“Apollo? Are you listening to me?”
“Sí, Papá.”Pushing through the doors of the rink, I sigh. This is the last place I want to be right now, talking to the last person in the world I want to talk to. I miss Edith. I’m worried about her. She’s been pushing herself too hard, too fast, and I’m afraid she’s going to hurt herself even further.
“Call Lucy and set up a meeting. There are some things we need to go through.”
Bristling at his tone, I grind my teeth. The temptation to confront him, to tell him to shove his business, his legacy, up his ass is overwhelming. But I do as I always do, play the part of the dutiful, loyal son, working to take over hispendejoof a cheat and swindling father’s business. Even if I’d rather chew glass.
* * *
The Minnesota Snow Pirates are out for blood. We’re in the second period, my limbs are like lead, sweat pours down my face, and I don’t remember a game where I’ve had to work this hard just to stay upright.
The ref missed a boarding call on Raffi, who took matters into his own hands, bagging himself a time out in the box. Less than a minute later, Scott took a slashing penalty, and landed us on a 5-on-3 penalty kill. It’s fucking brutal.
Legs burning, it’s as though I’m trudging through sand. Hockey has always come as easily to me as breathing, but since the accident, it’s been... challenging. I don’t know how to get my fire back, but I want to.
Artemis passes to Tate at the left point who gives it to me. I sail it toward the Minnesota net, and while their goalie Séb gets a piece of it, it makes it past him. The crowd erupts, my teammates rush me, and that familiar flicker of pride sparks in my chest.
“Get out of your fucking head,hermano.” As though reading my mind, Artemis bumps my arm. “Be here, now. Enjoy the game.” He says it as though it’s that simple.
Nodding, I head to the bench for our high-five celebrations with the rest of the team before circling back for the next face off.
We win the face off, and Raffi, out of the penalty box, drop-passes it to me. I move the puck point to point to Jackson Gilbert who takes a couple of long strides, puts his head down, and lets it fly.
From Séb’s point of view, the puck must look like a missile flying straight at him. It went off the outside of his left pad and under his stick.
The more we score, the angrier the Snow Pirates get. But I’ll be damned if I let them beat us in our own fucking barn. If they want the “W,” they’re going to have to work harder than this.
Scott blocks a clearing pass, setting Myers up in the slot. The crowd screams at him to shoot, but he fakes Séb out of the crease, and passes it to me for the finish. He points at me with his glove when the lamp lights, and I shake my head.
“You could have scored that.”
Tate shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Maybe I thought you needed the win.”
Warmth engulfs me at my team rallying around me. They’ve obviously noticed my head isn’t where it’s supposed to be lately. And instead of making me feel like shit about it, they’re coaxing me back.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, the place is electric. Tomorrow night’s game against the Snow Pirates is going to be interesting to say the least. No one likes having their asses handed to them but for now, we’re relishing the win. It feels pretty fucking good, and there’s only one person I want to share it with.
CHAPTER20
Edith
(MARCH 1ST – DAY 64 POST OP)
My hands shake as I sit in the waiting room of my physical therapist. It’s been a long and grueling seven weeks, but I’m ready to get evaluated and start my road to recovery. I only have a few weeks to get audition ready, which is why I’m here early.
My PT said twelve weeks post op is the usual timeline for starting physical therapy, but he reluctantly agreed to see me today. Must have been the three thousand calls I made. I’m nothing if not persistent. And I need to step out in front of that panel in a few weeks.
I’ve spent every day working on strengthening my body in whatever ways I’ve been able. My casts came off a few days ago, and while it’s freeing, and a huge relief, my limbs are also fragile, shaky, and not at all like my own.
I hate it.
But I have one last shot to audition this year. It has to be my last year. I’m almost too old. The thought of having sixteen-year-olds dance circles around me at the next audition makes me want to vomit.
My motivation has never been higher. I’ve lost so much of the progress I made at my last intensive, I’ve missed so much class, I need to get back. Like I keep reminding Apollo, training doesn’t last if you don’t maintain it.
He offered to come with me today, but I made him go to school instead. He’s already made so many sacrifices for me over the past couple months that I’m not prepared to let anything else slide because of this stupid injury.
We’re closing in on playoff time—his team needs him, and he needs to shine. He’s fully match fit and isn’t missing a single beat out on the ice. The news reports expect there’s going to be the hockey equivalent of a bidding war for him, and I’ve never been prouder. But I’m also not going to let me, or us, or my recovery take his focus away from where it needs to be.
