, her face close to mine, her scent surrounding me right now—it’s simultaneously the best and worst idea imaginable.
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Almost done.”
“Alright.” Her voice sounds different now. Smaller, maybe. “I’ll tell Maisie you’re on your way.”
Her footsteps fade down the hall, and I exhale. This is exactly what Jonah warned about. The blurred lines. The moments that feel too real, too intimate.
I finish buttoning my shirt one-handed, leaving the top two undone because my patience only stretches so far. My reflection in the dresser mirror looks passable. Not great, but good enough for a birthday party. My hair’s still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends in a way that would have my father reaching for the hair gel. “Appearance matters, Brooks. Image is everything.”
The pills are starting to kick in, a fuzzy warmth spreading through my shoulder, dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts. Dangerous territory. It would be so easy to lean into that warmth, to let it numb everything—the pain, the guilt, the fear. Too easy.
Downstairs, Meema and Sydney are waiting. The two women I’m lying to most spectacularly. One because I love her too much. The other because...
Well, I have to. It’s that simple.
But as I head down the stairs and see her—Sydney, in a simple blue dress that matches my shirt, Meema’s doing no doubt, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders, laughing at something my grandmother just said—I know there’s another reason I’m lying that I haven’t admitted to myself yet.
“There he is!” Meema’s face lights up. “Don’t you two look handsome together. Like something out of a magazine.”
Sydney turns, and our eyes meet across the room. Something passes between us—acknowledgment of this strange, complicated thing we’ve created? Then she fake smiles, the one she uses on camera.
“Ready, babe?” she asks, the endearment awkward on her tongue.
I nod, not trusting my voice. The pills havemade everything soft around the edges, including my resolve to keep my distance.
Meema claps her hands together. “This is going to be the best birthday party ever. All my favorite people in one place. Well, except my son and his wife, of course.”
That snaps me back. “Oh, Dad has a work thing he can’t miss, but he and Mom send all their love and apologies. They hope you got their card.” I hate making excuses for them.
