Page 108 of Worth the Shot

“Damn Hale, you want your stick taped in pink today?”

“You sure you’re cleared for this level of activity?”

“Hey Halesy, need me to read you a bedtime story after practice, too?”

Normally I’d give it right back, but today? It lands too close to the truth. I thought I could handle it, but apparently my ego took a hit harder than my face did. I cycle into shooting drills with the trainer, and my first shot rings off the dasher so wide it might as well have been fired with my eyes closed. My next one barely leaves the ice. By the third, even Coach winces. My cheeks burn. I feel myself gripping the stick too tight, shoulders tense, breathing too shallow.

Come on, man.

Get it together.

Shayne skates by, slapping the back of my helmet. “Loosen up. You’re thinking too much.”

No shit.

Next drill—zone entries. I fumble the puck twice, overskate it once, and then lose an edge on a pivot I could normally do drunk and half-asleep. I catch Miles watching me from the other end of the ice. He’s not judging, just seeing too much. Practice winds down. The guys filter toward the locker room, chirping about dinner plans and video reviews, and I hang back, pretending to stretch. Miles glides over, balanced and calm like always, the reason he’s our captain and a damn good one. He’s always on.

“You good?” he asks.

No. Absolutely not.

But I nod anyway. “Just rusty.”

Miles snorts. “Rusty is forgetting your mouthguard in your stall. Whatever that was out there was you being in your head.”

I want to argue. I want to say I’m fine. I want to pretend I’m not still terrified of a puck flying anywhere near my face. Instead, I stare down at the ice and feel something twist in my chest. “What if I don’t come back the same?” It slips out before I can cage it.

Miles doesn’t laugh or minimize it. Instead, he leans his forearms on the boards, voice low. “You will.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “I do. Because this isn’t talent you lost, it’s about confidence. You took a hit, man. A bad one. Your body’s doing what bodies do when they’re freaked out. Give it time.”

I shake my head. “I felt slow.”

“You’re three practices away from feeling normal. Maybe five from feeling like yourself. That’s nothing.”

He bumps his shoulder into mine, gently, mindful of the yellow jersey and what it means. “And Brennan? You’re allowed to be off. You got your face rearranged like a Picasso painting. Cut yourself some damn slack.”

I huff out a laugh even though it feels forced. Miles nods toward the tunnel. “Come on. Hit the showers. Then go see your girl.”

My heart jolts.

I shove him with the tip of my stick, but he doesn’t budge. As we head off the ice, my legs feel heavy, my pride bruised, my game scattered—but something small and reassuring settles in me. Maybe Miles is right. Maybe I’ll be okay, I just need to give myself time and get out of my head. I undress out of my gear, sweaty as hell for the absolute lack of productivity I gave out there. Before I hit the showers, I check my phone. There’s a text from Delaney that was sent a few minutes before practice. It reads: Stay out of your head. You’re gonna be fine, give it time. I love you, Bren. See you after.

God, I wish I’d seen that earlier.

I finish up in the shower and head out to the parking lot. As soon as I hit the pavement, all I see are fans clustered behind the ropes hoping for autographs, pictures, the usual. A few minutes of our time. There are days we can stop and days we genuinely can’t. Today…I don’t have much in me. My face is mostly healed, but my ego is still in the ICU. I’m ready to slip past them when something stops me. A little kid, standing off to the side. He’s quietly holding a puck in his hand, my number stitched across the back of his jersey. He’s not calling out or waving like everyone else. He’s just…waiting, like he’s already decided he won’t be disappointed if I walk by. And shit, yeah, I can’t do that. So I pivot and walk straight toward him. His eyes go wide, like I just stepped out of a commercial or something. He can’t be more than eight.

“I’m Jackson,” he says, breathless. “You’re my favorite player ever. I think you’re awesome! My dad said you got hurt really bad but that you’d be okay. Are you okay?”

That’s a loaded question, buddy.

“Yeah,” I say gently. “I’m okay. You get knocked down, you get back up, right?”

“Right!” He nods so hard his hat nearly launches off. “Do you think you can sign my puck or my jersey? Mom said I could only ask for one so you pick,” he says it cautiously, like even hoping for both is too much.

“Tell you what.” I grin. “How about I sign both, and then we take a picture?”