Page 44 of For Pucking Ever

"Drink," I say, handing him a water bottle when I reach the bench. "You're dehydrated."

He accepts it without argument, which concerns me more than anything else.

"I'm fine," he says after taking several long gulps, but he doesn't look at me directly.

"Shaw!" Willis calls. "Back in net. Let's work on those glove-side reactions."

Derrick replaces his mask, but not before I catch the flicker of apprehension crossing his features. As he skates back into position, his movements are stiffer than before, more mechanical.

"He'll settle in," comes a voice beside me. I turn to find Groves watching Derrick with an unreadable expression.

"What?"

Groves gestures subtly toward Derrick. "First day back after something like that? It's all mental. He's fighting himself more than the puck." He takes a drink from his own water bottle before adding, "Been there."

I want to ask what he means, but Willis is already blowing his whistle, signaling for us to return to our respective drills. As I skate back to my crease, I can't shake the feeling that I've made a terrible mistake.

This isn't just about hockey anymore, it's about Derrick's wellbeing. Watching him struggle through the remainder of practice, determined but clearly battling invisible demons I realize the summer's protective bubble has well and truly burst.

Reality has arrived with the force of a slapshot to the chest and I'm not sure either of us is ready for it.

The locker room empties slowly, players filtering out in twos and threes, conversations fading as the door swings shut behind them. I take my time removing my gear, eyes constantly scanning for Derrick, who'd disappeared from the ice fifteen minutes before the end of practice. Coach Willis saw his struggle and let him leave without admonishment.

A knot forms in my throat as I recall the final moments before he'd left. Tobias firing a high shot that Derrick had flinched away from instead of challenging. The puck had sailed over his shoulder, and the look on his face when he'd lifted his mask. . . terror.

I'd seen that expression before, back in the hospital room. Raw fear disguised as frustration.

"Shaw bolted pretty quick," Ridley comments, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "First day nerves, probably."

I grunt noncommittally, not trusting myself to speak without revealing more than I should. Ridley raises an eyebrow but doesn't push it.

"Good session today," Tor says as he approaches, already dressed in street clothes. I am sure he is eager to get home to Alexis and their new baby boy, Kodah. "Tell Shaw not to overthink it. First days back are always shit."

My jaw clenches. They're trying to be supportive but they don't understand. They didn't see what I saw in the hospital, didn't read the medical reports and attend his checkups. They didn't hold him through the nightmares that still occasionally wake him in cold sweats.

"I'll tell him," I manage, shoving my chest protector into my bag with more force than necessary.

Devan lingers by the door, exchanging looks with Tor and Ridley. "Team dinner at seven," he says. "Usual place. You and Derrick should come."

I nod without committing, and they finally leave me alone with my thoughts. The auxiliary locker room, where they've placed Derrick for now, is just down the hall. I finish changing into dry clothes before making my way there, heart hammering against my ribs with every step.

The door is partially open. I pause, listening for movement inside, but there's nothing. Just stillness and the faint hum of the building's ventilation system. I push the door wider and step in.

Derrick sits alone on a bench in the center of the room, still in his hockey pants and under armor, pads piled haphazardly at his feet. His back is to me, shoulders curved inward, head bowed. He doesn't turn when I enter, though he must hear me.

"Hey," I say softly, letting the door close behind me with a gentle click.

He doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge me at all. I circle around to face him, and what I see punches the air from my lungs.

His expression is blank, eyes fixed on some middle distance, unseeing. His hands rest limply in his lap, fingers trembling slightly. Sweat has dried on his forehead, leaving salt lines that trace the contours of his face.

I sit beside him, careful to leave space between us, unsure if touch would be welcome right now. The silence stretches, thick and heavy with all the things we're not saying.

"I thought I could do it." His voice, when it finally comes, is flat and empty. "I really fucking thought I could just come back, like nothing happened."

My chest aches. I want to gather him in my arms, to shield him from this pain, but I know that's not what he needs right now. "It's the first day, Derrick."

"I flinched." The words come out raw, scraped from somewhere deep. "Every time a puck came at my head, I fucking flinched." His hands curl into fists. "Did you see Groves' face? He knew. They all knew."