Page 116 of Worth the Shot

I flinch. Hard.

Fuck me.

Miles coasts over, taking in the disaster brewing. “Wrist shot. Soft,” he tells Shayne. Then to me, “You got this.”

He’s lying through his teeth, but I appreciate the effort. He taps his stick on my ass for luck, just as Shayne finally sends one sliding my way. The puck skitters toward me and my entire body panics. My arms shoot up to cover my face and my skates slip, causing me to hit the ice like a sack of potatoes. There goes any ounce of pride I had left. Before I can recover, Wes glides by and casually flips a puck right into my cage.

DING.

The metallic crack detonates inside my skull.

For a split second I’m back there, the blurred rink lights, unforgettable sting across my face, warm blood flooding my vision, the ground disappearing beneath me. My body jolts like I’ve been electrocuted.

But I don’t fall.

I don’t black out.

I’m still here.

Another puck flies up.

Ding.

Then another.

Ding.

The guys are helping the only way hockey players know how: through chaotic, mildly dangerous mutual trauma. The last shot nails the center of my cage, dead-on. And this time, I don’t flinch. I watch it all the way in. In fact, I take it like a fucking champ. Shayne pulls me into a bear hug so hard my helmet hits his shoulder pad.

“Proud of ya, buddy,” he says, gripping the back of my helmet. “Now it’s time for drills. No slacking. All in. You’re ready.” I believe him.

Miles hooks my cage with his stick and shakes me like a bobblehead.

Wes taps my shoulder and says, “Welcome back, big guy.”

I push off, skating down the ice, and for the first time since my world shattered, I actually feel confident. Like myself again. The thought of stepping back into a game doesn’t make my body tense up anymore, instead it makes my stomach flip with something that feels a lot like excitement. I’m coming back. And as of a few minutes ago? I’m not scared. I’m ready.

Practice runs cleaner after that. More than half my shots slip past Morris, which is saying something considering the guy’s been practically running the show since he’s been back. Every rep feels looser, steadier, mine again.

Toward the end of practice, Coach calls my name from across the ice and jerks his chin toward the tunnel. That’s never casual. I hear Wes make a sound that reminds of what it felt like to be called into the principal’s office. I skate over, follow him into the locker room, and he stops dead center, hands on his hips, studying me like he’s trying to read the truth and not a bullshit line he thinks I’ll feed him.

“You think you’re good to go for tonight?”

“Yeah,” I say without hesitation. “I’m ready, Coach.” My voice doesn’t shake. My eyes don’t waiver. He needs to know I mean it.

He nods once. “Alright. Let’s give it a go.”

Relief crashes into me so fast it almost knocks me backward. I shake his hand, head for my stall, and start peeling out of my gear. Wes is already there, kicking off his skates, and nudges me with his shoulder. “Glad we’ll have you back out there with us tonight, buddy,” he says, casual but honest.

“Looking forward to it,” I answer without hesitation.

“Seems like you got your game back. You’ve been lighting it up these last few practices.”

I don’t think he could even begin to understand the weight those words hold for me. “Thanks man, I feel like I’m back. I guess tonight will be the true test.”

“See you then,” he says, flicking a towel at me before he disappears to the showers.

“You’ve got this, Bren. I’m so proud of you,” Delaney says, pressing a kiss to the inside of my palm before lacing her fingers through mine. “I love you,” she whispers, and I swear every time she says it, it feels like the first.