“I’m good,” Tane answered, his body in survival mode and all his years of experience backing him up.
Second period, the Enforcers found their rhythm.
Jacob danced through the neutral zone, drawing two defenders, then dished a perfect pass to Alex at the point. Alex one-timed it toward the net, nothing fancy, just hard and accurate. Tane was already crashing the crease. He tipped the puck with the blade of his stick, enough to redirect it past the goalie’s glove.
2-0. And probably game over.
The building erupted. Tane glided back to the bench, glove raised, but the ache in his shoulder had upgraded to a deep burn. He didn’t celebrate long, just tapped gloves with Alex and Jacob, then dropped onto the bench to hide how much he was breathing through his teeth.
That’s it.
You played your part.
There’s life in you yet.
“Go for the kill!” Tane hollered from the bench as play resumed. “This Storm is barely a fucking drizzle!”
Third period, the Stormers did push back—the assholes got one on a power play—but the Enforcers answered. Jacob scored shorthanded on a breakaway. Alex buried one from the circle.
Final score: 4-1 to Toronto.
When the buzzer sounded, the crowd rose as one.
“Rivers! Rivers! Rivers!” echoed off the rafters.
Tane skated a slow lap with the team, stick raised, nodding to the fans who’d stuck by him through the injury, the rehab, the questions about whether he’d ever come back the same.
But the applause barely registered.
The shoulder was on fire now—every rotation sent fresh lightning down his arm.
Tane needed ice, tape, the rehab room, and he needed it five minutes ago. He peeled off toward the tunnel before the rest of the team had even finished fist-bumping the goalie.
I need off the ice.
Rehab. Rest.
And maybe a God damned miracle…
* * *
Later that evening, Tane’s apartment was quiet except for the hum of the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Pensive, tired, and sore, he sat in the leather armchair by the bookshelf, a tumbler of single malt in his hand… fifteen-year-old Islay, peaty and medicinal.
Tane hadn’t turned on the lights. All he had was the glow from the skyline and the faint blue flicker of the muted TV replaying highlights.
He sipped slowly, letting the burn settle in his throat.
The win felt good on paper. Another step closer to a career defining championship.
Another crucial goal too.
And another night where the body had held on,just.
But the shoulder hadn’t stopped throbbing since the final buzzer. Ice and anti-inflammatories had dulled it to a steady ache, but Tane knew the difference between manageable and masking a bigger problem.
He was thirty-eight.
