Iknow what’s at stake. My credibility. My teammates’ trust in my leadership. Proving I’m not just back from injury, but that I’m better than before.
At twenty-nine, my window is closing. I want to spend what’s left of my career winning—and I want one of those wins to be for the Stanley Cup.
“Last season you were sidelined during the playoff push,” Sarah continues. “Some analysts suggested the team’s collapse was directly related to your absence. Now that you’re back and the team is in playoff position, does that vindicate you? Or does it add extra pressure?”
I keep my expression neutral. “The team didn’t collapse because of one player. This year, we’re healthy, we’re deep, and we’re playing good hockey.”
I know it’s true. One player doesn’t make or break a season. Still, I can’t shake off the thought: What if I let them downagain?
A guy in the back raises his hand. “Mike Stevens,Chicago Tribune. You’re playing some of the best hockey of your career. There’s been talk of you being in the Norris Trophy conversation. What’s different this year?”
“Just doing my job,” I say. “Taking it one shift at a time.”
The standard lines come easily, but my mind goes exactly where I don’t want it to.
Summer. Her good luck texts before every game. The way I check my phone, like I’m eighteen again, waiting on my draft call. That four-leaf clover emoji I need to see before I can focus.
I’m not locked in. I’m locked ontoher.
Relying on someone else for my focus. My game.
The questions keep coming, but I’m on autopilot, giving generic answers while my brain runs through the same loop:You’ll let them down. You always do.
By the time they let me go, my jaw aches from clenching.
I push through the door toward the locker room, and that’s when I see her.
She’s standing in the hallway near the family room, talking to Mia. Still wearing my jersey. And when she spots me, her whole face lights up.
My heart does that too-big, too-small thing that only happens with her. I take my first real breath since the press’s questions started. The tension in my jaw eases. And the loop in my head goes quiet.
She came. Monday night. Her only day off.
And she traded it for three hours in a cold arena.
It’s just one game. But I already want her at the next one. And the one after that.
I’ve been here before—asking for more than I should.
That’s what I do.
And I’m starting to wonder if I’ve learned anything at all.
NINETEEN
Sully’s is packedfor a Monday night, but Logan managed to push together a couple of high-tops for the group. The table’s crowded with empty glasses and baskets that once held fries—which Helm single-handedly demolished.
Somehow, Summer ends up across from me, wedged between Mia and Hannah. She’s nodding at something Ada said, and I’m trying not to stare. Trying and failing.
“Earth to King.” Helm waves a hand in front of my face.
Fox, at Mia’s side, watches me with one eyebrow raised.
I turn to Helm. “What?”
“I asked if you wanted another round.”
“Sure. Yeah.”
