“Look at you,” Finn said. “Taking a chance on something that might be real.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing, Jacks.” His presence lifted from my shoulder, and I turned to find him smiling—a rare, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “It’s been a thing for weeks. You’re finally letting yourself see it.”
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to point out all the reasons this couldgo wrong, all the ways I could end up hurt, all the obstacles standing between us and any kind of real future.
But instead, I smiled back.
Because despite everything—despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, despite the very real possibility that this would all fall apart—I was happy.
For the first time in a long time, I was genuinely, stupidly, recklessly happy.
Chapter 20
Skyler
I’ve always been a preparer, an overpreparer, really, maybe even a bit psychotic in my need to prepare. It’s the thing coaches loved about me growing up, the trait that separated me from the gazillions of other kids with fast legs and decent hands who showed up to every tryout dreaming of the NHL.
Talent got you noticed.
Preparation got you drafted.
By the time I was fourteen, I had a pre-game routine that would’ve made a NASA launch director weep with pride. I did film study the night before—at least an hour, sometimes two, breaking down the opposing team’s breakout patterns and penalty kill formations. I applied stick tape atexactly9 p.m., always white, always three wraps at the toe. Even my gear was laid out in order: base layer, socks, jock, pants, skates, shoulder pads, elbow pads, jersey.
Always that order.
Never deviated.
Not once.
In juniors, I added nutrition tracking.
In college, I added meditation.
By my second year in the NHL, my preparation routine was so comprehensive that our equipment manager once joked I could publish it as a self-help book. “The Skyler Shaw Method: How to Overprepare for Everything Until the Universe Has No Choice But to Let You Succeed.”
The point is I didn’t wing things.
I didn’t walk into situations blind.
Not ever.
When I faced a new opponent, I studied their video until I could predict their moves before they made them. When I learned a new system, I drilled it until the patterns lived in my muscle memory, automatic and instinctive. When I rehabbed an injury, I researched every protocol, every timeline, and every possible complication until my physical therapist begged me to stop sending her articles at 2 a.m.
Preparation was my superpower.
It was the foundation of everything I’d built—every goal, every win, every moment of my career that had led me to wearing the C on a jersey in the best league in the world.
So, when I woke up the morning after kissing aman for the first time in my life with a date on the horizon and zero understanding of what I’d gotten myself into, there was only one logical course of action.
I was going to prepare.
I would research, study, and do film review, metaphorically speaking, of course.
I would approach this the same way I’d approached every challenge in my life: with rigor, discipline, and the quiet confidence of a man who believed that no situation was unmanageable if you did the homework.
