I lean against the counter, feeling the granite edge press into my lower back. “I appreciate everything you two are doing. The apartment, this?—”
“Stop.” She points the knife at me, playful but firm. “We’re not doing you favors. We love having you here. We’re friends. This is what friends do. Now, hot water bottle? I have one that’s a sleeve, perfect for wrists. My mother swears by hers.”
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“There we go. Progress.” She wipes her hands on her apron—one of those ridiculous Christmas ones with a reindeer wearing sunglasses. “Be right back.”
She disappears down the hall, her footsteps light and quick on the hardwood. The kitchen feels different without her—too quiet, too still. The clock on the wall ticks. The refrigerator hums its mechanical tune. These people aren’t my family withtheir scorecards and comparisons and conditional love. They’re just... kind. No strings attached.
I didn’t even realize until Sophie pushed that I’m only biased against pain meds because of my family—they see anything like that as a weakness. Which is so messed up.
And I know I need to stop thinking of this injury as “just a broken wrist.” It’s a shattered wrist, and it’s been two years. Two unbearably long years of rehab and depression and downsizing so that I can live comfortably without the NHL salary and ad endorsements. If it were a simple injury, it wouldn’t have upended my life like it did.
Speaking of my family...
Sighing, I scrub my hand down my face. They’re the reason that I’m here having Christmas with my friends and not at home like my brothers. Just thinking about the way they treated me in the hospital after my wrist shattered still makes my stomach sour. Unfortunately, I can’t get out of our FaceTime tomorrow. Even if I make up an excuse about still settling in, or even something to do with my new job, they’ll hound me constantly until I call. Better to just grit my teeth and get through it.
And I can already envision how the conversations will go. Mom will ask about my “job prospects” as if coaching high school hockey isn’t a real job. Dad will make some comment about how at least I had a good run. My brothers will be there with their wives and kids, living their uncomplicated lives where careers don’t end in seventeen seconds. A dental appointment would be more pleasant.
Sophie returns with something gray and knitted, soft-looking. “Here we go. Dinner’s at six-thirty. Pot roast with those little potatoes you like. And Oliver?” She pauses, considering her words. “That physical therapy place downtown has evening hours. Just saying.”
“Thanks.” The word comes out rough, catching on emotion I don’t want to name.
Her hand barely grazes my arm, just enough contact to be comforting without being intrusive. “Go rest. You look exhausted.”
Outside, the cold hits again like a slap. I grip the metal railing with my good hand as I navigate the stairs, each step deliberate and careful. My legs ache from the run—that good burn that says my body still works for something, even if it’s just putting one foot in front of the other. Makes me miss the days when six hours of training meant unconsciousness instead of insomnia, when exhaustion was earned and sleep was guaranteed. Now my wrist wakes me at three a.m., four a.m., a constant reminder of what I’ve lost. No sleeping through the night. One fall—seventeen seconds from check to stretcher—and everything changed.
The apartment door sticks in the cold, requiring a shoulder bump to open. Inside, the harsh overhead light illuminates what I’ve made of my life. One bedroom’s worth of furniture in a space meant for more. My couch, brown leather and too big for the room. My coffee table with its water rings I haven’t bothered to fix. Three trophies on the mantle—MVP awards I should have thrown away but can’t bring myself to trash. One team photo from my rookie year, all of us grinning like we’d discovered the secret to immortality. Twenty-two and invincible, convinced nothing could touch us.
It’s such a far cry from everywhere else I’ve lived. The Alabama house with its wraparound porch and Mom’s rosebushes that required constant attention. The Manhattan shoebox Devin and I shared on the Lower East Side, with garbage trucks at dawn and the radiator that clanged like imprisoned ghosts trying to escape. The way she’d steal all the blankets and I’d wake up freezing but happy just to see her there. The upstate house I bought after my first endorsement deal—six bedrooms for one person, indoor pool I used maybe ten times, theater room that played two movies total.
All of those places are long gone. The New York house soldeight months ago when I finally accepted this was permanent. The money’s safe in retirement accounts, managed by someone who sends quarterly reports full of pie charts and projections. Set for life financially, if I’m careful. Just not set any other way that matters.
I don’t miss the house. Not really. The money and the fans never meant much to me. The autograph seekers at restaurants. The women who knew my stats better than I did. The reporters asking the same questions after every game. It’s being on the ice that I miss, that feeling of flying, knowing you’re the fastest thing in the rink. Everything narrowed to one simple task—get the puck. No family disappointment. No wondering what comes next. No existential questions about purpose and meaning. Just the next shift, the next play, the next goal.
My wrist throbs its familiar rhythm, reminding me those long days on the ice are gone. While I’ll coach the high school kids, teach them everything I know, I’ll never play pro again. Never feel that perfect moment when everything aligns—stick meets puck meets net while twenty thousand people lose their minds.
Bitterness rises in my chest like acid, but I force it back down. Life never promised me anything. The universe doesn’t owe me a damn thing. Plenty of guys never even make it to the show. Besides, I chose Pine Island. There’s nothing I can do about a career that shattered along with my wrist, so I might as well embrace the fresh start. New place. New job. New chance to be something other than the guy who used to be somebody.
Sinking onto the cold leather couch, I think of Devin. She’s been a constant flicker in my mind for five years, but now that we’re on the same island, she blazes like a lighthouse. Her laugh that started as a giggle and turned into something fuller. The way she’d steal my hoodies and look better in them than I ever did. The night everything ended so horribly. The empty apartment when I came home from practice.
Does it mean anything that we both ended up on the same small island, several hundred miles away from where we started? It almost feels like the universe is playing some kind of cosmic joke.
Or am I just a sad, washed-up athlete trying to find meaning where there isn’t any, making patterns out of coincidence because the alternative is accepting that life is just random?
My gaze drops to the hot water bottle sleeve in my hand, gray knitted wool that someone—probably Sophie’s mother—made with care. Such a small kindness, but it feels enormous in my empty apartment.
Yeah, it’s probably the latter one.
Chapter Five
Devin
“Look what I found.” My dad emerges from the hallway with something soft and worn in his hands. The fabric unfolds as he walks, revealing faded teddy bears marching across pale yellow fleece. “It's your baby blanket!”
“Aww.” On the other couch, Henry shifts forward, his eyes crinkling with genuine delight. “See if it still covers her.”
“No. Please.” I shake my head, but my dad is already crossing the room with that determined parent walk that means resistance is futile. The blanket floats down over me, bringing the faint smell of cedar from the hallway closet.
