Then she told me about Nana’s decision to sell the ranch. Not right away, but soon because…she’s met someone. Who knew geriatric romance was a thing?
This shouldn’t surprise me, though. Nana’s as feisty as they come. Already a young widow, she didn’t sign up to raise her three grandkids alone. My mother left when my sisters and I were little because she couldn’t picture herself strapped to a ranch for the rest of her life. To mitigate his pain, my father threw everything he had into running the ranch that killed him in the end.
By the time they found him on the back side of the property, he’d already slipped into a coma from a severe stroke. He passedaway two weeks later, leaving Nana to raise three children on her own.
And she did it with passion and dedication, doing whatever it took to keep the ranch running so we didn’t lose our home, too. When I discovered my love for hockey, she made sure I had the equipment and lessons I needed to pursue the sport I loved, even to the point of selling one of our stallions to pay for it all.
She deserves to have a life of her own, no matter her age.
That's why I’m a selfish jerk, worrying about whether I have to give up hockey to keep the ranch in the family. Piper just got drafted into the PWHL, and Ellie’s still in college. I, on the other hand, have had several years to pursue and live my dream of playing professional hockey.
Do I want to take a shot at the NHL? Hell, yes.
And no…
Or maybe I should say I don’t know anymore.
I’m not sure of anything at the moment. My world feels like a listing ship about to keel over at the moment.
But I can’t think about any of it right now because I’m lying on the table as the team doctor does an evaluation of my condition while Coach Markelson hovers in the doorway. As much as he wants me back in the crease, I need it more—need the distraction.
From my family’s situation, and from Bree.
She and I have exchanged basic texts over the last few days, but that’s been it. It’s like we’re dancing around each other, avoiding the rift forming between us. I didn’t get to help move her boxes, which may have been a good thing, since I haven’t been in a great headspace. The guys said all I did was scowl at them while they loaded their SUVs.
“Well?” Coach’s voice grates from my right.
The doctor glances his way before zeroing in on me. “You’re not feeling any pain whatsoever?”
I shake my head. The last time I felt a twinge was a couple of days ago when I got up too fast from the couch—the last time I saw Bree. If I mention that, though, the doc might think it’s too soon for me to play, but I need to get back out there—for me and for the team.
Perched on a rolling stool, Doc pushes away from the table and coasts backward as he crosses his arms. “I’ll clear him for tomorrow night’s game.”
“Yes!” I sit up, feeling the weight of anticipation slough off of me.
Coach shoves off the doorjamb, appearing relieved.
“But on one condition.”
I freeze in place. So does Coach.
Doc continues, “If you feel even a hint of a tickle, you tell a trainer right away. Deal?”
“Deal,” Coach and I both reply to him at the same time.
I don’t expect that will be an issue. I’m feeling back to normal, and I’ll make sure I’m intentional with my stretching, which I normally am, but I’ll add a few more reps to play it safe.
Swinging my legs over the side, I perch on the edge of the table. Coach stands there, arms crossed and silent, but I read the warning in his eyes—sitting out one more game won’t make or break our season and isn’t worth the risk.
I hold a hand up. “I’ll be careful.”
Coach nods. “Good. See you out there.”
He turns and walks out. I head to the locker room to get ready for practice. My insides buzz with the anticipation of getting back on the ice after almost two weeks of sitting around with ice packs on my leg.
I still worked with my goalie coach during that time to implement some new eye movement exercises and focused on my upper-body workouts, but I missed being out there.
With my guys. With my team. Classic case of FOMO.
