“Fine.”
“I’m going to need more than that.”
“Range of motion was barely limited. I had a bit of a delay getting into my sprint, but I don’t know if that’s mental or physical.”
“Any pain?”
“I’m an old hockey player. I always hurt.”
The PT laughs, and I flash back to the last time I told that truth disguised as a joke: with the doctor when I first joined the Yeti.
Taking a deep breath, I try a different tactic this time. “It’s at a three now. It hit five during the third period, but then I got that longer rest, and it was back to a four when I went back out.”
By the time I finish with Glenn, almost everyone else is on the bus for the airport, so I quickly shower and dress before grabbing a plate of food to eat on the bus.
The ride is short, and as I climb onto the plane and settle in, the rest of the team following me on and taking their seats, all I can think about is the next part of my routine. It’s late, and everyone is mostly subdued. My screen illuminates my face as the cabin lights dim overhead.
Larsen looks over at me from the other side of the aisle. “Are you watching film right now, Kane? Isn’t it past your bedtime, old man?”
“I can sleep when I’m dead, Rookie,” I say, pulling my headphones off my shoulders.
Plus, there’s more I still need to do. Especially if there’s a good chance I only have one more season.
So as the plane takes off, the engines humming outside my window, I log on to the Wi-Fi and keep watching the film reel Doctor Pearce put together for the Bears. I look up when the film ends, shocked to find over an hour has passed, and the rest of the team is asleep. My hip sends a small shock down my leg as I shift in my seat. Switching to the appropriate app on my phone, I schedule another PT session for tomorrow morning before skate starts. Then, with a sigh, I book sessions for every day this week.
Chapter 38
Finley
Theclockabovetheice trickles down to 00:00, and it’s like every fan in the arena releases the breath they’ve been holding for the last sixty minutes.
It’s still tied 0–0.
We’re going to overtime against the Boston Bears.
Overtime always feels quieter to me. Though that’s not what the average spectator would observe in the arena. God, no. The crowd is feral, on its feet, sound rattling the glass. We’re lucky we’re in Denver tonight.
But inside my head, everything narrows. Sharpens. The world is reduced to nothing more than ice.
Win, and we move on. Lose, and we’re done. It’s the scenario movies are made about.
I stand behind the bench, my arms crossed, the inside sliver of my cheek bleeding between my teeth.
This is not a moment for me to interfere.
I’ve done my part.
Every line, every matchup, every detail… perfect.
The guys hop over the boards, and my chest tightens with something like pride. They look calm. Focused. Ready. This is the team I’ve been building all season.
Not flashy. Not reckless.
Disciplined.
And they’ve played an almost perfect game tonight.
The puck drops.
