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“I’ll be watching.”

I tugged on the ties of my hoodie she still wore. “Will you wear this?”

She laughed. “That’s subtle.”

“I don’t care about subtle anymore.”

Her laugh faded. She studied my face. “Ask me again in a few days.”

“I will.”

We stood in the fading sunlight, three parking spaces between us that might as well have been three miles.

One step. That’s all it would take. Then I could have my hands on her again.

I bit my fingernails into my palms. She shifted her weight, swaying forward before catching herself.

If she moved again, I was done pretending I had any self-control left.

She didn’t move.

Neither did I. But I wanted to so badly, my tusks ached with it.

“I should go,” she said.

“Yeah.”

Finally, she unlocked her car. I unlocked my truck. We both got in and sat for a moment before starting our engines.

I watched her drive away, remaining where I was until her taillights disappeared.

At 9:41 PM, I sent the ice photo, but this time I added text.

I laminated a second copy. Just in case.

Her response came through fast. In case of what?

I stared at my phone, thinking.

In case I need to remember that someone believed I could get better.

You’re going to make me cry.

My heart kicked. Good tears or bad tears?

I don’t know yet.

I wanted to call her. Then I could tell her I missed her, that waiting felt like forever, that I kept replaying every moment we’d spent together.

But I didn’t call.

Finally, I typed, Good night, Dr. Lundrig.

Good night, Brashe.

She followed it up with a smiley face. I stared at it until my eyes stung before I set the phone down.

For my whole life, I’d been measured in saves. In how many shots I could stop. How brutal I was on the ice. Nobody had ever measured me in showing up or doing the work when it hurt and no one was watching.